Hello, I am once again asking this community for help in finding a short 3 part fic titled âCaptainâs girlâ.
Itâs a john price x reader one. Itâs mostly just Price being in denial and avoiding the readerđđ pls help me Iâve been scrolling through my likes like my life depends on it.
I actually prefer it when artists make Simon a wee bit ugly. Like, I can't just picture him as too handsome...
Give him a crooked nose and yellowy teeth from consuming way too much tea and ciggies, a patchy 5 o'clock shadow, cauliflower ears, mean scars and bags under his sad, soft brown puppyâdog eyes.
Allow him to look like a 34 year old soldier who's been through hell fourteen times over. Man's got that special season pass for night terrors and insomnia. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks like a wet mongrel with half its tail missing.
almost immediately into dating, simon riley would buy you a gun.
probably a 9mm. matte black, no frills, utilitarian. nothing bigger than needed. comfortable enough to hug your palm, heavy enough to remind you of the implications of what you carry.
and really, it wouldnât come as a surprise to you.
you knew he was a soldier, knew he kept closets full of gear and could disappear without a sound â appear the same way too. you knew how he moved, how his eyes never slowed until they met yours. knew there was something unsaid about his skill level, redacted parts he left out on purpose. but even above that â you knew the truth of him. under the mask, under the muscle, under the scars of his past. the boy who grew up with vigilance as his only defence. you know enough to know you donât survive what simon has survived and come out normal.
you come out disciplined. dangerous. prepared.
simon doesnât believe in luck. wonât leave his trust in the cavalry showin up in time when thatâs already failed him many times before. simon doesnât deal in safe.
he deals in preparation. for the worst. for even the most unlikely.
love comes in many forms. and maybe for simon itâs not candle lit dinners or couch cuddling movie nights (though of course you bribe him into those anyways. heâs never quite been able to say no to you) itâs making sure he does everything in his power to make you capable.
and he does it with all the patience heâs got to offer. thereâs no expectation no pressure no timeline â god knows simon isnât expecting you to become a super assassin overnight. he takes you out to some half-forgotten range an hour outta the city, tucked in nice between the pine and fog. sets up the targets and has you aim at them empty, watching the way you hold tension in your tendons. teaches you how to force it out through breath. how to work the weapon like an extension of yourself.
the rundown is quick and simple. caliber, kickback, magazine release. then he steps back and tells you to shoot.
you exhale the breath like he taught you and pull. when you miss, he nods once and says again. you go through three full mags and miss each one. it isnât long before your palms burn as bad as your cheeks do with the humiliation of it â but itâs all forgotten when you land just a tap off the bullseye and simon walks over with his hands up.
âthatâs how it starts, sweetâeart.â he murmurs, smirking against your mouth.
simon riley is a man of many talents, but his greatest achievement yet is loving you. and maybe itâs not always voiced by âi love you so much baby.â â but instead itâs running you through drills around the crooked ikea furniture in your living room until the sun has set and the moon is out. or blindfolding you and telling you to unload and reload the mag. or leaving sticky notes with unlikely scenarios scattered around the house and quizzing you on your answers while youre cockdrunk against the counter.
youâve learned his language by now. hes protective and realistic and a little bit cynical. but god does he make you feel alive for it.
you know by him teaching you how to use this gun itâs his way of saying i will do everything in my power to keep you alive because im in love with you and i wouldnât survive a fuckin day if i lost you.
Ghost is totally fine - he's just being a drama queen
I'm so excited to finally share these three paintings I did for the CODBigBang event! Huge thank you to my partner in crime for this one @losersimonriley for letting me go insane over these two <3
You can read his awesome writing over here (link) if you'd like some context for... all of that
CW: angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy, childbirth (mentions), the good ending to this (if only he behaved), simon is a good husband and a good dad
Masterlist đŠ
Simon had promised himself that if he ever lived long enough to be satisfied with his life, he'd go and piss on his father's grave.
He thought about giving up, thought about ending it sooner rather than laterâeasier to expect life to deal another bad hand, considering what he'd been given in the past. The whisper of a blade along his wrists, or, better yet, a ripe bullet fuming in his head.
Prevent the cunt from sliding more poor draws as birthday surprises.
Still, the thought of desecrating the bastard's grave gave him something to look forward to. And when you have a source of anticipation, life tends to slide by in a bearable manner.
The only thing he had to do now was find a reason to go there, to the cemetery where he was buried. He wouldn't show up with nothing to shove down the man's throat, no matter how dead it was. No, Simon would go there with a trophy in his hand, rub it nicely where the Riley name was just about to fade, and then piss on it.
Medals didn't do the trick in his own eyesânever fond of chest candy, he couldn't imagine the ghost of his father being impressed either. His survival mattered little, too. Hell, he could go there to tell him that he had made it out of a grave, at least, while he stayed buried and dead, killed by the same things he once worshipped: alcohol, drugs, and a fat fucking liver.
Nothing quite fit the plan.
Simon drifted past his thirties with nothing meaningful in his cards â the same shitty hand life had dealt him from the start.
The only thing he could've bragged about was that he never found it hard to juggle work, relationships, and life.
Mostly because he lacked the latter two. What a brag, aye?
Easy as anything, though: go to work, get the job done, and go back home. Crack open a beer, maybe. Pass out on the couch.
He knows what it looks like. He knows and reluctantly admits it, too. Doesn't need a reminder from his psyche, doesn't need to hear the derisive laugh of his old man echo in his head.
He shuts it all off and drinks on itâparadoxical as it may be.
And as life gets dull and duller, rankled with boredom and self-loathing. With the same beers and the same shows on the telly. With the same silence haunting his flat and the same dreadful black hole swallowing his chestâ
A spark. A light.
Out of the blue, during the hottest day of summer. Something that makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end, like a cat sensing dangerâthough this is no threat at all. It's the unusual of it, the novelty leaving his stomach knotted and heavy.
A pair of jeans, a light blue shirt left unbuttoned at the top. Just two, nothing too revealing. Open enough to stave off the warmth of HQ, yet still hiding the right amount of skin for a professional setting.
Makes his imagination run wild. Didn't even know he still had it in him, to fantasise.
A necklace you mindlessly toy with between nimble fingers, pretty blue gemstone mounted in gold, as you point at numbers and charts on the whiteboard behind you.
He's heard fuck all.
"Alright then." You snap him out of it. "Any questions?"
It takes him one well-placed elbow in the ribs, surreptitious as the owner, Garrick, for him to notice that he's been gawking at you to the point of discomfort. You're staring back with tightened brows and steeled shoulders, lips furled in either a pensive frown or a disgusted one.
Simon opts for the latter.
Of course he had to go and act like an animal the day he forgoes the balaclava. Not even his need for anonymity could force him to wrap his face in fabric when the temperature is just shy of 35 degrees. And while this has protected him from melting against the chair of the conference room, it has also left him completely vulnerable to bystanders' eyes.
Including yours. Sharper than a blade, cutting him into thin slices until there's nothing left for him to hide.
John asks something. The focus shifts. God fucking bless him alright.
You answer smoothly, crystalline voice that tinkers with his eardrums like they're made of glass.
He takes the ball and brings a hand to his jaw to massage its hinges. It aches. His mouth is dry. Pulse climbing up, palms clammy as they go for his face. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he's on the verge of having a stroke.
But not even Simon, clueless as he may be when it comes to feelings, is that unfathomably stupid. His cock straining in his trousers is a big, fat hint anyway.
You collect your things. Tap your papers neatly into place. Peel off a post-it note and scribble something on it. He follows the curve of your hand, the sharpness of each knuckle.
Simon blinks, and you're right beside him, sticking that yellow paper on the table in front of him.
Your number penned on it. Your name right below.
Simon has fucked plenty of people without remembering much of it. There are those who care if he comes, and those who fuck him even if he isn't hard at all.
It's a very straightforward way to force his body to feel something that isn't agony. Though he wouldn't describe himself to be a sad personâhe doesn't think what he feels is sadness. It's more than that, less fickle than simple heartache.
He's accepted that life could either be this or the complete opposite. Between those two states of being, however, there is a whole ocean to cross, and he's utterly alone on a pitiful raft and with a single oar. At that point, he starts realising that he can either row day and night, hoping to reach a place that only seems to get farther and farther, or he can try his bloody hardest to make the journey more pleasurable.
He's tried drugs. Good for a tick. The aftermath is atrocious, though, worse than whatever has been festering in his guts.
Alcohol knocks him out. That's good. Less frowned upon. Easier to hide. His mouth waters when he pops open his beer and listens to the telltale fizz as the bubbles rise to the top. Foam spills on his knuckles, and he lets it crust. And when the beers are over, he switches to whiskey. It burns so good he wishes he could bathe in itâlet it corrode at his skin the same way it's corroding his liver.
