Looking for a rapid fire roleplay partner available daily for multiple replies in a text style roleplay! 25+ due to dark, taboo and mature themes.
I understand LIFE happens, I'm married and a mom and have a job m-f. However, I am still around daily for multiple replies all day and prefer someone with my same muse to roleplay and introverted lifestyle. If thats not you— let's not waste each other's time.
If there is ever a time I get busy and will not be around or just lose muse, I will let you know and expect the same in return. (Though I'm almost positive that will not happen on my end.)
Since the roleplay will be text based, I am looking for two fandoms in general to combine and have a ball with.
•Teen wolf (I am looking for someone to dominantly play Derek Hale and Scott McCall(ny OCs love interests) and any other character of your choosing for the group chat! I play Stiles (not looking to ship him) Isaac, Theo, Kira, Malia and Vernon Boyd.
•Haunting Adeline (I am looking for someone to dominantly play Zade Meadows– My OCs love interest) I play Jay, Daya and Adeline.
I am also open to adding other fandoms!
I prefer female partners — but I am open to Males if you can prove you're not on any creepiness. (Have had issues in the past on multiple occasions so please dont come for me.)
I am NOT Ghost friendly. I am 31. Please communicate like the adult you claim you are.
I prefer the female role when it comes to actually writing, because I've been burned one too many times with doubling in the past— but I try to give everyone new the benefit of the doubt.
I play a person of color because I am a person of color so if that bothers you— move past this ad.
Please be familiar with tupperbox.
If you have made it this far, great! I cant wait to hear from you and be friends and make magic!
Hello! My name is Infinity! Long shot— but I'm looking for a daily rapid fire partner! I have no limits except bathroom play and pedophelia! I'm 30, a POC (My OC will be a POC as well), a mom, a wife, so I'm definitely not on any weird shit! Just a girl looking for a very long term roleplay partner/friend for rapid fire, text threads and plotting! I'm looking for someone to make a Matthew Daddario FC thats supernatural.
I will double with caution, though these days its not my go to considering I'm always used for my males it seems and people don't understand the meaning of equality. I will drop you fast if you cant reciprocate effort on both sides. I do prefer 1x1 though with me in the F role.
More info/ad on my blog/pinned!
If you're interested, and would like to discuss more? My discord is infinityyrp
synopsis : Waking up in a cottage with your husband should have been the perfect honeymoon. It would have been—if not for the missing memories and the unsettling fact that you didn’t know the man sharing the house with you.
cw : heavy themes, kidnapping, drugging, manipulation, gaslighting, murder, dubcon, no sexual actions, talk of abuse based on paranoia, paranoia, forced feeding, vomit, mentally deranged johnny, chubby reader.
words : 7k
ㅤㅤ ㅤ special event ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ ao3
Waking up in a dark, empty room was not how you were supposed to spend your honeymoon. The memories of the past days, or perhaps an entire week, were gone, scraped clean from your mind and replaced with a dull ache that pulsed like something alive inside your skull.
The bed beneath you was soft, almost too soft, but wrong. Your body recoiled from it instinctively, as if trying to warn you that you didn’t belong here. The thought sharpened the migraine until it throbbed against your skull like a drumbeat.
When you tried to sit up, the world lurched violently. Nausea struck like a blow, and before you could stop it, you threw up, warm vomit spilling across your body. Tears blurred your vision, though you hadn’t even realized you were crying.
Light seared your eyes as a door creaked open to your left, a shaft of sunlight cutting through the gloom. You flinched at the brightness, your pupils slow to shrink after the suffocating dark.
“Look at you, silly,” a voice murmured, soft and almost tender. The sound carried too easily in the hollow room, echoing back at you. “Getting yourself all dirty.”
A man stepped inside. You knew instantly you had never seen him before. Medium height, his body thick with muscle softened by fat, he looked both strong and strangely casual, like someone who could lift you with one hand if he wished. His hair was shaved at the sides, the middle left to curl wild and unruly. A deep, ugly scar slashed across the left side of his head, pale and jagged.
But it was his eyes that unsettled you most. Blue, almost gentle, but with something veiled behind them. Something watchful. Predatory.
His lips pulled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, too tight, too deliberate. The kind of smile people wear when they’re restraining themselves. A smile like a parent trying not to lose patience with a disobedient child.
“Wh–who are—” you tried to ask, but your throat rasped like sandpaper. Each word tore at it, breaking off into a fit of raw coughing before you could finish.
“Shhh, shhh,” the man murmured. He set a glass of water and a small bowl of mashed fruit on the nightstand, the gesture strangely domestic, almost caring. Almost.
Before you could move, his hands were on you, warm, but unyielding, practised. He lifted your shirt without hesitation, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Panic surged through you. You clawed at his arms, tried to twist away, but he didn’t even seem to notice your resistance. His strength dwarfed yours, in seconds, the shirt was gone, stripped from your body as if it had never been yours to begin with.
You curled in on yourself, arms snapping up to cover your bare chest. His expression shifted, one brow arched, and then he laughed, a short, dry sound, mocking and cruel.
“Nothing I havenae seen before, my love,” he said, his voice lilting with a thick accent. The word love dragged like a blade across your nerves, sticky and possessive, his mockery dripping through every syllable.
It was only then you noticed it—the lilt in his voice. A Scottish accent. Your sluggish brain fumbled with the detail, trying to make it fit. You couldn’t recall knowing a single Scottish person. You had never even set foot in Scotland.
“I ken it’s all strange to ye,” he said softly, his tone almost sympathetic. His back was to you now as he rifled through the dresser drawers, casual in a way that made your stomach twist. “The doctors said it’d take a while for ye to remember.”
When he turned back, there was no hesitation in his steps, only a quiet certainty, as though every movement belonged to a script you didn’t know. The shirt was balled in his fist, wrinkled from his grip. He slipped it over your head with practised ease, peeling your arms from your chest no matter how tightly you tried to hold them there. His touch was steady, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of someone who expected to be obeyed.
Once the shirt hung properly on your frame, he sank down until your eyes were level with his. His gaze held you, unblinking and intimate, the kind of attention that felt both tender and suffocating.
He reached forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a fingertip, lingering a fraction too long. Then his hand traced lightly along your jaw, tilting your chin as if inspecting something delicate, precious.
“Dinnae recall me?” he murmured, tilting his head with a softness that should have been loving, but wasn’t. The question sounded less like curiosity and more like a private game, as though the answer didn’t matter. As though he already owned it.
You shook your head rapidly, unable to trust your own voice. No matter how hard you tried, no memories of this man surfaced.
Looking down, you froze as his warm, calloused hand closed around yours. Your eyes caught the glint of two wedding bands, one on each of your wedding fingers.
Suddenly, fragments of a wedding came rushing back: your white dress, the first dance, the laughter, the wedding cake. And yet… none of it included him. In none of those memories could you hear a deep, heavy Scottish accent. In none of them did you see a scar carved across a man’s head.
“Johnny,” he said, his voice smooth and intimate, drawing your eyes to his deep blue gaze. “Johnny Mactavish.”
Your gaze darted from him to your hands, back again, your mind desperate to stitch together some sense of reality. It refused to. Then, softer this time, he spoke your name.
“Mactavish, of course,” he said with a dry chuckle, his thumb brushing over your wedding ring in a possessive, almost tender motion. “All will come back in due time, dinnae worry.”
As your gaze lingered on the scar carved into the side of his head, Johnny’s hand slipped free of yours and rose to his face. His fingers traced the jagged line almost tenderly, like it was something precious, something worth admiring. All the while, his eyes never left yours, pinning you in place.
A cold unease crawled down your spine, sharper than before, your body whispering warnings your mind couldn’t piece together. None of this felt right. It was as if the moment itself was wrong, a scene that shouldn’t exist, but did anyway.
“Yep,” he said at last, a faint smile tugging at his lips, the word heavy with a meaning you couldn’t grasp. “That’s part of it. Car crash. Boom.”
His eyes glimmered with a wild light as he spoke, something unsteady flickering just beneath the surface. He mimed the explosion with his hands, fingers splaying out in a sudden burst of movement, the gesture almost childlike. Almost funny, to him.
The sound of his dry laugh followed, but it didn’t match the weight in his gaze.
Your stomach tightened as his laugh died in the stillness of the room. Car crash, he’d said, as if it explained everything. But your eyes kept drifting back to the scar.
It wasn’t the smooth, faded kind you’d seen on accident victims. This one was jagged, raw-looking even now, as though something had torn into him. It carved too deep, too purposeful, like the mark of violence, not shattered glass or twisted metal.
Your body reacted before your mind could form the thought fully. A shiver crawled over your skin, cold and electric, whispering wrong, wrong, wrong.
Johnny seemed to notice your stare. His smile thinned, though his eyes never lost that strange brightness. Slowly, almost tenderly, he touched the scar again, his fingers brushing it as if he were proud of it.
“Dinnae worry,” he mumbled softly, leaning closer, his breath warm on your cheek. “Aye, lass… ye’ll remember. Just takes time.”
Pushing himself upright, Johnny groaned softly when his knee popped, the sound oddly human in contrast to the unease twisting in your gut. He picked up the glass of water and the bowl of mashed fruit he’d carried in earlier, then lowered himself onto the bed beside you.
Too close. Close enough that the warmth of his body pressed against your skin, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of sweat and soap on him. He didn’t seem to notice your stiffening, or worse, he didn’t care.
“And that’s all we have… time, mo gràidh.”
The Gaelic slid from his mouth like something intimate, but the way his lips curved made it feel wrong, heavy. On his tongue, the words carried weight, not comfort, but warning.
Not love, but a threat.
You woke in a slick sweat, unable to sit up. A heavy arm draped across your waist pinned you in place, the grip more possessive than protective. The weight dragged you into the heat of a body pressed tight against yours, too warm, suffocating. Your breathing quickened, lungs straining for air as though you were drowning in the bed.
It took time, careful and desperate, to peel yourself free. Every twitch of his arm, every low groan in his sleep, threatened to pull you back under. At last, you slipped from his grasp and slid off the mattress, your bare feet whispering across the wooden floor.
In the kitchen, you poured a glass of water with trembling hands. The cold glass steadied you only slightly. You carried it to the back patio, sinking into a chair.
The woods loomed outside, thick and endless, their branches black against the night. They weren’t just trees, they were walls. The silence out there was heavy, broken only by the occasional crack of a branch or distant rustle, sounds that carried too clearly in the dark. The forest felt alive, watchful, pressing in closer with every breath you took. There was no path you could see, no lights from neighbors or passing cars. Just blackness swallowing the horizon.
The house itself wasn’t kinder. Its walls seemed to listen, every creak of wood echoing too loudly, like the place remembered more than you did. You often caught yourself feeling as though the house wanted you to stay, just as much as Johnny did.
It had been almost a month since you woke in this prison of timber and shadow. Not a single memory had returned to you—not one face, not one place. Only the constant weight in your chest, the gnawing certainty that you weren’t meant to be here.
Johnny, the man who called himself your husband, filled the silence with his presence. His closeness smothered you, his touch ignored boundaries. He never left you alone for long, as if solitude itself was forbidden. Recently, he’d begun working again, carving wood in the village, so he said. You wondered if anyone there even knew you existed
He had never told you which village he worked in. He had never taken you there. He had never let you leave the house.
On the first day he went back to “work,” you had tried running. The open windows, the unlocked back door, it had felt like a chance, a deliberate slip in his vigilance. But the moment you had stepped beyond the yard, you felt them. Invisible eyes. Cameras, hidden where you couldn’t see, scraping across your skin with every step.
At first, you had told yourself it was paranoia. Just nerves, nothing more. You pushed forward anyway, deeper into the woods. The trees thickened into a labyrinth, their shapes repeating until the path itself seemed to fold in on you. But you didn’t stop.
Then the forest exploded.
A detonation tore through the silence, violent enough to shake the earth beneath your feet. The air split open with screams, raw, panicked, agonized. The kind of screams that branded themselves into your skull, that told you someone had been out there, and something had torn them apart.
Terror dragged you back to the house. You had ran until your legs burned, until the trees finally broke and the house had appeared, sitting silent and waiting.
Johnny had been there. Sitting on the patio chair—the very same one you sat in now—like he had been expecting you all along. A heavy smirk curled across his lips as smoke drifted lazily from the cigarette in his hand.
“Told ye the woods were dangerous,” he had said, his tone almost sing-song, cruel in its amusement. “Lots o’ bear traps out there.”
Ever since that day, you hadn’t set a foot beyond the fenced yard. Bears, he had said, bears in the middle of Scotland, if this was even Scotland at all. It sounded absurd, but you had no choice except to believe him.
After your escape attempt, Johnny stopped pretending. He made no effort to hide that something was deeply wrong. It was as though your little stunt had awakened something inside him, something feral. An instinct not just to control you, but to cage you.
The doors and windows remained unlocked when he left for “work,” but now the openness felt like a trap. You felt eyes on you everywhere: in the vegetable garden, by the firewood stack, even in the small living room. Invisible eyes, patient and unblinking.
It was no longer just outside the fence, you felt them here, in the yard itself. Watching you as you bent to pull weeds, as you reached for logs, as you sipped water on the porch. Always watching.
It was terrifying.
And Johnny? Johnny came back different after that day. Whatever mask he had worn before was gone. The gentle smiles, the playful pet names, those had curdled into something sharper.
His touches no longer pretended at tenderness. His hand lingered too long on your waist when he passed, fingers digging just enough to remind you of his strength. When you flinched, he grinned, showing teeth.
He watched you constantly when he was home, like a wolf circling prey it had already caught. His eyes followed every movement—how long it took you to drink, how often you glanced at the door, how your hands shook when you lit the fireplace.
And his rules multiplied. He corrected you for the smallest things: leaving a dish out, forgetting to shut a cupboard, speaking too softly when he wanted an answer. The punishments were never spoken aloud, but always implied in the way his voice dropped, the way his body leaned closer, heat radiating off him until you felt cornered.
At night, his arm around you no longer felt like a weight by accident. It was a shackle. He pulled you against him in his sleep—or pretended to sleep—tightening his grip if you shifted, as though daring you to try and slip away again.
Johnny was no longer acting like a husband. He was something else entirely. Something feral. Something that had decided you were his, and would never let go.
Another thing that had shifted was how much Johnny fed you. He piled your plate higher than you could finish, always hovering nearby to make sure you tried. If you slowed, his hand would tap the edge of the table, an almost absent gesture, but one that never failed to make you lift your fork again.
He spoke of it often, dropping it into conversation like it was nothing. How you’d been trying for babies before the accident. How your body needed the strength for “the wee lambs and the winters.” His tone was light, almost teasing, but his eyes told you there was no room to argue.
You had never been slim, but now eating felt less like nourishment and more like a task, a requirement. Every meal became another reminder of his presence, his rules, his plans. He lingered over you, watching you chew, smiling faintly when you swallowed.
Sometimes he wrapped it in humour, trying to soften the edges. “Us northerners like their women full o’ life,” he’d say with a chuckle, as though it were an old joke between you. But the words clung to you long after, leaving your stomach knotted in unease, no matter how much food he forced into it.
The only relief you clung to was that Johnny never forced himself fully on you. The closest he came was at night—when he tugged your nightshirt up and away, leaving you bare against the cold air while he settled beside you. He never touched further, never demanded more, but the ritual itself felt like a claim, a reminder of what he believed was his.
He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t press for sex. But the boundary he left in place wasn’t mercy—it was control. You knew he waited for your to engage.
And through it all, one truth grew sharper each day. You felt nothing for him. No warmth, no longing, no flicker of desire. Just the weight of his presence, the heat of his arm, the sound of his breathing against your neck.
If this man had truly been your husband, if you had ever known him before, some echo of want should have remained. But there was nothing.