Sex is a good, perfect balance.
It can't kill him, for one. Another addiction to add to the list, sure, but at least this one won't have him rotting any time soon.
Whoever lands in his bed is game, to be honest. Doesn't care if he's horny, doesn't care if he can't get it up right away. It's the feeling of itâto be used, to be needed. He'll switch to whatever their hearts desire, as long as they fuck him until the knot in his stomach uncoils and he can somewhat breathe again.
But with you, it feels just slightly different. Or maybe a lot different, and he's not ready to face it yet.
He's not letting himself be used, be needed. Simon is reluctantly accepting that he's wanted, and that he can want too. He can want and he can take, if that's what he fancies.
He takes you. Takes you for all that you are: your sense of humour, your quirks, your wit, how your teeth bite into your cheek when you're thinking, the way your hair sways when you talk excitedly.
The way you fuck him, how you look when he fucks you. How your mouth parts when you cum, the weight of your hands on his chest as you ride him. The gentle breaths in the crook of his neck.
The I love you you whisper that first time.
His stomach gets heavier the longer you stay. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but it's new and unpredictable, and Simon doesn't like unpredictability. However, he forces himself to digest it because it feels like something in his belly is finally full.
Something in his heart, too.
Life gets harder, thoughâpractically speaking. The scale tips to where the air smells of citrus and steeping teas instead of rotting flesh and cheap kentucky.
Now he has to go to work, get the job done, and return home. And if he gets home earlier than you, he has to prep dinner and all. Something nice to treat you right. Has to actually do laundry, the way you like it. Clean the house, much bigger than the studio apartment he used to inhabit.
Can't even brag about being able to juggle his life correctlyâthe visit to his father's grave has got to wait.
It's alright, he reckons. What's one more year, after all.
He stops enjoying lonely Stellas at night, because he found he doesn't really like to kiss you when his breath smells so heavy. Masks your taste, makes him curl his nose in disappointment.
He fancies wine now, like the posh fuckers he's always despisedâpop open a bottle and nurse it from one of the two glasses you set on the coffee table at his feet. Bourbon, if he's got nothing to do the next day, and you're off as well. Pepsi, if you're both too tired to digest alcohol that night.
Liquor tastes different now. He doesn't find himself drawn to the bottle if you're not homeâat least, not as often as before. He still loves his bourbon, but only after the clink of his glass with yours. A big lad like him can handle a beer or twoâstill, it tastes better if he can pet your head propped on his thighs as he gulps one down.
Every night, he's got you cuddled in his side, hence passing out on the couch is not an option anymore. The bed it is, then. Better sleep, much more spaceâhell, better sex for when you're both up for it.
Plus, sunlight hits you just right when he first wakes up and you're asleep, splayed on his chest. He likes the way golden ribbons curl around your shape, threads on your fingers like you're wearing jewels.
Doesn't take him long to actually put a golden band where it belongs, against all fucking odds. When the thought popped in his head, he prepared himself for the devastation that would follow your no.Â
However, you nod your head when he takes out his mum's ring from his pocket. You nod your head vigorously, he'd like to add. You say a yes so genuine it cracks him open, leaves him bare for you to see the confusion festering inside. The elation.
The unmistakable joy.
No one believes him when you say yesâthough truthfully, his mates do. Still, he's the first among the sceptics. A loud minority in his own head.
Johnny claps his shoulder as he stands there, clad in a suit and sweating bullets. Clammy hands pulling at his tie. However, none of it matters when you come to stand before him. Wedding gown on, and the most gorgeous of smiles. Pearls on your neck and tears in your eyesâgemstones, as precious as can be.
Sure, life becomes harder than his previous one. Responsibilities double, but loneliness halves. And halves. And halves. Until he forgets what it's like to live in a house and not in a home.
Briefly, the thought of finally having something to rub in his father's face crosses his mind. But when you take his hand and bring it to your lips, golden wedding ring catching the sunlight, he thinks it can wait a bit more.
What's a couple more years to add to his thirties, after all.
It's a foggy day when you abruptly wake up, lamenting a stomach ache that won't leave you alone.
"I'm so fucking sure it's yesterday's dinner," you mumble, unable to peel the frown off your face. "Fucking take outâI knew we should've cooked."
He's fixing you a cuppa in the kitchen to help with your nausea when he hears you retch from the bathroom. Simon sprints your way, leaving the tea bag to steep in the hot water for longer than needed.
He kneels beside you, running his hand up and down your back. Hooks his arm under the crook of your knees after you've brushed your teeth and takes you to bed.
You murmur that he's the best husband in the entire world as you nuzzle his chest. He chuckles at that. Thinks you proper insane but never voices it.
Perhaps because he likes to hear it. Perhaps because you're making him accept it too.
It's hard to digest, to metabolise that he is not⊠rotten. Or at least, not as wasted as life made him believe. Fear rankles his bonesâto disappoint you, to disappoint himself. But you hold him like you'd rather be nowhere else, and that makes it easier for him to swallow it all. Have his stomach break it down into pieces and feed it to his soul.
It's worth itâfucking hell, really worth it.
Worth more than anything, especially when you both peek through the gaps of your fingers as you shield each other's eyes. The buzzing of the cold bathroom lights is the only background noise, silence as the companion of your bated breaths.
The ping of your phone signals time's up, and his focus finally lands on that stick. His eyes meet two little lines instead of one.
Pure horror and delight. His father's cruel eyes flash like lightning in his head, ice cold and terribly real, awfully tangible. Thunder cracks. He can't breathe right, not as calmly as he should.
You look into his eyes with gemstones in yours. A smile so bright the clouds part to favour it. It's not sunless anymore.
And it's worth it again.
Worth it, worth it, worth it.Â
Worth every back-breaking job he takes next. Worth every solitary mission he goes on, and every particularly dangerous one he rejects. Worth every extra stack of paperwork tossed on his desk. Worth every bit of overtime he spends in HQ.
Worth it, worth it, worth it.
Worth seeing you grow, worth seeing you healthy. Worth seeing you hungry and devouring the food he makes, drink from the cups he washes.
Worth hearing your chuckle when he brings home that questionable concoction you crave. Worth holding your hair out of the way first thing in the morning.
Worth making love to you again, and again, and again, knowing that's what being home is supposed to feel like. Knowing that he has it, just right there, in the spaces you inhabit. In the pillow under your head, in the green mug next to his blue, in your hair tangled with his clothes.
Worth it.Â
Worth it, to hear her heartbeat.
Worth seeing her move around in black and grey.
Worth feeling her hand pressing up. Her feet kicking at her ma.
"Like a little alien," you murmur tenderly, pressing his fingers to your belly.
She answers every time.
He kisses your skin. "My little bug."
Worth it, to watch you hold her when she first sees the world. To leave you that space, reserved for you two and not another soul. Even if his fingers itch to touch her, lurching to hold her as wellâbeating crazed, pulse climbing up, as if his heart could break the bones in his chest and reach out to her. To you.
Angel in your gentleness, goddess in your strength. Heavenly, overall, even drenched in blood and sweat.
Worth the fear for your safety, the fear for hers.
Worth the apprehension, the anxiety. He's not fit to be a dad, is he? Not fit for this life, where all is tender where he's hard, where all is comfort where he's pure unease. His hands have dealt more punches than caresses. They've taken the brunt of so much anger, it must have transferred to his bones somehow.
But if rage truly is his inheritance, it must not have taken root in him. Or at least, not as deeply as he thought. Not as invasive.
There's no space for it, no space for a hollow heart or withering anger. No space at all, because everything inside of him is full of you.
And it's so, so worth it.
Worth it allâjust to hold her that first time.
Tiny, tiny thing. He could fit her in a hand if he wanted to, have her little legs hang off his forearm.
He could, surely.
He doesn't.
No, Simon becomes a cradle instead. Both arms curl around her as he sits down, afraid his knees might give out. He speaks to her words he never thought he'd get the chance to say, never thought they'd fit the mould life forced him into.
"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."
Tears in your eyes. Gemstones.
In his, too.
Managing life is tenfold harder, especially when his little bug starts crawling.
Now he has to go to work, get the job done, get homeâno, scratch that.
Now he has to wake up earlier so he can get breakfast ready for you. Feed his daughter so you can sleep in. Kiss you goodbye.
Go to work. Check the baby monitor connected to his phone so he can watch her sleep for a minute, or see her play in the cradle.
Good for his heart.
Get the job dâcall you, to see if you're alright, how you're hanging on. He hates with all his guts that he can't stay home longer, but money doesn't grow on trees, and it's not only about him anymore.
Again, back on track: get the job done. Try to. Check the monitor. Send you a text.
His life would be so fucking bleak without you in it.
Might as well play along.
Back to his plans.
Get the job done early, precisely, so he can get home earlier and see you. Help you. Shed the soldier's armour and wear his dad clothes. Give you time to rest as he takes care of everything, until his baby falls asleep, so he can take care of you too. Be your husband again.
His days are harder. Balancing life and job is not as easy as it was when he used to come back to an empty house and a cold heart. It doesn't go nearly as smoothly as when he came home to you only, to warm arms and gentle eyes.
He knows it's not easy for you either.
Still, now he comes back to the smell of milk and baby powder. To changing nappies and sleepless nights, only to wake up at the crack of dawn the next day.
He comes home to your beautiful, tired eyes. Happy, happy as can be, like you've always been. Like he isâunbelievable to even think about it.
Home to the sound of innocent laughter or piercing cries, to tender babbling and chubby hands grabbing at his hair.
He still has to piss on his father's grave. But that's a thought for another day. You're waiting for him to come home, for him to be the man you know. The man you love.
The man he is.
Life's harder, but his heart's regrown. Spread its roots, symbiotic with you.
His little bug is a troublemaker. Curious. Brilliant.
Like her mum, he reckons.
She crawls everywhere, touches things she shouldn't. Not a soul on Earth has baby-proofed the house like Simon has, and still she finds ways to give her dad a chain of consequent heart attacks that leave him floored for the next couple of hours.
Hell, he wouldn't change a thing.
A dinner at home is how Simon properly introduces his daughter to the team.
Kyle can't stop baby talking to her and she giggles loudly every time. John promotes her to Sergeant Riley with a velcro SAS patch attached to her onesie. Johnny juggles her on his knees, but it's the third time she reaches out with those chubby hands to grab the goddamn knife.
Makes sense, to Simon, to just put her on the playing mat and have her handle things she can actually play with.
And as chatter ensues, Simon's hand drawing circles on your thigh under the table, you gasp.
It's a moment of frigid horror. Fear travels like shards of ice through his bloodstream, tips at his skull. But when he follows the line of your eyes, his body freezes in awe.
There she is, standing on her own two feet.
Sage green socks wobbling on the mat. Tiny arms spread out for balance, chubby fingers wiggling in the air as if it could help her keep still.
Gummy smile pushing at her cheeks, tiny dimples pressing in. She looks at her dad with innocent pride.
Simon's mind travels back. Breath lodged in his throat.
He sees you frowning at him in the conference room. Sees your number scribbled on a post-it note, your half-buttoned shirt and the gemstone in between your fingers.
Sees the pearls like dewdrops around your neck. Those eyes charged with gorgeous tears. The gold around your finger, hand clutching his own to your heart.
He sees those same tiny feet, now touching the floor and holding her up, hidden in your belly. Her tireless kicks to meet his hand through you.
Sees her eyes squinting in a piercing cry. His lips to your forehead, coated in sweat and fear and relief. Feels her weight in his arms like that first time, like he's holding her againâsmall fists bumping around, eyes adjusting to the first light she's ever seen.
"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."
He stands slowly, holding your hand. You follow his movements, eyes locked on your child. The silence in the room is palpable, but it's not a dreadful oneâit's anticipation, it's a joy that thrives quietly, bathing each person in the loveliest of lights.
You both crouch a few feet in front of her. Simon opens his arms.
"C'mere bug." His voice trembles, doesn't even sound like his.
You sniffle next to him. "C'mere baby, go to daddy."
There. There she does it. Her babble fades into a giggle. A tiny, tiny stepâa tumble. You react automatically, reaching forward with your arms, but his girl's stubborn, resilient.
Like her dad, he reckons.
She stands up again, regaining her balance. And steps forward, and forward, and forward, until the tips of Simon's fingers find hersâsolace in her daddy's hold, small hands curled around his bigger thumbs.
Joy explodes. Golden fireworks. His mates laugh brightly, the air is pure delight, and as he picks his daughter in his arms, he holds one out for you.
You scoot inside. Press a kiss wet with lovely tears to your child's cheek. She giggles. It's clueless and light.
It has Simon's heart in a clutch.
He doesn't remember hearing his baby brother laugh like this. Doesn't think he's ever laughed like this either, when he still couldn't even speak.
His baby girl's happy. Loved. You are, too.
His chest tightens when he realizes he is part of the reason why.
"Good job, little bug," you whisper tirelessly, as if no force could stop you from showing how proud you are. How radiant. "Good job my love."
Simon's ears are cottoned. A bubble around you three, impenetrable because Simon has vowed so. His lips on his baby's forehead, then on yours.
His carbon copy looks up at him. Chocolate eyes meet his twinâsmaller, fragile, and yet as strong as man can be. His pride, his love, packed inside a mess of curls and dimpled cheeks and pure, gorgeous sunlight.
A small sticky hand lands on his cheek, as if she's trying to make her daddy smile. Simon turns to kiss his daughter's palm and looks into your eyes, glossy with joyâaquamarine tears, glowing from within.
His little bug might look like him, but she's just like youâeyes like gemstones. His treasure trove. Most coveted one, most precious.
"I love you," he mouths to you.
Your smile is wet with tears, chock-full of joy.
You say it back.
His father is buried six feet under. There he'll stay. Drowning under cold, barren soil. Food for bugs, corroded by time.
Not his problem. Not anymore.
You kiss him. A quiet peck in front of guests, but still so charged with love it gives his heart whiplash. He transfers it to his daughter's forehead.
Johnny lifts his glass with a loud Cheers. A happy cacophony follows suit, clinking glasses and a small chorus of congratulations to "wee Sergeant Riley".
Life is hard. It's gonna be harder, and harder, and harder.
But Simon doesn't think it's ever been this bright.
Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed âGhostâ. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.
Sequel here.
-
âI bit the bullet!â you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friendâs ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.
âYou bit what?â she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.Â
âThe bullet,â you laugh. âI called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!âÂ
She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. Sheâd been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped youâencouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to âmake more mistakesâ, to live life more fully. Now sheâs staring at you like youâve grown a second head and itâs the one doing the talking.Â
âWhat guy I recommended?â she asks.Â
âKevin!â
âOh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?âÂ
You frown. âYou said you went to Kevin.âÂ
âIt wasnât a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! Heâs a creep; thereâs a reason why I never went back.âÂ
You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. Itâs not just the tattoo. Itâs the icing on a shitcake of a day.Â
A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.Â
âYou conveniently left that out. Ugh. Iâll cancel it. What am I even fucking doingâthank youââ you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. âânone of this is like me.âÂ
Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. âYou were the one who said youâd always wanted a tattoo. Youâre an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions youâre old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and heâs highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?âÂ
âAlright,â you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesnât work out with this next tattoo artist, then you wonât be getting one at all. Youâll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.Â
-
What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.Â
The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to peopleâs disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isnât until youâve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand ringsâand itâs him.Â
âHello?âÂ
âIâm free Wednesdays for consultations,â says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.Â
Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. âI work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?âÂ
He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.Â
âName a time. Iâll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,â he says.Â
Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isnât trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that youâve already made an impression so foul that itâs incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?Â
âAlright,â you answer cautiously. âHowâs five?âÂ
âFive. Donât be late.âÂ
He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.
-
You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itselfâa tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagramâis locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesnât help. How are you supposed to get in?Â
All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.Â
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.Â
Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.Â
Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.Â
âI have a consultation,â you blurt out. âAtâŠfive?â
He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. Heâs so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.
âSit,â he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sipâof tea, judging by the smell. âName?â
You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.Â
âThe water is for you,â he says.Â
âOh!â You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. âThank you.â
âThis is your first tattoo.âÂ
âWhat gave me away?â you ask with a weak laugh.Â
He doesnât laugh. âEverything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.âÂ
âWhat? No, of course not. I want this, Iâm just, Iâm an anxious personality. I promise.â You hesitate and then add: âI probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.âÂ
His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as youâre comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.
 He asks what you want and God, thatâs a harder question.Â
You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silenceâpausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.Â
He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.Â
He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and youâre just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.Â
âI think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and weâll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?âÂ
âI mean, it hurts?â you offer.Â
He stares. âTwo sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.âÂ
You think that maybe heâll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you canât help but watch him.Â
Heâs handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. Itâs almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.Â
âHere.âÂ
You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didnât make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.Â
His thoughtfulness touches you.Â
âI love it. I want it,â you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.Â
âThis is just a first sketch,â he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. âIâll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?âÂ
âYes,â you say, nearly buzzing. âI really want to book.â
Heâs expensiveâbut judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, heâs got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldnât bore him to death.Â
âThanks again for meeting with me,â you say as he sees you out. âIâll be waiting for your text.âÂ
âYouâll get it.â He glances past you out the window. Itâs dark. âDid you walk?âÂ
âNo, my car is just there.â
âIâll wait.âÂ
And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.Â
-
You didnât tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.Â
GHOST? Cute? Iâve never even seen his face lol. Heâs always wearing one of his masks.Â
You chew over this information. Yes heâd been wearing a mask, but heâd lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something? Â
Masks are cute, you say.Â
Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe heâll ink you for free.Â
Youâre terrible.Â
YouâreâŠthinking about it.Â
-
Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. Itâs from GHOST.Â
The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.Â
I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think thatâs the one.Â
Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate. Â
And fuck, you didnât even think of that.Â
-
âYouâre being ridiculous,â you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.Â
âYou are,â your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. âYour tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.âÂ
The look you give her is the one the phrase âif looks could killâ was modeled after, surely. She doesnât even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. Youâve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.Â
âBe glad youâre not going to creepy Kevin anymore,â your friend says.