That absence was its own answer. You did not know Johnny Mactavish. Not then. Not now. Not ever.
It had been three months, and you were still waiting for the memories Johnny promised would return. They never did. Each passing day pressed heavier on your chest, more oppressive, more hopeless.
You had nothing. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Johnny wouldn’t allow it. His eyes and rules were your world, and you knew—deep down—that he didn’t trust you out of his sight.
A routine had settled, grinding you down piece by piece.
Wake up in a silent house. Eat the breakfast he left, every bite counted by how much he expected gone from the plate. Start a fire against the creeping cold of the season, though he always checked afterwards to make sure you’d done it “properly.” Read until the words blurred, your books chosen by him and left on the table—never more than two at a time. Skip lunch, knowing dinner would be another battle of too much food. Sip tea outside, staring into the woods, forcing your brain to claw for memories that never came, all the while aware of the new cameras he hadn’t bothered to hide anymore.
Then Johnny would return. He’d cook. He’d talk. He’d ask what you’d done with your hours, the questions sharp as if testing your story. You’d shower, his towel already laid out for you, his voice calling through the door if you took too long. And finally, you’d lie in the bed beside him for hours, trapped in the stale rhythm of his breathing, until sleep dragged you under.
Each day. The same. Over and over. A cycle that never broke, as though time itself had been locked inside this house with you, and Johnny was tightening the lock a little more each night.
Until tonight.
Tonight, Johnny brought another man into the house.
He was tall, towering, really, with blond hair cropped close and scars cutting pale lines across his face and hands. His eyes were mean, sharp, the kind of gaze that had measured and judged a thousand people before you. But when they landed on you, that hardness cracked into something else. Confusion.
“Who’s that?” he asked, his voice low and edged, his stare raking over you like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
You shrank back under his scrutiny, shame burning through you. You hadn’t taken care of yourself in weeks. What was the point? Every day felt like walking through quicksand, every choice useless under Johnny’s thumb. You had learned not to fight, not since the day you tried the woods. Better to move along with his false trust than risk waking whatever feral thing lurked under his skin.
Johnny ignored the question at first, moving the way he always did when he came home, straight to you. He bent low, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, like a ritual. Then he crouched before the fireplace, shoving more wood into the flames as though nothing was wrong, nothing unusual.
“What dae ye mean?” he asked at last, his voice almost careless. But his shoulders had stiffened, his movements sharpened. He didn’t turn to face the other man.
“The girl, Soap,” the blond pressed, his eyes cutting to Johnny but returning quickly to you, studying. Searching.
Your stomach twisted. He was Johnny’s friend. That meant he was no safer than your captor. And yet… a tiny thread of hope pulled in your chest. If he could see you, really see you, maybe someone else could too. Maybe he wasn’t here to play Johnny’s game.
Johnny straightened, finally meeting the man’s gaze. His smile was thin, forced, almost brittle. “That me wife, Simon.” He said it easily, casually, as though the words weren’t knives in your throat.
Then, turning back to you, he brushed past with deliberate closeness, his hand landing on your back and patting low, too low, fingers skimming the curve just above your ass. “Don’t be mean, mo gràidh. Say hello.” His mocking tone carried a warning sharp enough to slice skin.
To say the dinner was awkward would have been an understatement. The silence around the table was thick and heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The only sound was the scrape of cutlery against plates, the clink of glasses, the low crackle of the fire.
Simon’s eyes never left you. They pinned you in place, boring past your skin as though he could reach inside your skull and pull the truth straight out. His brown eyes had shifted since his arrival, there was no mercy in them now, no confusion, no softness. Just a flat, unblinking scrutiny that made your stomach coil.
Every so often his gaze flicked to the scar on the side of Johnny’s head. Back to you. Back to the scar. Like he was connecting dots you weren’t allowed to see. The same scar Johnny refused to explain beyond the same two words—car crash. The same story that had never made sense: no hospital, no police report, no doctors coming to the house to check on you. Just Johnny and his endless insistence that things would “come back in time.”
Johnny had never raised his voice at you when your question became aggressive. But his words had always been knives. Little mocking jabs, subtle digs, the kind that made you feel stupid, small, ashamed. The kind that slipped under your skin and stayed there until you stopped fighting back. You’d learned that silence pleased him. Submission pleased him.
And as the three of you sat at that table, Simon’s gaze on you, Johnny’s scar catching the firelight, you felt the shape of a trap around you, one you were already inside of, one you hadn’t been able to do anything against.
Paranoia shadowed you every moment Johnny was home. Every gesture felt loaded, every sound in the house a warning. When he pressed a glass of water into your hand, you imagined it was drugged. When the distant screams and explosions echoed from the woods, you imagined he staged them, tricks to keep you afraid. When he left all the doors unlocked before leaving, you imagined him lurking somewhere nearby anyway, waiting for you to run so he could pounce.
It was becoming too much. You weren’t sleeping. You were losing weight even though Johnny still forced plate after plate of food on you, the smell alone making you gag. And always, that quiet, heavy threat of babies hanging between you, his soft-voiced talk of building you up, preparing you. Like he thought he could grind you down into something that would mistake fear for love. To mould your brain into seeking comfort and safety with him with his false gentleness.
But it never worked. The trap never closed around your mind the way he wanted. If anything, the cracks in his game were widening. And now, with this stranger sitting at your table, staring at you with those scarred hands and predator’s eyes, your paranoia rose to a scream in your skull.
What if Simon wasn’t here by accident? What if Johnny had brought him for a reason, someone to hold you down if you tried to run when the abuse finally happen.
Or worse. What if Simon was here to do it because Johnny wouldn’t?
When bedtime came, it came like clockwork.
Before you could protest, he had already instructed you to make a bed on the couch for Simon, tossing blankets and pillows at you, making it clear you couldn't say anything. You obeyed silently, your movements slow and careful, each step a reminder of your place.
Once the couch was prepared, Johnny sent you to bed like a child being dismissed, patting your back and guiding you toward the bedroom.
“Go on, mo gràidh,” he said casually, brushing past you. “I need a bit of time with my friend.”
His touch lingered, heavy, a claim disguised as care. You sank onto the bed, knees pulled to your chest, listening as the sounds of conversation drifted faintly from the living room: Johnny’s laugh, Simon’s deep voice.
Sleep didn’t find you. It never did anymore. You lay in the cold bed, eyes open, your mind racing through every possible horror, the two men downstairs coming up to hurt you, to take turns with you, to turn you into their private amusement. Every creak of the wooden floorboards below, every hiss of the wind against the windows sent your heart skittering, your stomach twisting with nausea.
And yet, like clockwork, Johnny came upstairs. The sound of the door closing behind him was soft but final, like a lock turning. He slid into the bed beside you as he did every night, his warm, hard hands pushing your shirt up and off your body before wrapping himself around you. His heat pressed into you from behind, his body fitting yours like a puzzle piece you didn’t ask for.
After that, the house went silent. No footsteps on the stairs. No door opening. No sadistic laughter creeping through the dark. Just Johnny’s steady breathing at your back, his arm heavy at your waist, the scent of smoke and wood clinging to his skin.
You stayed rigid, every muscle screaming to flee. But then it hit you, your body was relaxing. Not because you wanted it to, but because your brain was learning, rewiring itself. It was taking his presence, the arm that caged you, and mistaking it for safety. That realisation sent a cold, electric thrill down your spine. He was inside your head. His manipulation was working.
This man was keeping you from your life. From who you were. From your real husband. Everything about it was wrong, foul, twisted. And yet, as his warm arm held your waist and his breath brushed the back of your neck, you felt your body betray you, melting enough for sleep to finally claim you.
A sense of security filling you. False. Terrifying. But real enough to drag you under.
When you opened your eyes again, it wasn’t morning. The moon hung pale and thin outside the window, casting faint silver across the room. Johnny’s warm body was still behind you, heavy and unmoving, his arm slack at your waist.
Then you heard it. The sound that had pulled you from sleep.
A deep voice downstairs.
You were used to the house at night—the oppressive quiet, the stillness that sometimes felt like the only peace you had. Any change in it snapped you awake, heart pounding.
Carefully, gently, you slid out from under Johnny’s arm, moving one inch at a time until you were free. Putting on the shirt he had thrown on the floor earlier, your bare feet barely whispered against the floor as you crept to the hallway, holding your breath. From the top of the stairs, you could see nothing but shadows, but the voice came clearer now, low and rough, curling up through the dark.
“Yeah… he’s lost it, Cap,” Simon said.
A rush of cold panic surged through you, making your knees buckle. You gripped the banister hard, nails digging into the wood to keep yourself from collapsing. Was someone else here? Had more men arrived while you slept?
No other voices came back, only Simon’s muttering. A flicker of logic cut through the fear. A phone call. He was on the phone. You forced yourself to breathe, but your heart still hammered like a drum in your throat.
“I’m telling you, she doesn’t know him, Price,” Simon continued, his footsteps pacing across the living room floor. “She looks a lot like Camille, as well. Fucked-up lost twin or something.”
Who’s Price? Who’s Camille?
The names rattled through your skull as you pressed yourself against the wall at the top of the stairs, straining to hear.
“He wouldn’t tell me her last name,” Simon was saying below, his voice low and tight. “Said she was his fucking wife. Price, I don’t know what’s going on but it’s not good. Like he ain’t well in the head. Obsessed and all. Bunches of fucking bombs around the house, doesn’t care about hikers. Saw him put something in her drink. She had no fucking memories!”
His whisper-shout was urgent, like he was trying to force the man on the other end of the line to understand.
Your breathing sped up with every word, shallow and jagged, your fingers gripping the railing hard enough to hurt. Each sentence from Simon was a hammer blow, cracking the last fragile shell of denial you’d built around yourself.
All those nights you’d thought you were paranoid. All those times you’d questioned your own mind. You weren’t wrong.
You didn’t know this man. The one who had kept you in his house, in his bed, for three long months. The man sleeping just down the hall was a stranger. A stranger who’d built a cage around you and called it marriage.
“Leave her if it makes him happy?” Simon’s voice cut sharply through the room, deadpan and furious. “Are you hearing yourself, John? It’s a fucking woman here, not a fucking doll. I don’t give a shit if he’s been through a lot, I ain’t letting him kidnap some poor girl that looks like his fucking ex!”
His tone cracked, then rose, almost booming through the cottage. You froze, heart hammering, as every word hammered into your skull. You had been trying to make sense of it all, trying to piece together the truth of these three months, but the sound of Simon’s fury made it all painfully clear.
And then, you didn’t hear the bedroom door open behind you. You didn’t hear the soft, deliberate steps approaching until it was too late. Until the warmth pressed against your back.
“We dae have a problem now, dinnae we?” His voice slithered into your ear, low and twisted, making your body jump, your throat open involuntarily. A scream tore free from your lips.
“Fuck!” Simon’s voice echoed from downstairs, cracking the tension further as the chaos of the moment slammed down on you.
You thrashed. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t planned, just raw panic exploding out of you. Your body twisted forward, arms flailing to pry his grip away, nails catching on his skin. Johnny’s warmth pressed harder against you, unyielding, his breath hot at your ear as one arm snaked around your waist, pinning you against him.
“Shhh,” he hissed, the same patronizing hush he always used, only now it was sharper, colder. “Ye’ll wake the whole fuckin’ world, mo gràidh.”
Right there, pressed into the small of your back, you felt it—hard, insistent. Johnny was aroused. The realization sent bile rising in your throat. He wasn’t just holding you. He was feeding on your fear, taking pleasure in your thrashing.
Your body betrayed you with every movement, the desperate struggle grinding you against him. His grip only grew stronger, iron around your waist, keeping you in place. Nausea settled in your gut, tears streaked hot down your cheeks, and your heart hammered so violently you thought it might rip out of your chest.
Heavy footsteps creaked up the staircase. Each groan of the wood made Johnny tense, then tighten, until you could barely breathe. His nose dragged along your neck, inhaling deeply as though your terror itself was intoxicating. A slow kiss, small, soft, revolting, pressed against your skin, and you realized just how violently you were shaking.
“Johnny.” Simon’s voice. Calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made your skin crawl, because it wasn’t comfort, it was control, the sound of a predator circling another predator.
You wanted him to do something. To rip Johnny off you, to finally end this nightmare. Instead, his tone was measured, deliberate, as though he were speaking to a wild animal ready to bite.
The fury in you boiled hotter. Anger at Johnny, yes, but also at Simon, for talking while you were trapped, for standing there while your life was being crushed out of you inch by inch. You wanted someone to save you, to fight for you. You wanted to fight for yourself. But your body felt locked, helpless against Johnny’s suffocating hold.
“Johnny. Sergeant.” Simon’s voice was firmer now, though it carried that unnerving restraint, his body rigid at the top of the stairs. “We can settle this.”
A dry laugh cracked from Johnny’s throat, the sound stripped of warmth, hollow and sharp like splintered wood. It wasn’t amusement, it was mockery, a knife’s edge disguised as humour.
Slowly, deliberately, his arms loosened around you. Not in surrender. Not in mercy. Just enough to make it clear that letting go was his choice, that he could snap them back in place any second if he wished. His hand lingered, fingertips brushing your side as if he were reluctant to release his favourite possession.
When he finally shifted his gaze to Simon, that twisted smirk spread across his face. The scar along his temple caught the moonlight, deepening the menace in his expression.
“How dae ye suggest we dae that, L.T.?” Johnny mocked, his voice low, lilting, almost playful. But the weight behind it carried threat, like a wolf asking how best to eat its prey.
The air froze.
Johnny’s smirk collapsed into something darker, his jaw tightening, blue eyes flashing like ice. A bitter chuckle escaped him, humourless, sharp. For a long, suspended second, the three of you simply stared at one another. The room tasted of smoke and old wood, your pulse hammered in your ears.
Johnny’s jaw worked. Then, slow and theatrical, he let out a breath and pushed himself upright. He loosened his hand on your waist just enough for it to look like mercy.
“Aye,” he said, voice soft as if conceding something precious. “Fine. We’ll dae it yer way, L.T. She comes with ye to civilisation, ye get her checked out, an’ I’ll go for treatment.”
His smile was a practised thing, too broad, too calm. It sat wrong on his face like a mask. Simon’s posture didn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders squared tighter. He didn’t step down the stairs, he stayed where he was, watching Johnny like a man watching a snake pretend to be dead.
“Let’s go, Johnny,” Simon said flatly, his tone calm but his eyes sharp as a hawk, never leaving Johnny’s hand clamped on your waist. He didn’t believe a word of his so-called compliance.
“Come on, mo gràidh,” Johnny murmured, guiding you toward the stairs with a steady push.
Your legs trembled like jelly, your heart battering against your ribs, tears clouding your vision. Yet your body moved on autopilot, obeying him against your will.
“Ye heard the man,” Johnny added, that twisted smirk still curling his lips, as if the whole thing were a game only he understood.
The stairs creaked under your feet, each step sounding louder than it should have in the suffocating silence. You moved like a puppet, your body heavy and slow, but Johnny’s palm at the small of your back kept you moving. Simon trailed just behind, his boots soft but deliberate on the wood.
When you reached the bottom, the living room felt smaller than it ever had, the walls closing in around you. The smell of ash from the fireplace hung heavy in the air. You stopped instinctively in the centre of the room, eyes darting to the front door. You’d never seen beyond it, never touched the latch. For all you knew, there could be another trap waiting outside, or nothing at all.
Johnny stepped up behind you, so close his chest brushed your back. His hand slid from your waist to your shoulder, not gripping, just resting, but the weight of it pinned you there. That same twisted smirk carved across his face as he looked at Simon.
"What now, L.T.?” Johnny asked, his voice light, mocking, as though none of this mattered. “Ye allow me to put out the fire first? I'd like tae find ma house still standin' after this.”