âVery glad of it.âÂ
You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a wordâit didnât embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.Â
âYou should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. Heâs been doing this for years. Iâm sure heâs seen it all,â she saysâthe first good idea sheâs had all night, miles ahead of âJust let Ghost see your cute titsâ.Â
That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you arenât overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.Â
Iâm a little nervous.
You can cancel, is all he says. Iâll refund your money.
Itâs not that.Â
What is it?Â
Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.Â
But all he said back was: how can I help? Â
I donât know, you admit. Then; sorry. Iâm probably bothering you with this while youâre working.Â
Iâm not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you arenât going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. Iâll let my piercer know Iâm with a client and not to walk in. Iâll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?Â
Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.Â
-
You bring the pasties anyway.Â
-
The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase âknees knocking togetherâ, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghostâs hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.Â
When it does, heâs like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in placeâtypical for him, if your friendâs words are to be trustedâbut his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasnât been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.Â
Youâre horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friendâs words echo in your mindâfuck the tattoo artist, maybe heâll ink you for free.Â
âHi,â you squeak.Â
Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.
âIâm still nervous,â you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesnât.Â
âThatâs normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if itâs still what you want.â
Itâs exactly what you want, and more.Â
âItâs perfect. Youâre very talented.âÂ
He huffs a little, like you shouldnât have said such a thing.Â
The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once heâs gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.Â
You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. Thereâs just something about a person who knows exactly what theyâre doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.
âReady?â he asks at length.Â
You nod, hoping your nerves donât show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt youâre wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. Heâs not watching a strip tease, heâs looking at a canvas.Â
Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.Â
âAm I hairy?â you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.Â
âYes,â he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. âEveryone is. Everywhere. Itâs normal.â
âIâm just teasing you.âÂ
âDidnât think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,â he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. âYouâre nervous, I mean.âÂ
âWould you take the mask off?â you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.Â
âNo,â he says. He adds: âSorry. Itâs more sanitary fâyou if I keep it on.âÂ
You get the feeling that he really is sorryâand thatâs well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.Â
After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. Itâs sexy. Youâve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than youâd ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadnât expected. You feel soâŠbadass.Â
âGood?â He asks.Â
âVery good,â you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.
But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.Â
âThank you,â you say softly.Â
He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. âIâll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.âÂ
âIâm not backing out.âÂ
He clicks his tongue as if to say, Itâs your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.Â
It burns more than you expected it to. Thereâs a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a catâs tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isnât overwhelming. In factâŠa strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe itâs the rush of endorphins.Â
âGood?â He asks.Â
âGood,â you squeak.Â
You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.
âLet me know when you need to break.âÂ
You donât know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.Â
âAlright. Break,â he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. âTake ten.â
He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.Â
âDo you need to get that?â you ask, offering him an out.
âNo,â he says. âI make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.â
It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.Â
âGood for more?â
And so it repeats.Â
At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. Itâs too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.Â
His thumb gently strokes your sternum.Â
âItâs rough. You can take it,â he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. âJust keep breathing. Thatâs it. Good girl.â
Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.Â
âYou can do it. Just a little longer for me, and weâll break.â
âHurts,â you breathe, flinching again.Â
He hushes you, surprisingly tender.Â
âThis is the worst of it.â This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear. Â
âBreak. Ten minutes,â he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.Â
You call out: âHey, waitâIâd rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.âÂ
âI need breaks too,â he says stonily.
You duck your head, feeling silly. âRight. Sorry.â
âDonât be.â He vanishes again.Â
He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoicâwhat bits of it you can see from behind the maskâas he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.Â
This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breastsâa fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail youâd give your life to follow).Â
âI think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,â he mutters at length.Â
âEager to be done?â you wonder.Â
He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.Â
âI donât have anywhere to be,â you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.Â
So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.Â
âGo take a look. Iâm going to cover it up.âÂ
Itâs beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.
âI love it,â you choke out. âThank you.â
âCan I take a picture of it?â he asks. âFor Instagram.âÂ
âSure!â It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are coveredâthe very far edgesâbut you canât deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.Â
After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: âLet me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Donât do anything stupid to it. Understand?âÂ
âI understand.â
âAnd if you have any questionsâtext me.âÂ
-
You get home to find that Ghostâs personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental âlikesâ). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.Â
-
Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you donât text him like he asked you to. You call.Â
Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?Â
The internet doesnât help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.  Â
With shaking hands, you donât even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.Â
Heâs going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone elseâexcept he doesnât. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.Â
âYes?â Ghost says into the phone, as if thatâs a decent hello.Â
âThereâs something wrong with my tattoo!â you cry.Â
âWaitâget out of my goddamn way.â There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. âSay it again. Now I can fucking hear you.â
âThereâs. Something. Wrong,â you say through your teeth. âWith my tattoo!â
âWell? What is it?â
âItâs falling off, for one!â
He snorts. âThatâs normal. That's why you called?âÂ
âItâs all swollen and hot. And it hurts.âÂ
Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. âHurts how bad?â
âWorse than getting it.âÂ
âFuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop inâŠtwenty?âÂ
âTwenty minutes from now?âÂ
âFrom when else?â He hangs up. Man doesnât know the meaning of the word goodbye.Â
-
The night is cool. You donât bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.Â
Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.Â
Heâs dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your titsâor resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.Â
âWell. Sit. Show me.â
You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. âWhat, just flash you?â
âNothing Iâve never seen before.âÂ
Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.Â
âI was smoking,â he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.Â
âYouâre worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?â
âFuck my lungs,â he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. âCan I?â
You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. âAny fever?â he asks.Â
âNot that Iâve noticed.âÂ
âYou feel warm, but Iâve felt warmer. I donât think itâs infected. Have you tried icing it?â
âNo,â you admit.Â
âIce will help. Just use something clean, for fuckâs sake.â As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. âWhen you called, I thought it was for me.â
âIt was for you,â you say, brow furrowing. âWho else?â
He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. âForget it.âÂ
âForget what?âÂ
âTalking about it goes against forgetting it.â
You groan, tossing up your hands. âYouâre impossible.âÂ
He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttonsâyou end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.Â
âThank you for meeting me. Iâm sorry it was for nothing.â
âIt wasnât for nothing,â he says. âAnd I wasnât doing much.â
âYou were with friends,â you insist.
His eyes narrow. âWho told you that?âÂ
âI saw it on your Instagram tonight.âÂ
âNosey.âÂ
âI could buy you a drink sometime,â you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? âMake up for the ones I lost you tonight.âÂ
âMaybe.â
God, itâs like heâs not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesnât it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.Â
âWould you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to beâŠpositive?â
He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You donât cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.Â
âMaybe you should look closer.âÂ
His eyes flicker up to yours. âCloser.â
Your mouth is dry. âYeah.â
âCanât get much closer than I am.âÂ
âYou couldâif you wanted to.âÂ
âIf Iââ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: âCloser.â
âMhm.â
The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.Â
âFucking hell,â he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want thisâand whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already youâre achingâhave been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the streetâbut he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.Â
âPretty little tits,â he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.Â
âFuck,â you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.Â
âBe still,â he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. âLet me play with you.âÂ
âPlease,â you gasp. âPlay with meâeven if thatâs all you wantâjust donât stop, please.âÂ
His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. âYou donât even know what youâre saying.â
âI do. Iââ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. Heâs so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattooâand then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.Â
You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.Â
âDriving me fucking crazy,â he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.Â
You gape at his admission. Had you been? Heâd been so closed off and coolâŠthough now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.Â
He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until youâre no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. âYou the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?âÂ
âUh-huh,â you promise, head bobbing.Â
He buries his face in your neck. âGood. I wonât last when Iâve got my cock in you. Iâd like you to cum at least once before then.â
âOh god,â you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.Â
âWhat else do you need?â he asks.Â
âMyâtouch meââ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.Â
Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he canât believe what heâs seeing.Â
âFucking perfect.â You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. âLook at me. Look at me.âÂ
You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.Â
He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.Â
When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. Itâs probably a good thing too. You arenât sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.
Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.Â
Fingers enter your visionâyour ownâreaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. Heâs so bloody tall, tooâŠbut he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.Â
âDoes it hurt?â You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.Â
âNo,â he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. âYou can play with it.â
You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.Â
âYouâre soââ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: ââhot.âÂ
He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You canât help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. âYou broken, or can you take more?âÂ
âI want more.â
âWant my cock?âÂ
You nod, feeling like a bobble head.Â
âI want to hear you say it.âÂ
âI want your cock.â
His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artistâs hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.Â
He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.Â
âOh my god,â you mutter.Â
âNo gods here,â he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.Â
âCanât believe you let me ink you,â he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. âPractically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. Theyâll know who touched you.âÂ
âGood,â you breathe.Â
His sigh is shaky. Youâre learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means heâs pleased with you. Youâve said something right.Â
He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to youâfor inspection, you realize, though youâve had so few one night stands (try zero) that youâve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.Â
Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.Â
âRelaxâŠthere you go. Let me in,â he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretchâheâs thick everywhere goddamn itâbut itâs a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.Â
âGhost,â you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.
âI think you can take it,â he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. âBut what do you think?âÂ
âYour cockâwant itâpleaseââ
âAlright,â he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. âNo need to beg.âÂ
He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until youâre clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.Â
His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when youâre pinned beneath it.Â
âStay still,â he mutters into the juncture of your neck. âStay still or Iâll cum and this is all over.â
âCanât,â you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. âHave to move, âm so fullââ
âFucking hell,â he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. âRoll onto your side.âÂ
He gives you instruction but isnât shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.Â
You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.Â
âWant you to cum again,â he says, stilling your movements so that you canât fuck your self back against him. âGive me one more. Then itâs my turn.â
âGhostâI canâtââ youâve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.Â
âIf you canât, then donât,â he says simply, like itâs the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.Â
You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you arenât the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.Â
âOh fuck,â you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.Â
He hums behind you, a smug sound.Â
âNot sure I want you to cum now,â he says. âHold it. Iâm thinking it over.âÂ
âGhost!â
He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.Â
He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.Â
The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didnât know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.Â
He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.Â
Sooner than youâd likeâbut heâd warned you, hadnât he?âhis thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.Â
âFuck,â he whispers. And again: âFuck, fuck. You broken?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he canât see.Â
-
âSorry about this,â he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. Youâre still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.Â
âRegretting it already?âÂ
âYes,â he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: âShould have at least taken you to dinner first.âÂ
âDinner?â
âYou owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.â He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasnât relaxed, he says: âI donât regret the sex. Do you?â
You shake your head.Â
He scoffs a little.Â
âI mean it,â you insist. You touch your tattoo. âI wanted itâŠthe day you didâthis.âÂ
He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.
âI didnât think you were interested,â you admitted sheepishly.Â
âI jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,â he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. âI was interested.âÂ
You laugh; you canât help it. âDinner, then? Or drinks?âÂ
Lies about his age twice to enlist. Beats the crap out of his superiors. Wears a mohawk because fuck army regs. Openly flirts with his superiors. Smokes during active operations.
vs Ghost, family man, who joins the army after a few years of gainful employment, uses his medical leave to care for his aging mother and sick brother, kicks out his deadbeat dad, goes to family christmases, plays with his toddler nephew
Simon âGhostâ Riley loves praise. Whether it be praising you or you praising him. I get the feeling that when he loves, he loves hard and he couldnât imagine either you or him saying something to degrade each other.
Simon âGhostâ Riley may not have a breeding kink per se, but that man will never cum anywhere but inside you. (Fight with the wall)
Simon âGhostâ Riley will not slap you or hit you in bed, the most heâll do is give your cunt a light tap. He loves you and refuses to lay his hands on you like that, even if youâre okay with it.
Simon âGhostâ Riley is not into physical bondage, but rather mental bondage. He doesnât like the feeling of being tied up (heâs not as against tying you up) as it has negative memories with his job. But tell him to keep his hands somewhere and heâs not moving.
Simon âGhostâ Riley LOVES vanilla sex!! (Fight me on this) especially when he just gets back from a mission, he just wants soft, loving, slow sex. Heâs trying to feel connected to you rather than letting off steam.
Simon âGhostâ Riley who will use your body to let off steam if someone at work johnny pisses him off.
Simon âGhostâ Riley whoâs constantly making sure youâre comfortable and enjoying yourself because consent is sexy.
i feel like this might be a hot take in the cod fandom, but i donât think simon would be this rough, degrading, absolute unit in the sheets or have a bunch of dark kinks. canonically, heâs had one of the most traumatic childhoods imaginable, and i just canât see him forcing himself or causing harm to someone he cares about.
that being said, i do enjoy reading/writing him with a few kinks or making him rougher, but thatâs more for auâs or self-indulgent works. whenever i see that kinda stuff in headcanons, i just giggle.
I love writing average man Simon Riley who just silently loves his partner with careful, physical touch. I feel like Simon being comfortable with you and touching you, and letting you touch him, is the biggest form of trust and love he can show
I like the idea of him slowly getting a little rough in bed, but thereâs so much conversation beforehand. also⊠Iâm just saying, praise kink for Simon, justâ just, like, him melting against you as you coo at him. big man turning to putty as he rolls his hips against yours
Simon asks you to take his virginity, just not in so many words. Or any words at all, really. 5.7 k
cw: virgin!Simon, PIV, oral sex f and m receiving, stop and start sex, lack of communication (typical Simon), poor writing, soft!Simon, hints at past trauma, contraception.
-
A Ghost shaped shadow falls over the table. Your eyes lift to find him standing there, the neck of his beer bottle held loosely in his hand. His mask is drawn down below his chin, revealing to you one of your favorite parts of him: his mouth. Simon has a pretty mouth, scarred though it is. Maybe you have such an affinity for it because it is so often hidden away from your sight, or maybe itâs what that mouth is capable of, being just as likely to crack a poor dad joke as it is to cut a grown man to the bone with just a few words.Â
He takes the seat across from you, the screeching of the chair on the floor lost to the ambient sounds of the pub. The others are playing pool (Gaz is taking all of them to task), and the place is packed with bodies, a cacophony of voices and laughter. Feeling overstimulated, you had sequestered yourself away to this little corner hoping to catch your breath and tether yourself back to the earth instead of spending the rest of the night in a dissociated haze.Â
The sight of Ghost is like a light slap to the cheek, rousing you from your stupor. Lights burn brighter. Sounds are sharper. If you wrack your brain you can count on one hand the number of times youâve ever been singled out by Ghost, so you know whatever is about to happen is out of the ordinary. Leaning in, you lace your fingers together on the table top and nearly have to shout to be heard as you say: âWhat can I do for you, Ghost?âÂ
âWe should hook up,â he says. Then he takes a long drink from his bottle, eyes sharp and dark where they are narrowed in on you over the top. A sniperâs eyes.Â
âWhat?â you shout back, positive that you have misheard him.Â
He shrugs. He wonât repeat himself.Â
âMeâand you?â
He raises his brows, looking around the empty table as if to ask, Who else?
âWhy?â
He takes another drink, and you see him mulling over his potential answers this time, sucking on his teeth as he thinks. What you wouldnât give to be a fly on the wall in his head. Heâs got you on tenterhooks, leaning forward onto your elbows, fingers absently (anxiously) playing with a condensation ring left by someone elseâs drink earlier in the night.Â
Finally, he says, âWhy not?â
-
His hand rests low on your back as the two of you say goodbye to the others. You see the downright thunderstruck looks Gaz and Soap throw at each other at your announcement that Ghost is driving you home, but the deeper meaning hardly registers. Who cares if everyone knows that youâre taking Ghost home to fuck him? Youâre both adults; you need no oneâs permission. Still, as soon as you are outside, you press your palms to your heated cheeks, wondering how you will be able to face any of them in the future.Â
âYou driving?â you ask him.Â
He lifts his hand, showing you the keys in his palm. He doesnât open the car door for youânot that you had really expected him to. It isnât as if this is a date. Itâs just two adults hooking up.