Simon didn’t answer with words. He gave only a stiff nod, his eyes tracking every twitch of Johnny’s movements, unblinking, as if waiting for the moment the mask would finally slip.
You stood frozen in the middle of the room, watching as Johnny sauntered toward the fireplace. He wore a grimy wifebeater—mud, soot, and what looked like blood smeared across the fabric. You had never seen him this dishevelled before.
With the metal poker in hand, Johnny stirred at the fire. Simon hadn’t anticipated the sudden shift, as the flames died, the room was swallowed by darkness. No lamps were lit. And Simon, unfamiliar with the house, was at a disadvantage.
Just before the last glow vanished, you caught a glimpse of Johnny’s face. His smile stretched wider, darker, until it was no longer a smile at all but a predator baring its teeth.
When the dark settled heavy around you, instinct screamed. Your gut knew, Johnny wouldn't reach for you first. An intruder had entered his den, and the wolf would deal with the threat before turning to his prize.
Quiet as you could, you bolted for the back door. The latch rattled under your trembling hand, then gave way. Just as you slipped it open, a heavy crack split the air behind you, the sound of blunt metal colliding with flesh and bone.
You turned, just for a heartbeat. Moonlight poured through the open door, revealing Simon sprawled on the floor. His eyes stared wide in shock, blood seeping from a gash at his skull.
Above him, Johnny stood over the body, the poker slick and red in his hand. His grin glistened in the pale light, stretching too wide, too satisfied. Then his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a knife. The smile only widened. A low, delighted chuckle rumbled from his chest as he tilted his head, wolfish, as if inviting the chase.
And you ran. Barefoot, into the dead of night, into the forest you knew was laced with traps and bombs, your only thought away.
What was the point of living, if it meant being trapped in this house with a man like him? What was the point of waking up every day in a life that wasn’t yours? The questions tore through your mind as you stumbled barefoot across the cold ground, branches clawing at your legs, lungs burning with panic.
“Where ye going, mo gràidh?” Johnny’s voice rolled out from the patio behind you, calm and cruel, laced with amusement. His words carried easily through the night, a predator calling to his prey. “Ye cannae hide from me. Ye're mine, Camille.”
Camille. That name again. Camille wasn’t you. You knew that.
His madness was spiralling, deeper and darker with every passing moment. If he caught you, he wouldn’t just hold you, he would shape you, erase everything you were, and remake you into the version he wanted.
Turning back, you tried to steal a small breath, hoping to gauge how far behind he was. Relief fluttered briefly in your chest, there was no sound. Not a footstep, not a rustle, nothing. A false sense of security washed over you. You should have known better.
“Peekaboo.”
Waking up in a dark, empty room was not how you were supposed to spend your honeymoon. The memories of the past days, or perhaps an entire week, were gone, scraped clean from your mind and replaced with a dull ache that pulsed like something alive inside your skull.
The bed beneath you was soft, almost too soft, but wrong. Your body recoiled from it instinctively, as if trying to warn you that you didn’t belong here. The thought sharpened the migraine until it throbbed against your skull like a drumbeat.
When you tried to sit up, the world lurched violently. Nausea struck like a blow, and before you could stop it, you threw up, warm vomit spilling across your body. Tears blurred your vision, though you hadn’t even realized you were crying.
“Look at you, silly,” a voice murmured, soft and almost tender. The sound carried too easily in the hollow room, echoing back at you.
Formally petitioning every writer to make a niche meet-cute reader fic based on one of their jobs. I literally don't care how banal or shitty said job is
Surprise Sunday! (because I couldn't wait until WIP Wednesday)
Did I say I was conjuring up something new? Well, I am. Here's a little preview!
Disgraced former knight John Price finds himself with too much time on his hands—and he and his band of mercenaries have nothing left to lose. Gaz, the bastard son of Price’s former lord. Johnny MacTavish, a Scottish Catholic stuck in Protestant England running from his past. And Ghost, a ruthless pit fighter with more than a few scores to settle.
When a cloaked stranger appears with a seemingly easy enough job, they heartily accept. But everything is not as it seems. Tracking down a Viscount’s kidnapped bride is simple enough, but the Devils soon realize that the return comes with a deadly cost. Chivalry is dead. Hail to The Bloody Devils.
Tropes: forbidden love, knight!price, historical fantasy
thank you to @id-get-sleazy-for-ron-weasley for being that bitch and helping me get this thing off the ground (love you)
ㅤㅤ ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ tattoo artist simon 'ghost' riley x reader (extended)
synopsis : Fate is a strange force—pushing a shy, insecure flower into the den of the big, bad Ghost. But with enough dedication and time, that delicate flower can finally bloom perfectly.
cw : angst, smut, body shaming, eating disorders, ex toxic relationship, anxiety, violence, blood mentioned, age gap (reader in mid 20's, simon in late 30's), daddy kink, chubby and insecure reader.
words : 20,3k
ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤmasterlist⋆ inspo⋆ moodboard⋆ ao3
Tears were slipping down your cheeks as you locked the bakery door behind you. The closing shift always did that to you, the quiet, careful way you placed the remaining pastries into small takeaway boxes. Your boss believed it was better for the baked goods to go home with her bakers than to end up in the trash.
But those treats weren’t for you. Not anymore. They hadn’t been for a long time. Not since him.
On the way home, you passed the nearby fire station, gladly handing over the day’s leftover pastries. The firefighters always accepted them with wide grins. They knew the routine—whenever they saw you approaching with boxes in hand, they’d rush over, eager to get their share of the sweet, flaky treasures you brought.
Had you not been so self-conscious, you might have noticed a few of them were actually flirting with you.
Once you got home, you walked straight to the bathroom, undressing in silence, your eyes darting everywhere but the mirror, and never at your body. His words still echoed in your mind, making it impossible not to notice the way your stomach folded when you bent over, the way your thighs and butt creased with cellulite, or how big your arms looked in your shirt today. It was a sight you couldn’t bear.
As hot water trickled down your skin, more tears followed. There was no stopping them now.
He left. He actually left, just like he’d threatened so many times before.
An eight-month relationship ended with a single text that morning. Words you wouldn’t be able to forget : Since you don’t want to understand that I need you to stop neglecting yourself, it’s over.
Neglect. That’s what he always said, claiming you were neglecting yourself because you were a few kilos over what he thought a woman should be. He called himself a "gym bro," though he wasn’t exactly sculpted or strong, he couldn’t even lift you if he tried. But he had defined muscles, and he worshipped them. Killed himself at the gym every day, the only one town, next to the tattoo shop. He was cocky about it, constantly giving you unsolicited advice on how to lose belly fat, what meals to eat to slim down, which exercises would stop your arms from "flopping around" when you moved.
You endured all of it, all the veiled insults and body shaming, because you loved him. He was one of the only men in your life who’d ever given you any attention. He was your second boyfriend, and you’d been so deeply insecure that you fell for the first fucker who batted his eyes at you.
All you had ever wanted was to feel love, to feel seen.
The worst part was, you hadn’t gained weight during the relationship. You had already been overweight when he met you. And he had chosen to be with you. Or at least, that’s what you thought.
A few days after the breakup, you found out the truth, from people you once believed were your friends. He had made a bet with his buddies: that he could sleep with the fat girl from the bar and get her in shape within a year. And when he realized he was going to lose the bet, because no matter what, you weren't turning into the woman he wanted, he broke up with you.
He had never loved you. Never even cared. You had been a joke. A fucking bet.
And that shattered something deeper than you thought was possible.
Fidgeting with your hands, you stared at the plate in front of you. It wasn’t anything special—just some pasta with a bit of ham. A small portion, far less than what you used to eat. Your appetite had shrunk since he dragged you down that dark road, and it had only gotten worse after he left.
Some nights, you didn’t eat at all. Just showered, slipped into bed, and forced your body to lie still. Even when your stomach growled, you ignored it. You’d gotten used to skipping lunch, too.
But it never led to anything. Not a single kilo lost. Because during the day, you had manic episodes, eating everything in sight like you were trying to fill a void you couldn't name. Sometimes you threw it all up within hours. Sometimes it just sat in your stomach, but always made you sick in your head.
The numbers on the scale never dropped.
And the truth was, the real you didn’t even want them to. You’d been okay with how you looked before him. It wasn’t a runway model’s body, but it was yours. It had been healthy. It had been enough.
Now, it was neither slim… nor healthy.
Like always, you took the plate and emptied it into the trash, untouched. Not a single bite.
The plate clattered into the sink, nearly cracking as your trembling fingers let it go. Your hands shook from the sobs wrecking your chest, but also from how weak your limbs had become in the three weeks since the breakup.
You were barely holding yourself together.
And you knew it, you had let yourself spiral down a very dark path. One that was slowly, quietly, killing you.
It was a strange feeling. You’d always thought you’d leave the moment a boyfriend insulted or degraded you. You believed you were stronger than that, stronger than what you turned out to be.
But the truth was different.
You had lacked attention from boys growing up. No one really looked at you. You were always the fat friend, the funny friend, the friend. Never pretty. Never sexy. Never interesting enough.
It took a toll on you, especially as high school ended and you remained the only virgin in your group. While your friends went off to college, experimenting with sex, parties, and boys, you took a job at the bakery. The same one you still worked at, six years later.
So in a way, it was predictable. When the cute boy from the bar approached you, showed interest, made you believe he was in it for more than just sex, you fell. Hard. You wanted to believe it was something real.
Truthfully, your first “boyfriend” hadn’t been any better. He never pretended to care. Once you gave him your first time, he vanished. His reason? I always wanted to fuck a fat girl.
Fat.
That word felt branded on your forehead.
Your mother always told you that you weren’t fat, just chubby. She said it in a way that made it sound cute, harmless, even lovable. And maybe it was. You weren’t anywhere near obese. But in your mind, it felt like you were.
Fat wasn’t just a word—it was a weight, a sentence, a quiet shame that followed you into fitting rooms, into photos, into silence when boys looked past you.
No matter what anyone said, you carried it like a scar only you could see.
Letting out a heavy sigh, you sank back into the chair, eyes closed, trying to will the tears to stop. You still had twenty minutes left on your break.
Gulping down a full glass of water to quiet the gnawing in your stomach, you stepped outside into the small backyard behind the bakery.
Technically, it was your boss’s backyard—she lived in the flat upstairs—but she let the staff use it. It was a welcome escape from the cramped, fluorescent-lit break room. Out here, at least, the rare English sun could warm your face, even if everything else felt cold.
You sat in silence, head tilted up, wishing the sunlight could burn the tears away the moment they surfaced. But it never did.
They always fell.
The rest of your shift was hard, but no harder than the other days. They all blurred together now, each one just as heavy as the last. You weren’t really living anymore—just surviving. And the worst part was, you weren’t even sure why.
The walk home was pleasant enough. The sun was still out, lingering a little longer, casting gold across the pavement. You lifted your face to it, letting the warmth settle against your skin.
On impulse, you decided to take the long way home.
You hadn’t dared to for weeks, not since the breakup. That route passed by the gym where your ex worked out. The same one he had begged you to join. Pushed you to subscribe to. Promised it would “change everything.”
You had been grateful you never joined.
So lost in your thoughts, you almost missed it. Almost.
You stopped abruptly, something catching at the edge of your vision. You turned around.
They were beautiful, the most beautiful flowers you’d ever seen.
And yet, it was just a simple drawing. If you could even call it that. A quick scribble of sunflowers on a sheet of paper, taped messily to the front window of the tattoo parlour. Still, despite its roughness, it stopped you cold.
Just a couple of sunflowers, side by side. The details were rushed, uneven, like it had been sketched in a hurry. Probably tossed up there to draw in a certain kind of customer. You wouldn’t be surprised if it had been stuck there for years, long forgotten and sun-faded.
But to you, it was beautiful.
This wasn’t a new tattoo shop, it had been around for years and carried a certain reputation. People in town whispered about the artist known only as Ghost, an ex-military famed for his harsh, intricate designs: skulls, weapons, bombs—anything steeped in military grit. But what truly set him apart was his skill with scars. He was known for working over them with precision and care, turning what was once pain into something powerful, something claimed.
Veterans traveled from across the country just to get inked by him. Yet no one in town ever really saw him. Ghost, they called him, and the name fit.
He had settled here years ago, but beyond his clients, no one could say what he looked like. The rumours were consistent: a body covered in scars and tattoos, a nose broken more times than anyone could count, and a bluntness that sent most people running. That was all the town really knew about Ghost.
And yet, somehow, he had drawn the sunflowers, the small skull scrawled at the bottom of the sheet was his signature, his mark.
A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision pulled you out of your admiration.
There it was, the neon green wifebeater. That horrible, fluorescent shirt your ex always wore to the gym. You knew it all too well. Too painfully well. You hated it with a quiet fury. Not wanting to face him, you spun around abruptly, your head snapping as you caught the movement. Without a word, you turned and hurried away, taking yet another detour.
You ducked behind the block, your pace quickening. You kept glancing over your shoulder every few seconds, as if he might actually be following you. But you knew better.
He wanted nothing to do with you. He never had.
You were hyperventilating, your heartbeat pounding so loudly it rang in your ears. It was racing far too fast. Panic was settling deep into your bones, tightening its grip with every breath.
More tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision. So when you turned your head forward, you didn’t see the man you were about to stumble into. Your panicked mind was confused, convincing you it was your ex, that he was following you, coming to hurt you even more. More insults. More laughter at your naivety.
Your ears were ringing, and you couldn’t make out the words the stranger was saying. You couldn’t even see his face clearly. But you felt something burn the side of your arm—a cigarette, most likely. Which was strange, because your ex didn’t smoke. It didn’t fit his lifestyle. But your panicked mind was too tangled to make sense of anything.
Rushing past the man, you almost fell on the floor from missing the sidewalk, and mostly because of how, in a panic, your legs had become too heavy, ready to let go of your body.
You didn’t remember how you made it home, just muscle memory taking over.
Hours later, you woke up to find yourself lying on the floor in the middle of your entryway. The sun had long since set. You’d passed out the moment you crossed the threshold, your home’s safety stealing away the panic and stress that your tired body could no longer bear.
Your head throbbed, from the fall and the tears. Your body ached, drained and pleading for any kind of energy after being pushed to its limits.
That night, you ate.
It was automatic. You couldn’t do anything else. Eat. Shower. Sleep.
It had been weeks since that day.
It almost felt like a dream now, a blur of memories and trauma, if not for the small, round scar on your arm.
The stranger’s cigarette had left its mark. You knew it hadn’t been intentional, just a moment of bad timing in a chaotic panic. But still, it remained.
It mocked you. A quiet reminder of how twisted your mind had become. Proof of how deeply the fear had settled into your bones. You still couldn’t walk past the gym, not without your chest tightening, your legs wanting to flee. That moment had felt like the end of the world. It had drained you out, body and soul, until you’d had to call in sick the next morning. You stayed in your flat for three days after, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
Now, sitting behind the counter during a slow closing shift, you stared absently at the scar on your forearm, waiting for a client who was already ten minutes late.
And somehow, your thoughts drifted back to the sunflowers. Those pretty, messy sunflowers hanging in the tattoo shop window.
A single idea crossed your mind. Wild. Irrational. Something you would never actually do.
You couldn’t.
It was another thing your ex had wanted to change about you, your routine, your refusal to step outside the familiar. You never strayed far from what you knew. Never looked for a better job, never tried to find a nicer flat. You never chased the things you always said you wanted, like traveling to Scotland, opening your own coffee shop with a bakery, or adopting a dog. They were just dreams, floating around in your mind, never acted upon because they didn’t fit neatly into your routine.
And he hated that. Said you were boring. Bland.