Inside, he shifts the vents towards you and turns on the heat, soothing the goosebumps that had begun to bloom on your arms. He waits until youâve buckled your seatbelt before backing out and onto the street. Itâs only then that you remember what Soap says about Ghostâs driving. You wish you had a second seatbelt.Â
âSo what brought all this on?â you ask, feeling remarkably shy in the passenger seat. Youâre beginning to sober up from your drinks at the pub, not that you had ever been that drunk to begin with. Maybe this was a mistake. Youâre already suffering from nerves, and you havenât even gotten back to your apartment yet. How were you supposed to fuck Ghost without looking like a fawn, your knees knocking together coltishly, nauseous from anxiety?Â
âIâve been thinking about it for a while,â he admits.Â
Alright. Downright digestible news. Before tonight, you wouldnât have even considered you and Ghost friends, necessarily. More like friend-adjacent, thanks to your mutual friendship with Johnny. Itâs good to know that apparently you had caught his eye somehow, even if it was by being the only woman among a male-dominated group of friends.Â
You canât leave it alone. âBut why?âÂ
âThatâs what people do, isnât it?â he asks, like heâs not a person, like heâs only ever heard about what itâs like to be one from a friend of a friend. âThey think about fucking each other. Donât you think about fucking me?âÂ
Your mouth goes dry. You do. You think about fucking Ghost a lot than one might expect for how few minimal interactions youâve had. Being perfectly honest, tonight is sort of becoming a dream come true. Youâd had an attraction for Ghost ever since youâd met him, even before heâd taken the mask off and youâd seen that he has such a pretty face underneath.Â
Youâd be willing to examine under a microscope your affection for aloof, seemingly unaffected men on a different day.
Ghost looks at you, trying to interpret your silence, the car swerving slowly into the other lane. You make a sound remarkably close to a screech and reach out to adjust the wheel, but he adjusts it before you do, batting your hand away softly.Â
âWe donât have to do this,â he says, eyes firmly on the road now. âIâll just drop you off.âÂ
âNo, I want to,â you say. âItâs justâitâs been a while for me. I want to, though.âÂ
Ghost casts you a doubtful glance. He pulls into your apartment complexâs parking lot and the two of you head up together. True to form, you feel his eyes taking in all the new sights: the man behind the desk who doesnât even look up as you both enter, the elevator that was last inspected two years ago, the proximity to the neighboring apartments.
After you unlock the door but before he crosses the threshold, he reaches up and runs his hand along the top of the doorframeâand easily pulls away your spare key. For a moment he holds it between you both, staring. He seems nearly as surprised as you are by his own actions. Reaching out, he sets it down on the end table just beyond the entry and says: âYou couldnât find a better hiding place for that?âÂ
âGoddamnit, Ghost,â you whine, slipping off your shoes. âYouâre not here to assess my, my security measures. Youâre here to fuck me. Will you get in?â
He comes in and makes a circle of the living space, his steps silent in a way youâve never been able to replicate, not even here in your own living space. You cross your arms, wondering what heâs thinking. Does he think you a slob? A terrible interior designer? You told yourself that you didnât care. The space was yours, and yours alone, and you liked it well enough. He could survive being in it for one night.
âWhatâs the verdict?â you ask after the silence stretches too thin.Â
âItâs nice,â he says. Then he amends, or perhaps adds: âItâs you.âÂ
âIâm choosing to take that as a compliment. Do youâŠwant a drink?ââÂ
âNo,â he says, taking off his jacket and resting it on the arm of the couch. âWant you to câmere.âÂ
Your feet obey before your mind even thinks to question it, padding across the living room in your socks until you stand in front of where he has seated himself on your frayed, careworn loveseat. He looks up at you, eyes dark and all-seeing. His hands find your hips, testing the width of them, and he makes you feel like something small, something precious, something to be cradled in the palm of his hand like a gem or jewel.
âSit down,â he says. So you sit beside him, close enough to breathe in his clean scent.Â
âIâm going to kiss you,â he says, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. âAs soon as you say youâll let me.âÂ
âIâll let you.âÂ
His lips are soft as they look, mouth warm and insistent as he coaxes you to part your lips and taste himâas if you need the incentive. He tastes like Priceâs whiskey that he had sipped at the bar, like he would settle warm in your belly and everywhere else. His hand relaxes his hold on your chin, choosing instead to cup your jaw, suffusing warmth throughout your cheek.Â
It turns into the longest makeout session youâve had since you were a teenager. You kiss until your jaw aches, until your lips are raw, until youâre throbbing between your legs. Each time you try to move things along, Ghost gently deflects your advances, seeming content to kiss you for ages. If this is how he fucks, it will be an all night affair.Â
âGhost please,â you mutter against his mouth when you feel liable to burst, when he wonât even let you slip a hand beneath his t-shirt.Â
âHere,â he mutters, hauling you onto his lap. Thatâs headed in the right direction. Your thighs spread obscenely wide to accommodate him, lowering yourself until you feel that hard line beneath his jeans. Instinct has you lining yourself up until you can rub off against him, a choked sound rising up in the back of your throat at the blissful friction.Â
He sighs into your mouth, a trembling little exhale of air, his hands finding your hips and pinning you in place. Pulling back, he mutters: âNone of that.âÂ
âWhy not?â you pant. âFeels good.âÂ
âIâm trying not to embarrass myself. Work with me.â
The two of you move to the bedroom. You stand on legs that are already shaking, stripping clothes off along as you go: socks here, leggings there. The typical anxious thoughts have just started spiraling in your headâwhat underwear are you wearing? Have you shaved recently enough? Is the light flattering? When did you last change the sheets?âwhen Ghost catches you, looping his forearm around your waist and pulling you back against his firm chest.Â
âI wanted to undress you,â he says against the nape of your neck.Â
âI can put the clothes back on if you like.âÂ
âThink Iâll just do the rest myself, if itâs all the same to you.âÂ
His hands are remarkably gentle for his line of work as he helps you out of your shirt, your arms lifting obligingly to help him. The light from the lamp in the corner is actually quite flattering, casting shadows across you both in a way that is artful. His fingertips, calloused but careful, trace up the lengths of your arms and around to your back.Â
He fumbles a little with the clasp of your bra.Â
âI hate those things,â you breathe once he finally gets it figured out, coaxing the straps off your shoulders.Â
âMe too,â he says in that dry, bland way that youâve come to associate with his humor.
All thatâs left are your panties. He presses you back onto the bedspread and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, peeling them off your thighs. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he is quick to wedge himself between them, thumbs finding the creases where your thighs meet your pelvis and stroking the sensitive skin until you donât know whether to laugh from being tickled or cry from being teased.Â
âFuckinâ pretty, arenât you?â he murmurs, eyes on your pussy. Maybe heâs talking to it and not to you. âWant to get my mouth on you. Can I?âÂ
God, how long has it been since youâve gotten head? You nod, near frantic. Even if heâs no good, some effort will be better than nothing. Besides, a part of you has high hopes for Ghost as a lover; so far he has been thorough and careful, both points in his favor. He leans up and kisses you again, your nipples brushing against his t-shirt, reminding you that you are naked while he is still entirely dressed. He seems content, and as desperate as you are to see him naked, youâre even more desperate not to break this blissful little soap bubble you both have somehow managed to find yourselves in.Â
Nudging your head up and to the side with the tip of his nose, he trails his mouth down your neck, tasting your skin and searching for your most sensitive spots. When he finds them, he drags his teeth against them softly until your heels are digging into the bed beneath you, hips up and searching for any kind of friction, even if you have to rub yourself against his jeans to find it.Â
Ghost continues down over the plains of your chest, teasing first one nipple and then the other with his mouth and his hands, testing the heft of your breasts in his huge palms. He explores your body with an admirable single-mindedness, not the perfunctory, half-hearted way some of your past lovers had. His eyes are never far from your own, categorizing your reactions; for what purpose, you arenât sure.Â
After kissing a line right over your navel, he grips your thighs in his hands and spreads you wide. That close to your cunt, he must be able to smell how desperate you are, must be able to see the way it drips from you. He ghosts a thumb along your slit, turns it towards himself until your slick catches on the light. That thumb disappears into his mouth, and it takes all your breath and all your thoughts with it. His hum of approval vibrates against your calves which are pressed to either side of his chest.Â
âOkay?â he asks.Â
You nod, unable to trust your voice.Â
He leans down and kisses your folds, chaste and sweet as he might have kissed your mouth. He uses the fingers of one hand to spread you open, and there is a rush of warmth as he lets the saliva pool on his tongue and then flood against your sex, leaning down to chase it with his mouth.Â
He is all merciful tongue and lips, no hint of teeth as he licks and sucks at that hidden knot of flesh at the top of your sex. He barely pays your entrance any attentionâwhich is fine by you, honestly, his tongue is direly needed elsewhereâbut shifts an arm free to sling it over your pelvis, palm resting over your mons, thumb pulling back that hood that seeks to keep your most sensitive parts hidden from him.Â
Your hands grip fistfuls of your bedspread, unsure if heâs willing to let you touch his hair. The noisesâgasps and whines and choked groansâcoming out of your mouth would have your soul leaving your body if only you could hear them over the sound of blood rushing through your ears.Â
Heâs strong, fighting against your natural urges to clamp your thighs shut around his head. Instead he presses you open wider, leaving no where for you to run to or hide as the pleasure in your pelvis blossoms, swells into some sweet fruit that bursts all over his tongue, your back arching into a neat bow.Â
You find out then that Ghost eats pussy the same way he kisses. He seems content to lap you clean and continue sucking at your swollen flesh, and even though you donât think you could cum again, it still feels good. You melt into the mattress, boneless. Against your better judgement, your hand finds his hair, tucking back the longest strands that just begin to tickle the tops of his ears. Â
His mouth stutters against you at the touch, losing its easy rhythm. He pulls back until he is out of your reach.Â
âSorry,â you whisper, throat raw. Your hand falls to rest on your soft belly, feeling exhausted.