You wouldn’t let him win. You couldn’t keep letting him dictate your life, not after he’d walked away like none of it had ever meant anything. Because to him, it hadn’t.
So when you stood in front of the tattoo shop the next day, you had to remind yourself, this was for you. Not for anyone else. This was your choice, your body, and this would be your mark. A beautiful piece to adorn your hips, because he hated them. And you were tired of hating them too.
Tired of letting him win.
Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the front door of the shop.
It looked exactly how you’d imagined. The walls were dark, lined with harsh, aggressive designs—skulls in every shape and size, weapons, tanks, grenades, and bold, blocky lettering. Classic tattoo motifs were scattered among them too: lions, clocks, roses, eagles. But nothing remotely close to the delicate, forgotten sunflowers in the window.
The bell above the door rang sharply, announcing your arrival.
A single sign greeted you, taped to the wall behind the counter. Thick black marker on plain paper, the writing was a little fancy, almost elegant, like someone trying to show off a bit of flair. The message, however, was blunt.
Don't talk. I heard the door. Sit down and wait.
You obeyed the sign without hesitation, too nervous to do anything else. The waiting area was small, just a battered leather couch and a scratched-up coffee table covered in tattoo magazines and crumpled receipts. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old smoke, like the place had absorbed years of ink and silence.
You sat down, trying to steady your breathing, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The hum of a tattoo machine buzzed faintly in the distance, like a swarm of bees behind the walls. It was the only sound besides the occasional creak of the building settling.
It was all a stupid idea.
You shouldn’t even be here. It was ridiculous. He had been right, you were boring and bland, and maybe that was fine. Safe. Predictable. There was no need to change just to meet someone else’s idea of who you should be. So what were you doing here?
Sure, the flowers were pretty… but this was a tattoo. Permanent. Big. Bold. Everything you weren’t. And what if you couldn’t even afford it? This Ghost was popular, people traveled for him. He couldn’t be cheap.
The panic crawled up your throat again, wrapping around your breath like a vice. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, nails digging into your palms. You stared down, letting your thoughts twist and spiral until your chest felt too tight and your legs itched to leave.
You didn’t even hear the tattoo gun stop. Didn’t hear the two voices, low and rough, approaching from the back room.
Another thing your ex hated. How easily you slipped away in your head. How you dissociated, zoned out, became unreachable when the world got too loud. Said it made you “weak.” Said it made you “a burden.” You clenched your jaw, blinking hard. You didn’t notice the footsteps until they were right there in the room.
And then, silence.
Looking up, you were met with three men, but one stood out immediately, like a sore thumb.
He was taller, broader, commanding in a way the others weren’t. His arms were covered in tattoos that trailed down to his hands and fingers, dark ink etched into thick skin. His blond hair was cut short, close to his scalp, like a grown-out buzzcut that hadn’t seen a comb in days. His eyes landed on you, curious, confused, and sharp. There was something harsh in them too, like your presence disrupted something, and he didn’t like that. It wasn’t outright anger, but it simmered just beneath the surface.
Still, he was striking. Easily one of the most handsome men you’d ever seen, in a rugged, untouchable way. And judging by his presence alone, there was no doubt—this was Ghost.
The man next to him had kinder eyes, warm brown and alert, framed by thick lashes and a subtle crease at the corners that hinted at easy smiles. He was shorter, leaner, with a trimmed beard and a calm steadiness in the way he held himself. His dark skin was smooth, his features sharp but approachable. There was something disarming about him, like he was used to diffusing tension before it sparked.
And then there was the last one. His eyes met yours like the others’, but there was a gentle smirk playing at the corners of his lips, amused. He didn’t bother hiding it, the moment his gaze landed, he openly checked you out from head to toe, unapologetic and bold. He had that rugged, battle-hardened look, dark hair kept in a weird shape, a faint beard tracing his jaw. His face held the kind of confidence that came from surviving countless fights, both outside and within. A fresh tattoo peeked out from beneath a second-skin plaster on his forearm, barely visible but telling of a story still unfolding.
“Well, LT,” the last one said, his deep Scottish accent rolling around the words, “Looks like ye’ve been hidin’ things, wee bugger.”
The dark-skinned man laughed at the remark while the taller one snapped a deadly glare at the Scot. If looks could kill, Mactavish would have been six feet under by now.
“Fuck off, Mactavish,” Ghost said, pushing the door open for his visitors.
Not even bothering to respond to the rudeness, the two men stepped out of the tattoo shop, whispering and giggling like schoolboys as they glanced back over their shoulders at you one last time.
You admitted to yourself that you must have looked out of place, sitting there in a space so obviously far outside your comfort zone. You wore a simple blue dress, dotted with tiny flowers and birds. Nothing fancy, but enough to hide your stomach, hips, and thighs. Much easier than trousers, at least. It was the kind of dress he’d called “ten years too old”, words that still echoed in your mind.
Before him, it used to be your favourite one.
“What d’you want?” His blunt words cut through the silence, doing nothing to ease your anxiety. His sharp eyes pinned you in place, unblinking and intense.
You hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “Um… I was walking by the other day, and, uh, I saw the sunflowers outside. The pretty ones.”
Your voice was rushed, barely more than a whisper. At the mention of the flowers, his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyebrows shooting up as if you’d just said something absurd.
He turned away, glancing back toward the window, his eyes scanning quickly for the drawing you’d mentioned. It was clear on his face, he didn’t recall ever drawing sunflowers.
You fidgeted with your fingers, your leg bouncing nervously as anxiety gnawed at you.
Maybe he hadn’t drawn it. Maybe it was another artist. But you’d lived in this town for years, and you’d never heard of anyone else. Ghost was the only tattoo artist around.
“Fuck,” he let out with a sigh, walking over to the sunflowers and tearing them off the window. “Listen, darlin’, I don’t do that sort of stuff no more. Look ‘round, find something you like, I’ll do it, but sunflowers? Nah, that ain’t me work.”
Oh no.
This was your worst-case scenario: rejection. Your heart was pounding wildly, feeling like it would burst right out of your chest. You should have known, it was a terrible idea. All the signs had been there.
The place was way out of your comfort zone. So was getting a tattoo. You’d even run into your ex while staring at the flowers. It was like the universe was sending you signs not to do this. But you’d already taken the first step, and now it was turning into a disaster.
You’d been silent far too long, not to mention awkward. Social skills had never been your strong suit, it’d always been a struggle.
“Uh, it’s okay, mister,” you stammered, pushing yourself up from the worn-out sofa, ready to bolt. “I don’t want anything else, really. Just the sunflowers,” you added quickly, your fingers nervously twisting the ring on your middle finger—a stress habit.
His eyes softened a little, noticing the clear discomfort and anxiety etched across your face.
Closing his eyes, he sighed again, not in anger, but in resignation. It didn’t take much, but something about you stirred a strange protective instinct inside him, the same feeling he’d only experienced when his teammates were in danger.
“Alright then,” he groaned, settling behind the desk by the door. He gestured toward the chair on the other side, inviting you to sit. “Tell me where you want it, the size and all that. I’ll have to redraw it. Looks like shit,” he added bluntly, not bothering to hide that the sunflowers were a poor sketch, especially given his skill.
With shy, hesitant words, you explained that you wanted the sunflowers on your left hip. As for the size, you weren’t quite sure, maybe four or five flowers, enough to stretch across the width of your hip.
At the mention of “width,” the way you said it, Ghost twitched ever so slightly. Hatred had filled your voice a little. So that was what this was all about, a tattoo to cover up insecurities. He was no stranger to this. Soldiers came to him all the time for the same reasons—covering scars, quieting traumas, memorializing lost comrades. He was used to pain and healing inked into skin.
But seeing you, a soft, sweet flower like yourself, hating on your body broke his heart. From what he could see, even with the way you tried to hide yourself under that dress, you were exactly his type: all curves and softness, just right to fit into his big, calloused hands.
After gathering all the details you wanted, which weren’t many, he gave you a knowing look and asked, “Got any other tattoos?”
A deep blush spread across your cheeks. It was too easy to read you. You shook your head, unable to hold his gaze for too long. It made you uncomfortable, but in a strangely pleasant way, something new, something you’d never felt before, not even with him.
“Come ’round in a couple days, aye?” he said, glancing down at the sunflower drawing as he thought. Then, looking back up at you, he added, “I’ll have a sketch ready, and if you like it, we can set a date.”
“Yeah,” you sighed, biting your lip nervously. “Okay.”
“’Need time to do something nice for you,” he said with a small smirk. “Wouldn’t wanna fuck it up.”
Your body stayed locked in the chair, and with a nod toward the door, he made it clear you wouldn’t be getting any work done today, not exactly chasing you out, but closing the session gently.
Frowning, you glanced from the door back to him, then at the door again.
“You don’t want a deposit?” you asked, confused.
Glaring past him, your eyes caught the big sign in bold letters: NO DEPOSIT, NO PROJECT.
Knowing exactly what you were staring at, Ghost let out a short laugh. When you looked back at him, you were surprised to find that familiar knowing look shining in his brown eyes.
“Somethin’ tells me you ain’t gonna make me waste my time, flower,” he said, a rare intensity flickering behind his gaze. “Don’t you worry your little head ‘bout that, just come back in a few days.”
And with that, he sent you on your way.
As you stepped outside, your stomach churned, not with anxiety, but with a fluttering swarm of butterflies. A strange, giddy feeling settled over you, sparked by the memory of the man you had just met.
There was something about his quiet dominance, the effortless way he commanded the room. Nothing like anyone you’d ever known before.
And you found yourself longing for more.
Anxiety had been eating away at you in the days following your meeting with Ghost.
In some strange way, you were excited, nervous, yes, but genuinely thrilled about this new thing. It still felt surreal that you were actually going through with it. And then there were his words, echoing in your mind like a quiet challenge: you ain't gonna make me lose my time, flower.
It made you want to prove him right. To please him.
His calm confidence, the way he filled a room without needing to say much, lingered in your thoughts longer than you cared to admit. That deep, gravelly voice of his had sent a shiver down your spine, and every time you remembered it, it happened all over again.
After that encounter, your days had started to feel a little lighter. The dark clouds that usually hovered in your mind seemed to part for longer stretches of time, letting in slivers of calm before the heaviness crept back in—usually around meals. Still, you were more present during your shifts, less likely to break down during your breaks, less caught in the spiral of exhaustion and tears.
But it all felt ridiculous to you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could still hear his voice, mocking, condescending. Whispering that it was just the same old story again. That a man had given you a shred of attention, and now you were overthinking like some pathetic daydreamer.
“Little dumb naive girl,” he had once spat, voice thick with hatred and spite.
And despite everything, that voice still echoed.
You heard his voice again the moment you stood in front of the tattoo shop. Your eyes had wandered, unintentionally, toward the gym just next door. That place made your skin crawl. You hated it. Hated the way it made you feel small and enormous at the same time. Hated the way the women walked out—slim, glowing, confident—carrying something you had always been told you lacked.
He used to say he could replace you with any one of them if you didn’t start losing weight. Said they were better than you. Slimmer. Prettier. More dedicated. Then would come the sweet words, how you could be just like them if only. Always the same routine. Break you down, then pretend to build you back up, exactly the way he liked. Like he was doing you a favor.
"Gonna stay out there all day, or you coming in?" The deep voice startled you, cutting through the haze of your thoughts like a blade.
You turned to find Ghost holding the door open, his broad frame filling the entrance. You hadn't realized you’d let a tear fall until the cool air hit your cheek. Quickly, you wiped it away, sniffing once. If he noticed, he didn’t mention it, just watched you with unreadable eyes.
You managed a shy smile, voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry." And with that, you stepped inside, the warmth of the shop swallowing you whole.
The shop was empty. Silent.
It felt almost sacred, like you’d stepped across the threshold of some hidden temple where quiet was a rule, not a choice.
A low groan broke the stillness, followed by a huff as Ghost sat down behind the desk. He sounded like an old man, despite barely looking over forty. You figured the military took its toll, grinding away at a person until even sitting down hurt. That theory was confirmed when his knee popped audibly as he stretched out his legs. Another groan slipped out.
You giggled, just a little. A quiet, surprised sound that escaped before you could catch it.
Ghost looked up at you with one brow raised, catching you mid-mockery. There was no anger in his face, no sharp edge to his gaze, just something unreadable and calm, a small smirk playing on his lips. Still, your chest tightened at the expression.
It mirrored one you'd seen too many times before, except back then it had always come with a bite. With anger. With disgust.
You looked away quickly and sank down onto the old chair without a word.
He said nothing either. Just pulled open a drawer and pushed three pieces of paper toward you. Sketches. Sunflowers.
Each design more intricate and beautiful than the rough draft you’d first seen weeks ago. Sunlight captured in ink. Petals curled with care. You blinked, your throat suddenly tight.
He hadn’t just redrawn the flowers. He’d turned them into something tender. Something yours.
They were all beautiful, but one sketch drew you in more than the others.
It was a single sunflower, its petals open wide in full bloom, surrounded by gently arching leaves and smaller buds just on the verge of flowering. The lines were soft, almost tender, yet precise—each stroke intentional, like every vein on a petal had been studied before being drawn.
What captivated you most, though, was the smallest detail: a single bee, hovering mid-flight near the flower’s heart. Its wings were barely open, caught in that frozen moment of approach, as if deciding to land. It wasn’t just decorative, it was alive with motion, with intent.
It made your chest ache in the best way.
The sunflower stood proud and open, the bee drawn to it naturally—unafraid, unashamed. You saw yourself in that flower. Or at least, who you wanted to be.
It was a very singular design, nothing like the harsh, brutal lines that filled the walls around you. No skulls, no weapons, no eagles with razor-edged wings. Just a bloom, soft and open, alive with quiet strength. It almost didn’t make sense. That a man like him, this towering, intimidating presence wrapped in scars and ink, had drawn something so delicate, so intimate. So… you.
There had been something about you that stirred something different in him, something that made him want to create something truly special, just for you. It was unlike the bold, aggressive lines and masculine designs he was known for. He could do delicate—he’d always had the skill—but he usually chose not to. Until now. And as you sat in the chair across from him, eyes glassy and wide like a startled fawn, he knew he’d made the right call. He’d been right not to turn you away.
The look in your eyes was quietly devastating.
Ghost had spent nearly two decades learning to read people, it had been his job, his survival. And everything about you screamed damage dealt in silence. The way you sat, small and unsure, like you didn’t want to take up space. The constant fidgeting of your fingers in your lap, tugging at your clothes like they might shield you from being seen. The way your voice barely rose above a whisper, like you weren’t sure you deserved to be heard.
He recognized the signs. He’d seen them in soldiers, in strangers, in too many faces over the years. The fallout of cruel words and twisted truths. Of someone telling you you weren’t enough, or worse, that you were too much.
But it was always the same origin, someone, somewhere, had tried to make you small.
A mother, maybe. Or more likely, he thought grimly, a man.
And sitting across from you now, he felt something cold and quiet settle in his chest. Not judgment. Not pity. Just the sharp, familiar awareness that some people carry battles you can’t always see, and you were fighting yours with nothing but a soft voice and trembling hands.
And that, Ghost thought, deserved something beautiful.
“Picked one, flower?” he asked, tone softer now, careful. Not wanting to scare you off. Not wanting to break what little peace you had mustered to sit in that chair.
"Yes, this one," you said, almost too quietly, your finger hovering over the design with the bee. Even though it looked small on paper, you hoped he could make it bigger—big enough to cover the part of your hip you were so desperate to hide.
Ghost glanced at the drawing, then at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "My personal favourite," he said, voice low and smooth, before rising from the desk and walking toward the back of the shop. With a practiced motion, he pushed aside the curtain and held it open, looking over his shoulder with an expectant glance, clearly waiting for you to follow.
You hadn’t expected it to happen today. You weren’t ready, not mentally, not emotionally, but your feet moved before your mind could catch up. Hesitating at first, you followed him into the back, unsure of what else to do, heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation.
There was no turning back now.
Noticing the way your body language had shifted in an instant, your shoulders tense, your steps uncertain, Ghost let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension.
“Relax. Not gonna tattoo you today,” he said, voice calmer than you'd expected. “Just testing out the size, yeah?”
“Oh,” you breathed out, almost like a sigh of relief. “Yeah… yeah, that’s okay,” you added, biting your lower lip, a nervous habit you couldn’t seem to shake.
After he gestured to the tattoo bed, Ghost moved behind the computer, likely resizing the design to fit your hip. The room settled into silence. It wasn’t awkward, at least not on his end, but the quiet gave your thoughts too much room to spiral.
What if he thought you were fat? What if he looked at your body with disgust, just like he had? You reminded yourself this was his job, he’d probably seen hundreds of bodies, maybe thousands. All kinds. Worse than yours, surely. But the thought still clawed at your chest like something sharp and cruel: what if you were the worst of them all?
Especially when the man preparing to see your hips, thighs, and stomach was, without exaggeration, one of the most handsome men you'd ever laid eyes on.
With a few stencils prepared, Ghost stood and approached, ready to test out various sizes.
Not wanting to be in the way, you immediately got up as well, stepping in front of the full-length mirror while he settled onto the stool beside it.
You’d worn another dress today, plain yellow, modest, simple. It reached your knees and clung just a little too snugly around your stomach. It used to fit better. Had you gained more weight again? You hoped not. Maybe it had just shrunk in the wash. That had to be it.
“The left one, yeah?” he asked, not looking up as he carefully trimmed the edges of the stencil.
You gave a soft hum of agreement, your voice caught somewhere between nervous and uncertain. Ghost didn't pause, just wheeled himself around behind you with ease, still focused on cutting. His strong thighs pushed him forward effortlessly in the chair, and for some reason, watching the quiet confidence of that movement sent a subtle thrill down your spine.
"Alright," he said once he’d finished trimming all three stencil sizes. "Pull this up for me, yeah?" He motioned toward your dress, voice casual, efficient—like this was just another task in his day.
And why wouldn’t it be? He didn’t care about your insecurities. He didn’t even know you. You were just another client. You’d come to him for a service, and he was simply doing his job.
Still, your throat tightened as you nodded, swallowing hard. With a deep breath, you slowly pulled your dress up.
"A little more, flower," he said, glancing up quickly while preparing the stencil products, his tone still calm, focused, professional.
Your chest constricted at the request. Your hands trembled slightly, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. But by some miracle of will, you managed to lift your dress a bit higher, high enough that your plain cotton underwear was fully visible.
You felt exposed, hyperaware of every flaw. The natural light from the window beside the table streamed in, illuminating everything.
Panic fluttered in your chest until your eyes darted to the glass, and you realized with a wash of relief that it was treated with a one-way mirror film. You could see the street, but no one could see in.
You flinched slightly when you felt his warm hand settle on your hip, the unexpected contact sending a jolt up your spine. Looking down, you caught a glimpse of how close his face was, far too close for your nerves to handle.
He looked somewhat ridiculous in that moment, crouched down low, the stool adjusted to its minimum height. And still, somehow, he was a giant. He had to curve his broad back just to meet the right angle, shoulders hunched, every movement careful and measured.
"Alright?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm, catching the way your body tensed and the goosebumps rising along your skin.
There was a flicker in his eyes, something more than concern. Ghost had always been a man whose emotions burned low and slow, but now something stirred. A spark of frustration, not directed at you, but at whoever had made you like this. Whoever had taken someone so soft, so lovely, and left them flinching from simple touch.
To him, you were stunning. Like those old Greek goddesses carved in marble, soft, full, timeless. The kind of beauty meant to be admired, not torn apart. It filled him with something uncomfortably close to protectiveness, a simmering anger on your behalf.
And yet, you couldn’t see it. Couldn't see what he saw. And that, more than anything, pissed him off.
"Yeah, sorry," you said quickly, not entirely sure what you were apologizing for. "Keep going." You added the words with a small, tight smile tugging at your lips.
He understood his mistake, he hadn't told you what he was doing. Just like with the vet with PTSD, he needed to explain everything, to avoid catching you off guard.
"This is just so the stencil’s ink sticks to your skin. It’s just a gel, but it’s gonna be cold," he explained, showing you the dab he’d applied to his finger. When you nodded, he began to gently spread it across your skin.
Without realizing, his thumb brushed higher on your hip, nudging your panties up slightly. It was unconscious, just a way to keep the gel from touching the fabric, but it sent your mind spiraling. His fingers felt so good against your skin: soft, careful, like he was handling something fragile he didn’t want to break.
No one had ever touched you like that before. It felt strange, but in the best way, and you found yourself wanting more.
As soon as he peeled the stencil off your skin, your eyes dropped to your hip, and you cringed.
It looked so small against the stretch of skin. He’d used the medium size, but it was still far from what you’d imagined. Barely bigger than your hand, it looked... wrong. Out of place. Like it needed room to breathe, to grow into something more.
“Bigger?” he asked, watching your reaction closely.
You nodded quickly, and he stood without another word, heading back to his desk.
The largest version he’d printed wasn’t much bigger than the one you’d just seen. He’d have to resize it again. As he sat in front of his laptop, he glanced up, just in time to see you frowning at your skin, letting the dress fall back over the spot the second he was no longer beside you. Like you couldn’t bear to look at it alone.
Ghost clicked his tongue and shook his head, disbelief darkening his features.
Whoever made you feel that way, he hoped they were ashamed.
After a few more tries and several rounds of resizing, you finally found yourself staring at the stencil with something like admiration, no longer disgust. He’d added more details with each version—more leaves, more petals—to better match the vision you’d had in your head.
And now, it was perfect. It began just above your hip and flowed down almost to the middle of your thigh. It fit your body like it had always belonged there.
It felt right.
A quiet moment passed, the room still, until the chime of the front doorbell jolted you from your thoughts.
“It’s perfect,” you said at last, your voice soft but certain.
Ghost raised his eyebrows, then offered a genuine smile. “Yeah?” He asked, as if he had been ready to size it up again.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“Great,” he said, glancing toward the trash bin overflowing with discarded stencils. “Only took, what… seven tries?” he added with a teasing lilt.
“Sorry,” you murmured, guilt creeping in. You felt like you’d wasted his time, been too picky.
“Don’t be,” he said easily, already making a note on the final stencil so he could refine it later. “Tell you what, keep it on for a couple of days. If you still like it, give me a call and we’ll set a date.”
“Okay,” you agreed, letting the hem of your dress fall back down, covering the design once again.
“Perfect, then,” Ghost said, standing with a grunt as he stretched his back. He handed you a small card with his name and number. “It’ll wash off eventually, don’t worry.”
And with that, you were sent on your way—a flower now adorning your hip, waiting to be etched into your skin forever.
A pretty flower for the prettiest, Ghost thought, as he turned to greet his next client.
Sadness settled over you when the sunflower finally faded from your hip.
It had taken about three days. Three days where you couldn't stop looking at it, admiring it in every mirror you passed at home. It had made you feel pretty, maybe for the first time in months. For once, you had felt good in your own skin. And the moment you realised that, you called the tattoo shop, your voice trembling with quiet determination.
You told Ghost you were ready.
He had sounded genuinely pleased, even told you so himself. You set a date—two weeks from now, the only opening he had. He explained it would likely take two, maybe three sessions to complete, each spaced about a month apart.
He also began talking about pricing, but you barely listened. You were so far gone in the process, so invested in this strange little dream, that numbers didn’t scare you anymore. He could’ve asked for two thousand pounds and you still would’ve paid it, no hesitation. Yet he stayed evasive about the exact number.
While he went over the rules, you mostly listened to the sound of his voice. Deep and soothing, it made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.
“Wear comfortable clothes,” he’d said. “Bring books, music if you want. Drink water. Eat before, and bring snacks too.”
That last part snapped you out of your dreamy fog.
Snacks. You hadn’t had a snack in months. You barely had a regular eating routine at all anymore.
Your anxiety spiked immediately. You fumbled a quiet, “What do you mean?”
He explained gently that tattoos were draining on the body, and he didn’t want you passing out in his shop. That it was important.
You nodded, but deep down you knew you wouldn’t follow that rule. Eating beforehand would be a battle. Snacks were… complicated.
Unknown to you, Ghost quietly made a note to bring some of his own snacks. Something told him you wouldn’t show up with anything. And he wasn’t about to let you faint on his table.
He also wasn’t about to let you slip through his fingers.
He told himself to be patient, to tread carefully, but something in him had already shifted. He was ready to catch you. To keep you close. Warm. Safe.
He had tried to restrain his thoughts during the short time he’d known you. Told himself he was too old, too rough for someone like you. But hearing your soft, fragile voice on the phone, nervous over something as small as snacks, it undid something in him. Broke open a place he hadn’t touched in years.
You needed someone to take care of you. And whether you knew it yet or not, he was already planning to be that someone.
The day of your first session came. By 10 a.m., you'd already thrown up your breakfast—nerves twisting your stomach into knots.
But you needed to eat. He’d told you to eat. And something inside you, quiet but insistent, wanted to make him proud. Wanted to follow his instructions, not out of fear, but out of something softer. Something that felt dangerously close to trust.
So when noon came, you sat down and ate a light lunch. Slowly. Carefully. You even finished it with a small pastry you'd saved from your closing shift the night before. You had another one waiting in the fridge, meant for him.
You’d eaten more than your body had grown used to these past few months. It left you with a dull ache in your stomach and a familiar, rotten urge clawing at your throat, to get rid of it. Purge it all.
But you didn’t.
This morning had been different, your body rejecting food out of sheer stress. But now? If you threw up now, it would be by your own hand. And somehow, you felt like Ghost would know.
Somehow, he’d see it in your eyes. And you couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him.
You’d chosen another plain dress that morning, simple, soft, something that wouldn’t draw attention. You made sure your panties were in place, covering everything they needed to. Modest. Safe.
Still, the thought of being half-naked in front of a near-stranger made your skin crawl just a little. Not because of him, not really. But because of you, because of how exposed it all made you feel. But you needed this. You needed that sunflower on your hip, something beautiful, something permanent, something just for you.
You could handle a few hours of discomfort. You’d endured far worse for far less. This time, at least, there would be something to show for it. Something that might make you feel like yourself again.
When you crossed the threshold, you didn’t feel nearly as nervous as the first day. There was still tension humming beneath your skin, but it felt quieter now, softer. Familiar, even.
You were supposed to be there by 2 p.m., but you showed up at 1:30. Anxiety had been gnawing at you in your flat, pacing circles in your mind. Better to wait here than there. Your grandma’s voice echoed in your head: “Show up on time and you’re already late.”
It had stuck with you, like most of the things she said.
The sharp buzz of the tattoo machine stopped abruptly. A second later, Ghost appeared, only his face visible behind the half-drawn curtain. His eyes scanned the shop, then landed on you, clearly surprised.
Glancing at his watch, he let out a quiet laugh. “A bit early, flower, aye?” he said, the mockery in his voice softened by fondness. He tilted his head toward the waiting area. “Get comfy, I’m almost done.”
Then he vanished again behind the curtain, and the machine started buzzing once more.
You were left alone with your takeaway box, a simple things that somehow made you feel even more exposed. But you were here. That counted for something.
Twenty minutes later, the buzzing stopped.
You glanced up just in time to see Ghost walking his client out, peeling off his gloves with practiced ease. His expression was serious, sharp eyes fixed on the bulky man who thanked him before heading for the door. “Semper fi,” the man added as he left.
Ghost gave a small nod in response, shutting the register drawer with a decisive click.
“Fucking Marines,” he muttered under his breath, not loud enough to offend, just loud enough for you to hear.
Then his eyes found yours again, and something in him visibly softened. Like a soldier slipping out of uniform. “Come on then,” he said, motioning toward the back room as he held the curtain open for you. His tone was quieter now, gentler. Meant just for you.
You stood, your heart knocking a little too hard against your ribs, and stepped past him into the familiar quiet of the studio.
You spotted the familiar stencil waiting on the small stool next to the mirror, just like last time. Before Ghost could sit down, your nerves got the better of you, and you blurted out, “Brought this for you.”
You handed him the small box, your fingers trembling just enough for you to notice. It was nothing special, just a simple éclair. You’d chosen it because it was safe. Everyone liked éclairs... right?
Well, he didn't like it.
“Thanks, didn’t have to,” he said casually, taking the box from your hands.
He didn’t hesitate to open it, eyes widening as he caught sight of the pastry inside. Before you could brace yourself for rejection, he’d already picked it up, shoved the whole thing into his mouth, and let out a low, guttural moan of appreciation.
“It’s good, flower,” he said through a mouthful, lips curled into a grin. “Made it yourself?”
All you could do was nod, stunned.
It was almost... pornographic, the way he’d eaten it. Like he didn’t care about appearances or manners or calories, just enjoyment. Ghost, with his thick muscles and calloused hands, clearly someone who probably hit the gym daily, had devoured your cake like it was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks. Moaned for it, even.
Your ex had always asked for the ingredients when you baked, always calculating the calories, dissecting the fat content before he’d even touch it.
This? This was something new. This was acceptance. This was appreciation. And it was almost too much.
After washing his hands, Ghost clapped them together once before settling onto the stool beside you, just like last time.
“Shall we get going?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you, watchful, calm.
Once you gave him a small nod, he got to work.
“Gonna shave your skin first, alright?” he said, pulling out a fresh razor and a bottle of shaving gel.
He hadn’t told you to shave. You should’ve known, you should’ve looked it up beforehand. Your skin should’ve been smooth already, prepared. Now he had to do it for you, and it felt like you’d already messed everything up.
“Stop,” he said firmly, his eyes focused on your skin as he gently worked the razor over it. “Stop overthinkin’. That’s on me, I forgot to tell you. So just... breathe, yeah? I don’t care. I do this for guys ten times hairier than you, and they don’t lose sleep over it.”
Then stencil was placed with careful precision, exactly where you wanted it. When you approved with a quiet "That’s perfect," he let you lie back on the tattoo table. From there, everything moved with quiet, practiced rhythm.
Gloves. Ink. Needles.
Each item was either unwrapped from sterile packaging or pulled from sealed containers. And for every step, he explained what he was doing.
You listened closely, really listened, with those wide, soft doe eyes trained on him, absorbing each word like it mattered. He noticed that, too. Knew it gave you a bit of comfort. Knew that being informed made the fear quieter. You even stopped fidgeting with your fingers for a few seconds.
“I’m not much of a talker, yeah?” he said while slotting a needle into the tattoo machine. “But you can do whatever. Read, listen to music, nap. I won’t get distracted, don’t worry.”
It was time now. Everything was ready. His voice softened again.
“It might hurt a little at first. Like a few electric shocks. But you’ll get used to it. If you need a break, you tell me, alright? Got the whole afternoon just for you, flower.” He motioned toward a small table you hadn’t noticed before, tucked just beside a door marked PRIVATE. On top sat a neatly arranged water bottle, some juice, a protein bar and bananas.
“Snacks and water’s over there too. No excuses,” he added with a faint smirk, like he already knew you were planning on ignoring that part.
Your heart swelled in your chest. You hadn’t said a word, and still, he’d thought ahead. He’d prepared for you.
You weren’t used to that. Not the consideration, not the gentle forethought. Not someone thinking of what you might need without being told. It caught you off guard in the softest way.
It made something flutter deep inside, something that had been dormant for too long. A warmth that started in your belly and crept up to your chest, into your cheeks. That familiar tingling sensation. You were starting to associate it with him. With the low rumble of his voice, with the way he looked at you, sharp, but never unkind.