âYou can touch. Just donât pull. I donâtââ he stops, like he is searching for the right words. ââI donât want it to hurt.âÂ
âNot at all?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âMe neither. Would you kiss me again?âÂ
His only answer is to shift upwards so that he can meet your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue. His cock, still confined in his jeans, brushes against your thighs. One of your hands wanders down his firm chest, down his belly, til you can map the shape of his erection with your fingers. His biceps tense around you where he braces himself on the bed to keep from putting his weight on you, head dropping til his forehead rests against the juncture between your neck and shoulder.Â
âYou should get undressed,â you remind him.Â
He lets out a breath through his nose that sounds suspiciously like a sigh, leaning back onto his haunches to tug his shirt off over his head. You stare, awed. Heâs so thick, all over: muscles hidden beneath a nice layer of soft padding, chest hair broken up by the odd scar here or there. You reach out toward his belt but he stops you.Â
âI can do it,â he says. He stands and strips himself naked in one fell swoop, like ripping off a bandaid. Heâs thick here too, just as you had suspected: thighs and cock included. Already you can feel the phantom stretch of him between your legs and in your jaw. It burns away the last bits of sleepiness your orgasm had given you.Â
Throughout your perusal, he stands still, at attention, mouth turned downward in its most comfortable frown, meeting your eyes with an almost obstinate persistence. You kneel up and crawl to the edge of the bed, letting your legs dangle off of it.Â
âCan I touch you?âÂ
âAlright,â he says.Â
You start at his shoulders, tracing over the broad width of them. Everything about him displays his strength. Even his scars, which some might consider signs of failure, only showed his persistence for survival. You ran your hands across his pecs, pausing to toy with one pale, pink nipple, so soft beneath your fingers. With each breath he takes, his abs are thrown into sharp relief.Â
âGod, Ghost,â you mutter, tracing a line down to his cock.Â
âI know,â he says dully, though what he knows, youâre unsure of. âCondomâs in my pants.â
âWe donât need one.â
âI donât want any surprises.â
âYou wonât get any. Here.â You take his hand and guide it to your upper arm where your implant sits just beneath the surface of your skin. He flinches, unsure what he is touching. âItâs my contraception.â
âThatâs horrifying,â he mutters.Â
âDo what I doâdonât think of it.âÂ
âRight.â
You shift backwards up into the bed, thighs falling open invitingly. Instead of filling the space between them, he lays next to you, rolling you til you both face each other.Â
He runs his calloused palm up the length of your leg and grips your thigh, tugging it up and over his hip until you are spread open for him. Thereâs a question in his eyes, a slowness to his movement that gives you ample time to deny him this if you donât want itâbut you do. God you do. You ache for itâfor him.Â
He reaches down and slips two fingers into you, easy as anything in your wet, relaxed state. The fullness is divine, even more so when he decides youâre ready for that third finger, the one that stretches your entrance and makes you hiss a breath through your teeth.Â
Ghost doesnât even fuck you with them, just leaves you stuffed full of his fingers while he kisses you more. He waits until youâre the one shifting and thrusting against his touch before pulling out and wiping your wetness across your tender folds.Â
He grips his cock, guides it to your entrance. Hesitates.Â
âPlease,â you mutter, face flushed with heat, hoping he doesnât want you to beg. Youâll debase yourself, but it will be painful.Â
Whether or not it was your word he was waiting for, he slips inside you, a near-unbearable fullness and pressure that has you burying your face in his chest. His own breaths are stuttered, shallow as he sinks as deep into you as your body will allow and no deeper. Once heâs inside you, he seems to relax, like some great race has been run, some threshold has been crossed and now he can rest.Â
âLet me know when I can move,â he says, running his hand up and down the length of your back, down over the curve of your ass.Â
âNot yet,â you beg. âFeels like youâre in my fucking throat. Jesus, Ghost.âÂ
His cock twitches. You both suck in a breath.Â
âDonât say that shit,â he mutters, breathless, fingers digging grooves into the soft flesh of your hips. âLean back. I want to look at you.â
You uncurl yourself away from his chest, tilting your chin up towards him. The last twinges of pain in your cunt have receded until all that lasts is that ceaseless fullness. He moves at last, laying down his arm so you can rest your head on his bicep. Only then are you aware of how painfully intimate this position is. There is nowhere to turn away to, nowhere to hide. Youâve had sex with partners less intimate than this.Â
âYou can move,â you assure him, hoping for a distraction.Â
He takes a breath so deep his chest brushes your own. The pace he sets is downright agonizingly slow, less thrusting and more of a solid grind against you that has you a shivering mess in his arms. Thereâs little chance you could cum at this pace, but it feels good, and all of it is strangely secondary to him.Â
Thereâs a look in his eyes. You donât understand it. Is it tenderness? Genuine affection? Gratitude? Youâve never had sex with this much eye contact before, never felt like breaking that gaze could take you out of the hazy headspace youâre in. Ghost finds your hand and grips itâdoesnât lace your fingers together but instead holds them like a tiny bundle of sticks in his giant hand.
He rests his forehead against your own. His eyes fall shut for just a moment, and it gives you the freedom to examine his features freely: the low brow, the curve of his nose, the pink scars tinged pale purple in the low light. You feel like youâre seeing him for the first time. You feel like youâre the first person to ever see him.Â
That strange thought starts a domino effect in your mind, sets off a chain reaction, slides a dozen puzzle pieces into a Ghost shaped puzzle and all at once it hits you.Â
âGhostâstop.âÂ
He stills, eyes opening. Reverses, withdrawing from inside you. âWhat hurts?â
âNothing,â you assure him. âButâIâm sorry. Youâve done this before, right?âÂ
He doesnât respond. Heâs meeting your eyes, but he has that obstinate, pained look again, like heâd rather be looking straight at the sun.Â
Your voice pitches upward with a hint of panic. âGhost??â
âFucking hell,â he groans, rolling onto his back, cock slipping free and leaving you feeling bereft. The mattress dips, making you sway toward him. You shift away. âWhat gave me away?â
âOh my god. Youâre kidding, right? Please tell me youâre joking.âÂ
âBloody wish,â he mutters, arm thrown over his eyes.Â
âWhy didnât you tell me?â
âThe fuck would I tell you for?â He sounds genuinely baffled.Â
âSo I couldâI donât know! So I could have known!âÂ
âDidnât want you to fucking know,â he says, letting his arm down so that he can glare at you fiercely. At the sight of you huddled at the other side of the bed, naked, arms wrapped around yourself, the fury seems to melt out of him. His shoulders sag. He palms at his eyes briefly, like a headache is brewing.
âFucked it,â he mutters to himself, going for his jeans and sitting on the edge of the bed to put them on. âFucked it all.âÂ
âYou didnât,â you offer hastily, though it does feel a little fucked. Suddenly you realize that your chance to fuck Ghost is slipping through your fingers like so much sand. What had started as a dream come true was turning into a nightmare, and you couldnât bear the thought of letting him leave. Not like this.Â
At your words, he tosses you a look, and how a human can fit so much skepticism in a single expression is beyond your belief.