It was becoming too common, that feeling. Too easy.
The first few minutes were uncomfortable, your body needed time to adjust to the needle. To the harsh overhead light that seemed to highlight every imperfection. And then there was the smaller lamp strapped to his forehead, casting a focused beam directly onto your hip. His face was so close to your skin, you could feel the warmth of his breath.
His left forearm rested gently on your thigh, solid and warm, steadying himself as he wiped away excess ink with practiced ease, while his right hand moved with careful precision.
He’d started with the sunflower at the center of it all. It wasn’t pleasant, but the pain was manageable. At first, you were too tense to even breathe properly, afraid the slightest movement would throw him off. But after a few minutes, you relaxed enough to pull out your phone and headphones, letting a podcast fill your ears.
The first hour passed like that, calm, almost meditative. A serial killer podcast buzzed in your ears while Ghost worked in steady silence. Sometimes, you’d glance down, watching as the sunflower slowly bloomed on your skin.
But the calm cracked when he asked you to change position, to lie on your side, your back turned to him.
After a few minutes in that position, you couldn’t help it, your hand moved on its own, trying to tug your dress down over your stomach. Ghost gently pushed it back up without thinking, completely unaware of how exposed and uncomfortable it made you feel.
Lying like this felt unbearable. All you could focus on was the cellulite on your thighs, the way your stomach bulged more on your side, how visible everything was under the harsh light. Your mind spiraled. Your body tensed. Without realizing it, you began fidgeting, squirming just enough to make his job harder with each passing second.
And then the voices came back. Your ex’s voice.
Fat. Ugly. Big.
"Okay, let’s stop," Ghost grunted suddenly, pulling away as he set his machine down. "Can’t do anything if you keep moving like that."
Dread hit you like a wave.
You’d ruined it. You’d let him down. He was angry, disappointed, you could see it in his eyes. Your chest tightened as your vision blurred. Tears gathered, hot and humiliating, pooling in your lashes.
Your thoughts scattered, running a mile a minute, grasping for an escape plan. Maybe you could say you were sick. Maybe pretend you were fainting. Anything to get out of this room, this moment, this shame.
You’d never come back. You couldn’t. You’d find another artist to finish the piece, who cared if it wasn’t perfect anymore? You didn’t deserve perfect anyway.
When he got up, pulling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash, it felt like the floor dropped from under you.
Your heart pounded against your ribcage, loud and panicked. Your breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, your palms slick with sweat. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him at first. He was mad. He had to be.
Glancing down, you saw how little had been done—the center of the sunflower, a few petals trailing toward your hip, the ones closest to your butt. That was why the position had been necessary. That was why you’d ruined it.
A lump formed in your throat. It hurt.
You were about to sit up and start apologizing, maybe even crying, when he returned, quiet steps, calm energy. He placed a water bottle beside you, then crouched slightly, bringing his gaze level with yours.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice gentle, like he was trying not to spook you. “Breathe for me, yeah? Just breathe. I'm not mad." You forced your eyes to meet his. He wasn’t lying. His eyes weren’t hard or annoyed, they were soft. Understanding.
"I'm not mad," he repeated, slower this time. “Not at you, anyway."
He opened the water bottle for you without a word, gently guiding it into your hands. “Drink,” he said quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.
You obeyed, taking a few gulps while your trembling fingers gripped the plastic too tightly. He stepped back just enough to give you space, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Normally, a sight like that—his tattoos, his frame, the quiet command of his posture—would’ve made your stomach flutter. But your mind wouldn’t let you feel anything but shame right now. Not when you were half-naked, having a full-blown panic attack in front of him.
Before you could fumble out an apology or excuse, his voice cut through the buzzing in your head.
"I'm taking you out tonight," he said. Not a question. An order. His tone had shifted, gruff, decisive. The same voice, you imagined, that barked commands on the battlefield.
You blinked at him, stunned.
"Nice little restaurant,” he went on. “You’re gonna sit down across from me, and you're gonna tell me about the fucker who put those ugly thoughts in your head. The ones I see behind your eyes every time you look down at yourself, 'right?."
You stared at him, wide-eyed, the words settling like a warm blanket and a shock of cold water all at once. It was too much and somehow exactly what you needed.
He had phrased it like a question at the end, but you knew better. There was no room for doubt in his voice. Not with the way he looked at you, not with the quiet command laced through every word. He had your address anyway. You’d filled it in on the paperwork before he started the tattoo.
“Alright,” he said, final and firm. No room for argument.
The rest passed in silence. Ghost moved with careful efficiency, preparing the second skin while glancing at you with eyes that silently urged, Drink more. So you did.
He let out a soft hum—something like approval—then turned his attention back to cutting the perfect size for the blister shield. Once it was applied over the small section of tattoo he'd completed, sealing the delicate lines and color beneath, he reached forward and gently tugged your dress back down himself.
Once you were both out of the back room, you found the courage to speak. “How much do I owe you?” Your voice sounded pitiful, hoarse from the panic attack, weighted with unshed tears.
“Don’t worry about that,” he answered quickly, without even glancing back. “Be ready at seven, yeah?”
You didn’t get the chance to respond. His warm hand settled between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently toward the exit. Under different circumstances, you might’ve taken it as a dismissal. But after his blunt, unexpected invitation, it didn’t feel like rejection.
“In the meantime, get some rest,” he added softly, pausing before the door. “Take a nap. Eat something. Can you do that for me?”
There was something different in him now. A shift in the air between you. The way he carried himself around you had changed. Less detached, more... possessive. Protective.
You didn’t mind. But the suddenness of it left you reeling, like emotional whiplash.
Still, you hummed softly in response, nodding along like you agreed, like you would do what he asked.
But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t.
Not today. Not after what had just happened. Your body wouldn’t keep anything down anyway, not with the weight of shame and panic still lodged in your chest.
That’s how you found yourself in a cute but upscale Italian restaurant, sitting across from a ghost. No, across from Simon. He had told you his name when you got into his car. The drive had been quiet. He wore the same thing he always did when you saw him: all black.
Except this was a fancy all black—not the comfortable, worn-in black he wore at his tattoo shop.
When you had arrived at the restaurant, you immediately felt underdressed. It was far more elegant than you had imagined. The other women wore cocktail dresses, while you had on your “old woman” dress. One of your favourites, sure, but it felt completely out of place. Like you had just stepped out of a quiet little cottage and accidentally walked into high society.
The first few minutes had been awkward. You didn’t really know what to say, and Simon was watching you with an intense look in his eyes, like he was expecting something.
The smells of the restaurant blended together into something mouthwatering. Your stomach growled loudly in response.
“You didn’t listen, did you?” he asked. His tone wasn’t patronizing, but he had clearly heard your stomach over the ambient noise of the restaurant. When you gave him a confused look, he sighed and spoke again. “You didn’t eat.”
This time, it wasn’t a question. It was a statement, firm and undeniable, leaving you no room to lie.
No one had ever cared whether you ate or not. The fact that he did made something twist inside you. It felt… strange. Unfamiliar. And it sent your anxiety into overdrive. The disappointment in his eyes, the quiet sigh before he spoke—they felt like signs. Signs that you had let him down. Just like you always let people down.
He had been right. You were incapable of taking care of yourself, let alone making someone else happy. In nearly nine months of being together, you hadn’t made him happy. Not once.
“Care to tell me why?” Simon’s voice broke the silence. It was still firm, but there was a gentleness woven into it.
“Took a nap… didn’t have time to—before I had to get ready,” you whispered, almost pathetically. You felt like a child being scolded, like you’d done something wrong.
And in a way, you weren’t lying. You had taken a nap after getting home, right after staring at your new tattoo for a good half hour. When you finally got up, the anxiety hit. Hard. It made eating feel impossible and pushed you to start getting ready far earlier than necessary. Once ready, you just paced around your apartment, running through every way the night could go wrong.
Simon being upset because you hadn’t eaten wasn’t one of them.
That was the moment the waiter chose to arrive at your table, ready to take your order. You had been staring at the menu for a good ten minutes before Simon spoke, yet everything on it felt like too much. That realization hit hard. You used to love Italian food, loved eating out, dressing up, sitting around a table with friends, laughing over shared plates.
Now, you just felt… empty. Like all of that joy had been drained out of you.
Simon ordered first. He asked for three antipasti, one of the biggest pizzas on the menu, and a side of fresh mozzarella, like it was nothing. Meanwhile, you barely managed to mumble a request for a Margherita. The fewer ingredients, the better.
Everything he ordered made your mouth water, but the idea of actually eating made you swallow hard, your throat suddenly too tight.
Just before the waiter walked away, Simon added, “We’ll take your best red wine as well. Bring the bottle.”
Then his eyes were back on you—steady, unreadable, and unwavering.
Once the wine had been poured, it became easier to speak, mostly because its warmth spread through you faster than usual, thanks to the fact that you hadn’t eaten much all day. Conversation flowed effortlessly, like you’d known each other forever.
At first, you didn’t say much. He talked about his old world, because you had asked him why he called himself Ghost. Then he began asking questions in return. Nothing intrusive. Just gentle curiosity: your job, your studies, a bit about your family, the places you dreamed of visiting. Easy conversation. And he listened, really listened. It felt like he actually cared about the answers.
When his antipasti arrived, you kept talking, pausing only when he lifted a fork toward you, offering a bite of caprese salad like he’d done it a thousand times before. You were so surprised, all you could do was open your mouth in response, letting him feed you.
And then he did it again. Casually. Like it was nothing. Sharing everything he’d ordered without comment or ceremony. It was intimate, unexpectedly so, but he said nothing, just kept asking questions, humming thoughtfully at your answers, occasionally offering his own stories in return.
Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it wasn’t. But you felt the urge to press your thighs together under the table, seeking the smallest bit of pressure. There was something about the quiet confidence of his actions—the way he simply took charge without making a show of it—that made heat bloom across your skin. Your cheeks, your ears, your neck flushed with it.
And he noticed. You knew he did, from the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. But he didn’t say a word.
He just kept feeding you.
With the antipasti finished, his questions shifted, deeper now. The kind you usually avoided. The kind you never talked about. But there was something about Simon… something that made you feel safe. Protected, even. You knew he wouldn’t mock you. He wouldn’t laugh at you for not leaving sooner. He wouldn’t pity you for still struggling now.
So, you told him. Not everything. You left out the sharpest edges—the outright insults, the way he punched the walls, the time he almost hit you. The way he’d keep pushing for sex even after you said no… until you’d finally say yes, just to make it stop. Those parts still lived in a locked room inside you, sealed tight. You weren’t ready to open that door. Not yet.
But you told him everything else.
And as the words spilled out, you didn’t even notice when your pizza arrived. Didn’t realize you’d eaten more than half of it until your story trailed off and you looked down, surprised. Half gone. In your stomach.
No overthinking. No guilt. No sick knot twisting in your gut.
Just food. Just nourishment. And, for once, peace.
And when Simon offered you a forkful of his pizza, you let him.
He didn’t say much in response to your confession. Just listened, thoughtfully. His fists had tightened under the table when you spoke about the things that bastard used to say about your body. The way he tore you down with words sharper than knives. Simon had suspected your ex had left a mark, especially when he noticed your strained relationship with food, with your body. He’d even gently suggested once that an ex might’ve been the cause.
But he hadn’t imagined this. Not the depth of it. Not how cruel someone could be, how calculated. He had seen things during his time in the military, seen how dark people could get in a warzone. But he never thought he'd come across that same cruelty in civilian life, in someone you once trusted. It made his blood run cold.
So he made himself a quiet promise: to help you find your way back.
No pressure. No rushing.
Just gentle hands and steady praise. A protective presence at your side. Patient and solid. Until, one day, eating a meal didn’t feel like a shameful act. Until your body wasn’t something to battle, but something you could simply exist in, without guilt. Without fear.
Until you no longer felt like trash for giving your body what it needed.
When dessert time came around, you still felt uncertain. Full, yes—but you’d been watching the tiramisu pass by your table all night, carried by waiters like little temptations on porcelain plates. You wanted to try it. Badly.
But it felt wrong.
The thoughts crept in, sharp and familiar. You’ve already eaten too much. You’re already too fat. You don’t need the extra sugar.
Simon’s finished eating anyway, he probably doesn’t even like sweets.
As you spiraled, again—for what felt like the millionth time today—Simon watched you quietly. He’d noticed you eyeing the tiramisu throughout dinner. But now, with the menu back in your hands, your eyes were filled with guilt. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, a silent giveaway that your thoughts were turning cruel.
He hadn’t known you long. But you were easy to read. Too easy, even.
So without a word, without needing your permission, Simon stopped the waiter as he passed. “One tiramisu,” he said, slowly taking the menu out of your hands. “Two spoons.”
Another silence settled between you.
“You know you’re gorgeous.”His voice cut through it, steady and sure—taking you completely by surprise. That firm tone was back. “Easily one of the finest bodies I’ve ever tattooed.”
Simon wasn’t poetic. His words weren’t flowery, but they weren’t crude either. Just raw truth, spoken without hesitation. He wasn’t the type to lie to protect feelings. If he thought something, he said it, simple as that.
And right now, he thought you were beautiful.
You let out an embarrassed laugh, your eyes darting to the table, the walls, anywhere but him. He had shown you he was blunt, sure, but this felt unexpected. Too kind. Too generous.
“You don’t have to say that,” you murmured. “Just because you feel bad for me…”
He simply raised an eyebrow, the expression cool and challenging—like he was daring you to keep going.
“Stop thinking you’re in my head, flower,” he said, voice low and steady. “I'm no liar like he was. Not here to play with you. I’d get no pleasure out of that.”
There was no softness in his words, but there was something better, certainty. The kind that didn’t ask for belief, just offered it freely. A quiet anchor in a sea of doubt. And for the first time in a long while, part of you wanted to believe someone.
“I’m past playing little boys’ games,” he added, his gaze steady.
The implication was clear, he was nothing like the others you’d known. More mature. More grounded.
“Okay,” was all you could manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
Too shy to admit you still didn’t quite believe him. Too scared to ask if he really meant it. Too pathetically grateful to even offer a compliment in return.
You’d never been more relieved to see a waiter in your life. He placed the tiramisu gently at the center of the table, setting down two spoons—one by each of your sides.
Looking up from the plate, you watched Simon with wide, expectant eyes. You didn’t even know what you were waiting for, approval, maybe. A signal. Something. And when he gave you a small nod, you finally dug in.
His blood rushed south the moment he realized it, you had waited for his permission to take the first bite.
He'd been right. Spot on.
You didn’t need someone to fix you. You just needed someone steady. Someone to quiet the noise in your head, to give you permission to breathe, to be, until you were strong enough to claim that space yourself.
Simon was more than ready to be that person for you.
And he had no intention of going anywhere.
Steady, firm hands on your hips. That was all you could feel.
You were trying to unlock your front door, but your hands wouldn’t cooperate, shaking too much, fumbling the key. You missed the lock again and again, until a larger, warmer hand gently stilled yours. Simon’s. He took the keys from you without a word, his touch calm, certain.
You weren’t even sure how you’d found the courage to invite him up.
After the shared dessert, he’d paid for everything, brushing off your protests when you tried to cover your half, or at least the part you’d eaten. He’d only laughed, that deep, low sound that seemed to settle right into your chest.
Then he offered to drive you home. You’d accepted.
And once he parked outside your building, your voice had moved ahead of your thoughts, quietly asking if he wanted to come up.
He didn’t hesitate. He just said yes.
The front door finally gave way, and that same steady, gentle hand guided you inside.
Simon didn’t speak. He just closed the door behind him with a soft click, turned the lock, and stepped in. He took off his shoes, shrugged off his coat, all slow, unhurried movements. And then he looked at you.
Not at your apartment, not at the space he’d just entered for the first time.
You. With eyes heavy with desire. Quiet, smoldering intensity.
It wasn’t fleeting or coy. It wasn’t something he was trying to hide behind polite restraint. No, he let it burn, open and unashamed. He wanted you. Fully. Honestly.
And that was new. No one had ever looked at you like that before—not even the two men you’d once shared a bed with. Not like this. To be the object of desire, not obligation or performance, was strange. Disarming. A little overwhelming.
Simon didn’t move. Didn’t rush you. He just stood there, waiting. Letting you decide what happened next.
A few seconds passed. Neither of you said a word.
Anxiety gnawed at your insides, making it impossible to process anything like a normal person. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, twisting together in a nervous rhythm. You kept glancing up at Simon, then down at his shoes—then yours—then back again.
His eyes never left you. Not once.
You didn’t know how to do this. How to act on your own desire. You’d never felt lust this strong. Never felt safe enough to let it bloom.
“I don’t know how…” you began, voice cracking under the weight of vulnerability. “I’ve never really… hum—”
The words tangled in your throat, burning with shame. Tears prickled at your waterline—tears of embarrassment, of frustration. This was where it ended. He’d leave. You were sure of it.
But then, across the space between you, he growled: “Fuck it.”
And suddenly his lips were on yours—hot, certain, unshaking. His hands cradled your face like you were something precious. Like touching you wasn’t just about want, it was about care. About something deeper.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t devour. He anchored you.
And for the first time in a long, long while, you let yourself lean into that.
His lips felt good, not demanding, not forceful. They weren’t taking. They were offering. Giving only what you were ready to receive.
One of his hands slid from your cheek, fingers brushing down to the nape of your neck. He eased you closer, guiding, never pushing. His other hand found its place again on your hip, grounding you, drawing you gently into his space.
The kiss remained unhurried. Measured. As if time didn’t matter. As if this moment—you—deserved to be savored.
Then his tongue traced the seam of your lips, soft, slow. A quiet question. Not a demand, not a test. Your lips parted before you even realized it, instinct moving faster than thought.
The moment you granted him entry, Simon’s tongue slid against yours with the same care he’d shown in every small gesture tonight. It wasn’t frantic, it was exploratory, reverent. Like he was learning the shape of you through the kiss alone. Like this wasn’t just about pleasure, but presence.
Being here. With you.
His hand at the back of your neck shifted slightly, his fingers threading into your hair, cradling your head with firm tenderness. The other remained firm on your hip, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles against the fabric of your dress. It sent sparks up your spine, the contrast of restraint and intention making your knees wobble.
You made a soft sound in the back of your throat—part surprise, part want—and he responded with a low hum, deep and approving, vibrating against your lips like a secret shared only with you.
There was no pressure in it, no rush to pull you further than you were ready to go.
Just Simon, steady and real, kissing you like he could piece back together everything someone else had broken.
Simon’s back was starting to ache from leaning over, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, both of his hands slid lower, settling just beneath the curve of your ass. He gave you a light tap. Silent instruction : jump.
He should’ve known that kind of command would short-circuit your brain. And it did.
But before your thoughts could spiral, before shame or self-consciousness could take the wheel, he moved. Reflexes faster than your fear.
One moment, your feet were on the ground, the next, you were lifted easily into his arms, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
“Simon, no… Please,” you rushed out, voice high with panic, your hands pressing against his shoulders in a weak attempt to get him to let go.
“Please what, lovely?” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along your cheek, your jaw. Soft kisses. A grounding rhythm. Each one whispered reassurance: You’re safe. I’ve got you.
“You’ll hurt yourself,” you whined, the words thick with guilt, not logic. You wriggled again, but he only held you tighter, firm, but never harsh.
“I’ve carried more than you in full gear, uphill, under fire,” he muttered, voice a low rumble against your throat. “Trust me, flower—you’re the lightest thing I’ve ever held.”
You stilled. Breath catching.
Because it wasn’t just what he said. It was how he said it—like it was fact. No room for doubt. No softness in the truth, only strength. He was slowly coaxing you exactly where he wanted you, you let him. You wanted to let him.
"Naive", the word hit like a slap. Not Simon's, but his voice echoed in your head.
Simon must’ve felt the shift in your body instantly. His mouth paused against your skin, his breath stilling where it ghosted across your collarbone.
“Breathe,” he instructed softly. “Feel this. Me. Here.”
He knew, you didn't need to explain, not after all you had told him. He knew your brain was playing tricks with you, trying to get you out of this moment. He wouldn't let it happen.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as Simon turned, carrying you effortlessly through the apartment. He didn’t ask where your bedroom was, just moved like he already knew, confident and unhurried, every step measured, deliberate.
The soft creak of your bedroom door opening sounded loud in the quiet, and then he was lowering you onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache. Like you were something breakable. Like he wanted to make sure you didn’t break again.
His hands didn’t leave you once your back hit the mattress. One stayed at your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His eyes searched yours, reading you like only someone truly paying attention could.
“It’s just me, love,” he whispered, careful not to startle you. He took one of your hands in his and gently placed it over his pounding heart. It was racing, not as fast as yours, but definitely quicker than normal.
He wanted you. Just as much as you wanted him.
You nodded softly, taking a deep breath before releasing it. Ready to move forward, but needing him to lead, and he did exactly that.
Kissing you again, Simon eased your legs open with his knee, settling himself comfortably between them. The simple movement drew a soft, whined moan from your lips. A low chuckle escaped Simon’s mouth at the sound, but then he kissed you once more, with renewed fervour.
Once his kisses left your mouth, they trailed slowly down, lingering at your neck. He took his time there, planting sweet, deliberate kisses, mixing in the occasional nip that made your breath hitch. Reaching your cleavage, Simon continued his path, dotting kisses over the soft skin exposed by your dress.
When he reached your breasts, he kissed them gently through the fabric of your bra, soft little pecks that made your skin burn. Then came your nipples, stiff and sensitive under the thin fabric. He didn’t ignore them, his mouth found them with teasing precision, the heat of it sending a jolt straight through you.
The soft sounds he coaxed from you were divine. Too shy, too hesitant—but beautiful nonetheless. Still, he knew. He could unlearn that shyness from you. Teach you how to let go. How to let yourself be.
“Gonna take this off, alright?” he asked, voice low but steady. Just like when he worked on your tattoo, he explained each step. No surprises. No pressure. Just care.
Your eyes were shut tight, almost like you were trying to disappear. Simon sighed softly and rose up again, cupping your cheek as he looked down at you.
“Look at me,” he said—sharper than he intended, but it worked. Your eyes snapped open, wide and uncertain. “When I ask you something, I need words. Understand?”
You nodded reflexively.His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” you added, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes, who?”
“…Yes, Simon.”
That would do—for now.
You weren’t ready to give the answer he truly wanted—not yet—but he’d tried, just to see if it would come naturally to you. It hadn’t. Still, he didn’t hold it against you. He knew it was there, buried deep inside—the part of you that needed to give in, to trust, to let someone else lead.
But he wouldn’t push.You weren’t ready. And he understood exactly why.
He hadn’t earned it yet. Hadn’t proven he was worthy of that part of you, the most vulnerable one. But he would. He had every intention of showing you, again and again, that he could be trusted to hold you, protect you, guide you… without ever taking more than you were ready to give.
"Good girl," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, before his hands slid to your shoulders, pushing the dress down slowly. It pooled around your waist before you kicked it off with your legs, landing somewhere across your bedroom floor.
Now you were left in the fanciest panties and bra you owned, still just plain cotton. Comfortable, with a subtle push-up effect. Nothing seductive by conventional standards. Not lacy. Not sheer. You felt suddenly self-conscious, convinced you must look like a granny in Simon's eyes.
“Cute,” was all he said, with a soft grin, before kissing the doubt right off your lips.
His fingers trailed deliberately along your sides, over your stomach, until they found their way back to your breasts. He eased the cups of your bra down, exposing you fully, and cupped one in his large hand. It fit perfectly—so perfectly that he let out a low groan against your skin. The sound sent a shiver down your spine and a hot pulse between your thighs.
You could feel it now, just how soaked your panties had become. You’d never been this wet before, never felt this… eager. Sex had always felt like a duty, something to endure. But now?
Now, you were starting to understand why some people craved it, why they ached for connection, for touch like this. For someone like him.
The warmth of his hands, the way they moved so gently over your chest—fingertips tracing, teasing, coaxing soft whimpers from your lips—was nothing short of euphoric. Each delicate pinch of your sensitive nipples sent sparks across your body, grounding you and overwhelming you all at once.
"Can I?" he asked again, voice barely more than a breath. His hand hovered at the clasp of your bra, seeking permission rather than just taking.
"Yes, Simon," you whispered—no, whined—the need threading through your voice.
"Good girl," he rewarded you, and the phrase made something melt inside you. The words hit somewhere deeper than just your ears. They reverberated through your chest, made your thighs shift involuntarily. You didn’t even try to suppress the noise that left you this time.
There was just something about the way he said it, like he meant it. Like you were doing something right simply by being here, by letting him in. Like you didn’t have to perform, or prove anything. Your thoughts blurred, the inner voice that so often berated you now silenced by something quieter, kinder. Something like safety.
With your bra gone, Simon took his sweet time with you. His hands and fingers explored your chest before his mouth joined in. He pressed soft kisses to your skin, occasionally nipping and sucking gently, leaving behind traces of his presence. Little hickeys bloomed across your breasts—marking you so quickly, it made Simon's blood rush south even faster.
Then his tongue found one of your nipples. He licked it slowly, toying with the hardened peak in his mouth, gently sucking while his hand fondled the other breast, fingers moving in lazy, tender circles.
The sensations were surreal, too much and not enough all at once. Your body moved instinctively, hips shifting, trying to grind against Simon’s in vain. Until he shifted, sliding one of his thighs between your legs, pressing it against your clothed pussy.
The moan that escaped your lips then was nearly pornographic.
"Sorry…" you whispered, your breath shaky.
That stopped him cold. His movements stilled as he looked up at you. He took in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest beneath his hands. Up until now, he’d thought you were enjoying this.
"What for, sweetheart?" he asked gently, worry threading his voice. A part of him feared you were hiding discomfort for the sake of his pleasure.
"The noises… I'm sorry," you said quickly, already breathless. "I'll be quiet now."
Simon’s gaze darkened, not with anger, but with something heavier, deeper. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as his voice dropped, low and steady.
“No,” he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t apologize for that.”
His hand slid up your side, grounding you, reminding you of the way he touched you like you were something precious.
“I like those sounds,” he murmured, his tone commanding but tender. “They tell me what you like… what feels good. Don’t ever hide that from me.”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “I want to hear everything—every moan, every gasp. They're mine, sweetheart. Don’t you dare keep it from me.”
The way he reassured you—with that quiet, unshakable dominance, the kind of confidence that came so effortlessly to him, did something to you. It tugged at something deep, something vulnerable and aching, something that craved to be undone.
You felt it in the way your body responded, heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs tightening around his. That calm authority in his voice, the certainty in his touch, it made you feel safe. But it also made you feel desperate. Desperate to give in, to let him have every part of you.
Something inside was ready to snap. Ready to break wide open for him. Ready to surrender completely to whatever he wanted.
And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes.
His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile as he leaned in again, his breath warm against your neck.
“That’s it,” he whispered, voice like velvet and command all at once. One of his hands slid down between your thighs, pressing just enough to make your hips twitch in response. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, kissing the corner of your mouth. “All you have to do is feel.”
When he kissed you again, his fingers were already moving, gently caressing you over your knickers. He had to feel how soaked they were, how your body betrayed just how much you wanted him. But there was no teasing in his eyes, no smugness in his touch. No mockery. Just more kisses, slow and tender, his lips claiming yours again and again while his fingers toyed with you, patient and precise.
Then his mouth returned to your breasts, as if he hadn’t quite satisfied his hunger for them. He began his worship all over again—kisses, licks, gentle bites—while his fingers never lost their rhythm.
And then they slipped past the edge of your panties.
A quiet gasp escaped you as his fingers moved with confident ease, parting the fabric and exploring your most intimate place. He passed over the little patch of hair you hadn’t bothered to shave, never imagining you’d end up here, under him like this. But he didn’t hesitate. In fact, his fingers slowed, twirling gently through it for a brief moment, appreciating the softness, the realness of you.
And then he moved lower, fingers finally finding where you needed him most. Where your body ached for him.
Feeling your wetness, Simon's teeth clamped down gently on the nipple still in his mouth, a careful, deliberate bite that made you arch into him with a soft gasp. He soothed it immediately with his tongue, warm and slow, like a silent apology laced with intention.
This was all he wanted: you comfortable, safe, utterly undone beneath his touch. Every movement he made, every kiss and stroke, was filled with purpose. He wasn’t just touching you—he was learning you. Mapping every reaction, every breathy sound, storing it all away like sacred knowledge.
You could feel it in how he handled you, like you were something precious and wild at the same time. And he was determined to take his time taming every inch of you.
When you let out a frustrated whine, Simon knew—it was time to move on.
He placed two tender kisses, one on each nipple, a soft farewell to the attention he’d been giving your chest. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to trail kisses down your body. Each one slower than the last, deliberate and reverent, until his mouth reached the hem of your panties.
His fingers, once exploring your soaked core, now gripped your thighs, firm and commanding, holding you open for him.
With a wicked glint in his eyes, he caught the edge of your panties between his teeth, tugging them gently as he murmured, “Is this—”
“Yes, Simon, yes… please,” you breathed out, cutting him off, your voice trembling with desperation and need. There was no hiding it, no pretending. The ache in your voice was raw, real, and it hit him like a pulse of electricity straight to his cock, making it twitch painfully in his pants.
He chuckled low in his throat, voice thick with heat and pride. “Good girl,” he whispered. “That’s what I like to hear.”
There was just something about the fact that he was still fully dressed and you were now completely naked. A weird sense of submission overflowed you, and for the first time when this feeling came to you, you embraced it.
Simon made you feel safe, so protective. Something in you knew he would stop if you told him to, that he wouldn't force you to do anything you weren't ready or attracted to. Surely why you were now soaked from his actions.
Insecurities still clung to you, gnawing at the edges of your mind as Simon's eyes swept over your naked body, slow, lingering, reverent. You felt exposed, completely bare before him, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. And yet, in his gaze, there was no judgment. Only hunger. Admiration. Like he was about to devour the finest meal of his life.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, one hand palming at the bulge in his pants. It was getting tight—painfully so—but he didn’t look away from you for a second. His arousal was obvious, but even that didn’t quiet the voice in the back of your head. That old, familiar one.
The reflex hit before you could stop it.
“You want me to suck your dick?” you asked quietly, the words slipping out not from desire, but from conditioning. From a past where your worth felt tied to what you could give, not what you could feel.
Simon froze. His eyes met yours, and in an instant, something shifted. He saw it, not just the question, but where it came from. The old wound behind it.
“Hey,” he said gently, but his voice carried that same commanding edge. One hand reached out, cupping your cheek, grounding you. “Look at me.”
You did.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said firmly. “Not your mouth, not your body, nothing. I want you, yeah. Badly. But I don’t want you because you think you have to do something to keep me interested.”
His thumb stroked your cheek, softening his tone. “If you ever get on your knees for me, it’s gonna be because you want it. Because you’re desperate to taste me, not because some asshole made you feel like it was expected. Okay, sweetheart?”
Something in you cracked at his words, not in a way that broke you, but in a way that made space. For breath. For feeling. For safety.
For the first time, you felt seen. Like he chose to want you, not for what you could give, not for how you performed, but simply for who you were.