âReally. I just wish Iâd known so I could have been better for you.â You donât realize the truth of the statement until you say it. The last thing you wanted was for him to look back on this moment with disappointment.Â
He shakes his head and mutters: âYouâre mad.âÂ
âWe could stillâyou know.âÂ
He stops, jeans halfway pulled up his thick thighs. âWhat, fuck?â
You find a loose thread on your bedspread and twist it around your finger, shrugging. Aiming for cool and missing by a mile.Â
âYou want to.âÂ
âWell, yeah.â You abandon the thread, feeling too exposed. Tucking your legs up toward your chest, you wrap your arms around yourself. âLike you said in the car. Iâve been thinking about it.â
âAbout fucking me.â
âAre these questions?â you ask, face warm. âYes, I think about it. Thought about it. I have thoughts.âÂ
His lips twitch, a ghost of a smile, gone before you can imagine what a full-fledged grin would even begin to look like. âYouâre serious.â
âReally serious,â you offer, sensing that he might be coming back around to the idea himself. Though youâre no vixen, you let your body unfold just to watch the way his eyes drop to look you over. You never knew eyes could be hungry. âPants off? Please?â
Heâs still and quiet for several long moments, but at length he shoves them back down his thighs, naked once more. Heâs only half hard, but no less intimidating in this state. You eagerly shift to the edge of the bed and off, back down onto your knees in front of him, palms against his thighs.Â
âIs this okay?â you ask, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, aware that this is one of your most flattering angles.Â
âGo on,â he says. He sounds doubtful. You are too, unsure if you can find the same rhythm you both had going before. Unsure if you want to, now that you know him better.Â
You take one of his hands and coax it into cupping your cheek, then slide it back and up into your hair. âDonât pull. No pain, right?âÂ
Something hard in his expression softens marginally. His fingertips scratch gently at your scalp, a silent praise as he agrees: âNo pain.â
Leaning forward, you nuzzle at his cock. It is velvety soft against your cheek. His scent here is more concentrated, masculine and warm. Above you, he sucks in a breath through his teeth.Â
How much you enjoy giving head usually directly depends on your partner, and Ghost is brilliant to suck off. Some might find him stoic or unaffected, but his expressions are just understated. When you place an open mouthed kiss against his shaft, his fingers twitch in your hair. When you take the tip past your lips to rest heavily against your tongue, he lets out a shaky exhale. By the time heâs nudging the back of your throat while you work the excess inches of his cock in your fist, he is grunting in between in sharp breaths. You find yourself becoming hyper attuned to his reactions until each minuscule motion feels exaggerated to your brain. A twitch becomes a caress. A sigh a moan. Â
âIâll cum in your mouth if you donât stop,â he grits out.Â
You pull off, jaw aching, lips slick. âIâd rather you came inside me.âÂ
He pulls you to your feet and kisses you. All the kisses tonight, and this one has been the most honest, the most needful, the most raw. Had he never even kissed anyone before tonight? you wonder. Itâs hard to believe that the answer might be yes. The way he kisses melts your brain, fizzles your thoughts.Â
âGhost,â you breathe when he gives you a moment to come up for air, his mouth dipping low to your collarbone where he sucks softly.Â
âYou know my name,â he says, mouth against your skin. âUse it.â
Simon. You have to say it in your mind first to get used to it. Simon. Simon. Then he finds one of those sensitive spots in the crook of your neck and you are whispering it, voice trembling more than youâd like: âSimon.âÂ
âI like the way you say it,â he admits. âYouâve got a pretty mouth.â
âSo do you.âÂ
He snorts softly, shaking his head, like you have said something very silly.Â
âUp.â He grips your waist and helps you up onto the bed. You scoot back, making room for him between your thighs, and he fills the space so fucking snugly. His cock nudges at your sex and reminds you of how you ache all anew.Â
This time when he slips inside you, it punches a sound out of you that is remarkably close to a whine, your toes curling.Â
âFuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,â you gasp, hands scrabbling for purchase against his broad shoulders, careful not to scratch him.Â
His head drops, forehead resting against your own, eyes shut. âFuckâs right. Not a chance Iâll last after being in your mouth.â
âWait for me,â you choke out, working one hand between you both until your fingers can find your clit. The angle isnât the best, not with him so close, but itâs made up for by how blissfully full you are, by how Simonâs arms are trembling where he holds himself up above you. Briefly you let your fingers take a side trip, teasing his cock where he stretches you open, and Simon groans. Fuck, it goes right to your head. It makes you feel like you could walk on water.Â
You find his mouth and kiss him, kiss him til your head is light with lack of air, kiss him til your thighs are shaking with how close you are from your own expert touch.Â
âFuck me, now, fuck me please,â you beg into his mouth.
He draws back until just the thick head sits inside you, giving your fingers room to work for a moment before he thrusts back in slow and smooth, pinning your fingers against your clit and that simple pressureâitâs enough. Your body bows against him, choked sounds lost against his mouth as he swallows them whole, fucking you so softly through the peak of your pleasure.Â
Simon stiffens not a handful of moments later, cock twitching inside you. The burst of warmth is pleasant, making you shiver. He drops down til his chest presses against your own, careful not to crush you with his weight.Â
âDonât pull out yet.âÂ
His softening cock twitches inside you. All he says is: âAlright.âÂ
You hum, warm and sated. Sleepy. âYou sleeping over?â
âDidnât plan on it,â he murmurs, lips against your shoulder.Â
âBut the walk of shame is a valuable part of the experience.â
ââM not ashamed of fucking you,â he says.Â
Youâre strangely touched. âMe neither.â
âDid you fake it?â he wonders.
âIâm no good at faking,â you admit. He leans up so his eyes can scan your face, looking for any hint of deception. Whatever he finds must satisfy his curiosity because he lowers his head back to rest against your shoulder.Â
He rolls you both onto your sides, and his soft cock slips free with a rush of seed. You make an unhappy sound in the back of your throat. Afterward is always your least favorite part, when you feel so empty.
Simon hushes you as he slips from the bed. âBathroom,â he tells you.Â
âThrough there.â
âNot for me, for you.â
âWhy?â you whine, tired and petulant.Â
âBecause pissing afterward is a valuable part of the experience for you. Can you walk, or did I break you?âÂ
When you donât answer, he grips one of your ankles and pulls you toward the end of the bed. You shriek, rolling onto your belly, but itâs no use. Looping his arm around your waist, he tosses you over his shoulder and carries you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing more than a sack of potatoes, which is patently untrue.Â
âAre you going to watch me go, too?â you ask.Â
âKinky,â he says, already disappearing into the other room.Â
By the time you clean yourself up and take care of any âvaluable post-sex experiencesâ, Simon has dressed himself. His clothes are gone from the floor in your bedroom. You canât help but feel disappointed; a part of you really had been hoping heâd stay. Slipping on your panties and a clean shirt, you chase after him hoping he hasnât left only to find him toying with your spare key at your door.Â
The way he reaches for your hand and draws you to him soothes some of the ache of seeing out. He thumbs your pulse and says: âI have to be ready to leave for work at a momentâs notice or Iâd stay.âÂ
âItâs fine.âÂ
âYouâre lying,â he says, pressing his thumb more firmly against your wrist. âDonât lie to me, or Iâll know. Do you want tonight to happen again?âÂ
âAre you seriously copping a feel of my pulse to see if Iâm being truthful?â
âEvading the question,â he says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. âThanks anyway, for tonight. Iâll see myself out.â
âYes! Alright, yes. Of course I do.âÂ
His mouth quirks upwards, his grin a little crooked thanks to the scar, but no less precious. His thumb strokes softly. âI donât need your pulse to tell when youâre lying. I just like to feel it racing when you look at me.â
You groan, burying your face in his chest. How embarrassing is that?Â
âNext time, Iâll stay,â he promises. âAlright? Repeat it back to me.âÂ
âNext time youâll stay.âÂ
âNext time,â he murmurs softly, turning away. He takes the stairs. Â
Okay, So I'm the only girl on my team at work. And I'm telling yâall, regardless of age or relationship status, guys absolutely get excited when you give them stuff. Even if they act like they don't. All I can do is imagine how this would work with the 141.
Like imagine you make Gaz a bracelet. It's nothing too crazy, just a single strand of green pony beads. It didn't even take a lot to make it. Just some small, homemade thing that you give to him while you've got some down time between tasks.
He absolutely lights up, smiling wide, eyes bright. He thanks you with a side hug and a kiss to your temple. It's more than what you were expecting, but you're not gonna complain.
You don't think much of it, and move on with your business, nearly forgetting about the bracelet⊠until Soap interrupts you at the gym, demanding to know why Gaz got one and not him.
You didn't think he wanted one, and you certainly didn't think he'd be so distraught over something so silly. So, you promise him a bracelet, and you deliver it to him the next day. A single strand blue bracelet.
Johnny's ecstatic, grinning like a kid on Christmas. He gives you a bear hug, and a messy kiss to your cheek, practically singing your praise as he leaves.
Price is next. But thankfully you don't give him a chance to ask. You had noticed the way his gaze lingers on the bracelets that Gaz and Soap have, the small frown he's got after talking to them.
You make him a yellow one, and drop it off on his desk with some paperwork. No need for all the fanfare or even the chance he might reject it. He doesn't. He does bring you your favorite drink, his way of saying thanks. And the yellow bracelet is on his wrist the whole time.
Ghost is last, only because you didn't think he'd want one. But ever since Price got his, Ghost has been waiting with baited breath for one. He's not going to outright ask, will even scoff if Soap or Gaz brag about it. But he wants one!
It's late, when he drops by your barrack, quiet when you open the door. It takes him a moment to gather the courage. But eventually, he holds his hand out, asking where his bracelet is.
When you admit you hadn't made him one, he's a little hurt. You're teammates. Why wouldn't he want one? But you invite him into your barrack, letting him sit with you as you make the bracelet. It's just black, his color of course, but he leaves, smiling under the mask.
Oh, and when you show up for the next briefing with your own bracelet, a repeating pattern of green, blue, yellow and black, no one comments on it. But it's hard to ignore the way they all smile at you, a soft look in their eyes.
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