Sitting back on his haunches, Simon remained patient. He could see the storm behind your eyes, the internal battle waging quietly inside your mind. One of his hands rested on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns—a silent way of grounding you, anchoring you to the moment.
But when he saw your lips tremble, your eyes begin to fill with tears, he knew he couldn’t stay still.
He leaned in without a word, wrapping one strong arm around you and gently guiding you onto his lap. His warmth enveloped you, your bare skin brushing against his still-clothed body, a contrast that made you shiver.
Simon felt it, and without hesitation, he tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion. The heat of his skin met yours, bare chest to bare chest, and you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours.
Your arms wrapped around him before you even knew you were moving, burying your face into the curve of his shoulder. He smelled like warmth and safety, like skin and musk and something undeniably him.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words instinctive.
“Don’t be,” he replied immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes intense but soft. “Stop apologizing.”
His bare skin against yours sent another shiver through you, this one different. Not from nerves, but from the quiet, overwhelming intensity of being wanted and held at the same time. You could feel his desire beneath you, pressing up where he had you seated on his lap. It was raw. Primal. Undeniable.
But Simon didn’t rush.
He simply held you, one hand tracing slow, absentminded circles along your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head, like you were something fragile, but never weak.
You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding. But eventually, stillness wasn’t enough.
Your lips began to move, seeking, remembering. You started at his jaw, pressing soft kisses there, then down to his neck, his collarbone. You kissed every small scar, every freckle, every beauty mark. As if your mouth was memorizing him. As if your lips were begging to remember his skin.
Sensing your need, your craving for more than just touch, for connection, Simon pulled you in closer, pressing your body against his like he wanted to mold you to him. Like even skin-to-skin still wasn’t enough.
He dipped his head, his voice low and careful. “Got any protection, sweet girl?”
He didn’t want to break the moment, didn’t want to pull you out of the space you were both sinking into.
But your lips never stopped their slow, tender assault on his skin, your mouth mapping his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck. You didn’t lift your head to respond. Just a faint shake, a soft, muffled “No…” against his throat.
He felt the word more than he heard it. And still, he didn’t pull away.
With a low groan, Simon stood, holding you tightly against him as he moved toward the entryway. Your legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to him, squeezing just enough to pull a breathy moan from his throat. He’d half-expected some kind of protest about him lifting you, some insecure remark—but you said nothing.
You were deeper in your headspace than he’d realized.
You just kept pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his neck and collarbone, little whines slipping from your lips like they couldn’t stay caged. You were pliant in his arms, needy, trusting, and it lit something fierce in him.
Reaching the coat rack, he shifted you just enough to dig into his coat pocket, fingers searching until they closed around his wallet. He flipped it open, fishing out the small stash he kept tucked inside. Three condoms.
Just in case.
He had never been more grateful for his own foresight than now. He grabbed all three, not knowing if they’d need them all, but hoping they might. Better safe than sorry.
Whatever you wanted, he'd give it to you. However you needed him, he’d be there. No hesitation.
Once you were back in the bedroom, Simon gently laid you down on the bed, breaking the contact between you, just long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. He had wanted to take his time with you, to worship you with his mouth and fingers, to ease you into it with care and patience.
But he could feel that wasn’t what you needed right now. And that was okay. That could wait.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
For a moment, he just looked at you, laid out on the bed, bathed in soft light, looking almost ethereal. It hit him then, how surreal it was. That you were here with him. A sweet, young thing like you tangled up with a man like him—older, scarred, and worn at the edges.
It almost felt twisted. But it wasn’t.
Because he could see it, you needed this. Needed him. His steadiness. His patience. His hands that knew how to hold without hurting. His body that knew how to move with purpose, not just urgency. You needed someone who could see past the surface and let you unravel safely.
And maybe, just maybe, he needed it too. Maybe he was a little selfish in that way.
Crawling back over you, Simon kissed you again, slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world for you. The second you felt his warmth again, your legs locked around his hips, arms winding around his neck like instinct. Like some part of you couldn’t stand the idea of being apart from him for even a second.
There was something in your brain, an ache, a need, that clung to him with a desperation you didn’t fully understand. The part of you your ex always mocked. Called naive. Called needy. The part he tried to shame out of you.
But with Simon, that part felt… right.
It felt like maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Like Simon had been meant to walk into your life now, of all times, when you needed someone steady, someone who saw you, not just used you.
So when you watched him roll the condom on with glazed eyes, you thought this is it. He’s finally going to fill you, press into you, anchor you. But instead… he shifted.
He laid back, tugging you with him until you were straddling his soft stomach, your thighs spread over his warmth.
Confusion flickered across your face as your hands settled on his chest, fingers curling slightly to squeeze the soft skin of his pecs. You looked down at him, unsure.
And then his voice—rough, low, but gentle. “Want you like this, yeah?” His hands rested on your hips, not guiding, just holding. Grounding. “So you can control it. Take whatever you want.”
That took your breath away.
The fact that he, a man who radiated dominance and control with every breath, was giving you the reins… it made your thighs instinctively tighten against his sides. It felt overwhelming in the best and scariest way.
You had never had the upper hand in sex before. Never been given the space to explore, to move at your own pace. To feel. It had always been about someone else’s pleasure, someone else’s needs. And just like that, this man you barely knew was handing over the power you’d never been allowed to hold.
“I’ve never… I don’t know how to do this,” you murmured, voice barely more than a whisper, shame creeping in uninvited. “I’ll mess it up,” you added, beginning to shift, to pull away from him.
But Simon didn’t let you.
His hands tightened at your sides, not rough, not demanding, just steady. Grounding. “You won’t,” he said, voice low but firm. “It’s not that hard, yeah? Just do what feels good.” Then, softer, he added. “Bounce. Rub. Sit still. I don’t fucking care. Whatever you want, ’m yours to use.”
With those words, Simon reached between you, wrapping his hand around his cock and gently encouraged you upward onto your haunches. Just enough for him to line himself up with your entrance.
As you lifted off his stomach, he felt the heat and slickness you’d left behind, and the sight alone made his cock twitch in his grip. He hadn’t been this hard—this desperate—in a long time.
Still hesitant, you hovered there, uncertain. That was when he casually rolled the tip of his length up from your entrance to your clit, slow, like it wasn’t intentional. But you knew better. You saw it in his eyes: that flicker of reassurance hidden beneath heavy, lust-filled lids. A silent, steady You’ve got this.
You inhaled sharply, gathering yourself, and slowly—carefully—began to lower onto him. He was bigger than what you were used to. Girthier. More there. But as he stretched you open, bit by bit, something surprised you.
It didn’t hurt.
It felt uncomfortable a little, full, yes—but there was no sharpness, no sting. Just pressure. Just him. When you finally settled fully onto his pelvis, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusted, you looked down at him with wide, amazed eyes.
“Doesn’t hurt,” you whispered, a hint of wonder in your voice, as if you couldn’t quite believe it.
Simon swallowed hard, his hands now splayed at your hips, holding you in place like you were something precious. His voice was low.
“Shouldn’t hurt, baby,” he said, voice rough with restraint as your heat pulsed around him. “Never.”
You nodded softly, almost to yourself, as his words settled deep inside you. Shouldn’t hurt. Maybe it was the first time someone had ever said that to you. Meant it.
Your palms pressed gently against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your fingers. You took a deep breath, and then moved. Just a small shift of your hips at first. A slow grind, barely more than a sway. You weren’t even lifting off him yet, just adjusting, testing. Simon’s breath hitched beneath you, his hands tightening slightly on your waist, encouraging but never forcing.
“That’s it, good girl,” he murmured, voice filled with lust. “Just like that. You’re doing so good for me.”
That praise, so simple and steady, made something bloom in your chest. Your body responded on instinct, hips lifting slightly, then pressing back down, gently, carefully. The sensation dragged a quiet breathy moan from your lips.
He filled you completely, the stretch no longer strange but grounding. Your movements grew braver, more curious—lifting a bit higher now, then dropping back onto him with a gasp. He grunted below you, the sound of his pleasure feeding your own.
“Fuck, sweetheart… just like that,” he growled, voice rough with want but still wrapped in something tender. “Take your time. This is all yours.”
You believed him. Just by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't lying.
It felt so good, you just kept moving, bouncing slowly on him, taking your time, savoring every deep, delicious drag of his cock inside you.
Simon’s hands were everywhere now. One cupped your breast, fondling it in his broad, calloused palm. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his fingers, gentle but firm—drawing out soft gasps from your lips. The other hand had settled low on your stomach, pressing down slightly, as if trying to feel himself through the soft give of your belly.
That should’ve sent you spiraling. His hand, there, touching all the places you’d been taught to hide, to apologize for. The softness. The rolls. The parts you always kept covered.
But nothing happened. No shame. No recoil.
Because you were too far gone, in the best way. Lost in the headspace he had so carefully coaxed you into. A place shaped by Simon’s hands, his voice, his praises. His quiet, steady worship. And when he realized it didn’t make you flinch, didn’t make you pull away, he smirked. Just a little.
That was when he knew he had you exactly where he wanted you: safe, open, adored.
Slowly, the hand on your stomach began to travel lower, fingers dragging over overheated skin until his thumb found your clit. One gentle stroke, and your thighs clamped tighter around him. Your eyes flew open with a gasp.
And the sight that greeted you? It stole your breath.
Simon, his chest slick with sweat despite barely moving, stared up at you with eyes full of silent declarations: hunger, admiration, awe, lust. His jaw was tight with restraint, his body trembling slightly beneath yours.
It was a miracle he was still letting you lead, still lying there, letting you use him.
Another brush of his thumb over your clit, slower this time, and your arms gave out. You collapsed onto him with a broken moan, your chest pressing into his, your sweat mixing with his. And then that sound—deep, low, sinful—a chuckle rumbling from his chest.
The hottest thing you’d ever heard.
A sweet kiss pressed gently to your cheek, followed by the filthiest words whispered into your ear.
"Want daddy to take over now, sweet girl?" he growled, voice low and rough against your ear.
The most pathetic whine slipped from your lips, your thighs and pussy clenching harder than ever around him. Your nails dug deeper into his shoulder, scratching through his skin, even breaking it slightly.
Yes, he knew it was in you. He had seen it, that desperate need to be pampered, to be taken care of. To turn off your mind and simply feel. The fact that you trusted him so quickly was worrisome, but in this moment, Simon didn’t care.
“Yes, yes, please,” you whimpered again, breath heavy against his neck.
“Yes who, baby?” he taunted, ready to give you everything—you just needed to say it.
"Yes, daddy." You finally let out.
"Good girl."
Then his hips began moving, faster than the steady pace you had settled into before. He held you close, whispering praises into your ear: how good you felt, how well you were doing, how beautiful and soft you were. His words kept you suspended in that hazy headspace, even more so when he hit that spot nestled deep inside you, the very spot that sent thrilling waves up your spine.
His hand, the one not tracing soothing patterns on your back, returned to your clit, fingers expertly working until your pleasure started to overwhelm you. Your brain struggled to keep up with what was happening. It was all too much: the warmth of his skin against yours, the relentless thrust of his hips, his gentle caresses on your back, the low groans and grunts he breathed right into your ear.
As if he could feel it—and you were sure he could—he groaned.
“Just let go, yeah?” His voice was deep, steady, and it triggered something deep within you. “I’ve got you.”
That was all it took. The mix of his voice, his thrust and his thumb on your clit.
Something in your lower belly snapped, a heat bursting through you as your body trembled uncontrollably. The moan that tore from your throat was filthy, unrestrained, your mouth falling open as drool slipped onto Simon’s chest.
“That’s it. Good fucking girl,” he growled, his own movements turning rough and erratic.
By the time your senses returned, he was still inside you, moving with a slow, languid rhythm—like he couldn't bear to let you go just yet.
And then something else cracked open inside you. Sobs began to wrack your body, sudden and uncontrollable. You didn’t even know why you were crying. It just came, natural, raw. A release. All the pressure you’d buried for months, the cruel voices still echoing in your mind, the quiet loathing you’d carried for so long.
Your body, your mind, your soul, they were healing. And it was overwhelming.
Still, he didn’t stop. The slow thrusts continued, as did the gentle caresses across your skin. He pulled you even closer, grounding you, holding you through it. Letting you feel. Letting you find yourself again.
“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. “Just let it all go, sweetheart.”
“I don’t know what’s happening,” you choked out between sobs, the tears impossible to stop.
Simon didn’t say a word at first. He just held you tighter, cooing softly, shushing your worries with gentle sounds. He let you have your moment, no pressure, no questions, just grounding you with the steady comfort of his presence.
It was his way of telling you he was here.
That he wasn’t going anywhere.
That you were okay. That you were enough.
Lying there felt almost therapeutic.
The soft buzzing of the tattoo machine was familiar now, comforting, even, as you closed your eyes and let yourself breathe. You’d been here for hours, finally ready to see the tattoo in its full form.
Months had passed since that first night with Simon. Months filled with quiet dates, focused attention, and earth-shattering sex. But more than that, he made you feel like you again. The dark thoughts still came and went, shadows that never fully left, but Simon was always there—steady, patient—silencing them with his presence.
So now, nearly bare in Simon’s tattoo shop, his arm awkwardly bent across your stomach as he worked on your skin, you felt nothing but warmth and want. Your fingers trailed unconsciously along his forearm, soft touches that spoke louder than words. Your thighs pressed together, the ache beneath your skin growing.
Simon let out a breathy chuckle at the movement, but said nothing. He’d been the one to coax you into rediscovering your body and your wants—he wasn’t about to make you feel ashamed of them now.
The bell above the shop door chimed, drawing your gaze to the curtain. It was almost closing time. You silently hoped Simon hadn’t booked another client, you had other plans for the night. Judging by the slight frown on his face as he glanced toward the sound, you guessed he hadn’t expected anyone else, either.
Still, he turned back to your sunflower.
When he was finally done, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the healed part of the tattoo, his hand warm as it patted your stomach.
“All done, baby. Go take a look,” he said, peeling off his gloves and turning around to prep the second skin.
It felt like déjà vu—but this time, there was no shame in your chest, no tears waiting to fall. Just you. Whole, and wanting.
The sight took your breath away.
It was beautiful. Perfect, even more so when tattooed arms snaked around your waist, and the big man attached to them pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
“So,” he murmured near your ear, voice low and smug, “what’re you thinking? ’Cause if you ask me, I’d say that’s my fucking masterpiece, aye?” A smirk tugged at his lips.
“It’s so beautiful, Si,” you whispered, turning to pepper his face with kisses—anywhere your lips could reach. “Even better than I imagined.”
“Alright, alright, little minx,” he chuckled, gently guiding you back. “Stay still a little longer, yeah?”
He dropped onto the stool again, rolling back toward the second skin before returning to you. Your eyes followed the flex of his thighs as he moved, which didn’t go unnoticed, another soft laugh rumbled from his chest.
Once the bandage was secured, he pressed one more kiss to your skin, then looked up at you through the mirror. He saw the look in your eyes. Lust. Hunger. He’d expected it.
And honestly? He was no better.
“Just let me check who’s at the door,” he said, straightening. Then his fingers caught your cheeks, gently squeezing them into a playful pout. “And then…” he leaned in, voice thick, lips brushing yours, “I’ll take care of you.”
Simon left you with a soft kiss, disappearing through the curtain.
You turned back to the mirror, eyes tracing the delicate lines of your tattoo—his masterpiece. The warmth in your chest lingered, until it shattered. Because then you heard it.
That voice.
The one that had haunted your nights, crept into your thoughts, poisoned your sense of peace. His voice.
No. No, it couldn’t be.
He hated tattoos. Always had. Called his body a temple. Said only the weak marked themselves to feel something. He couldn’t be here. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
But the voice, familiar, sharp, real, broke through every ounce of logic you tried to summon.
Panic rooted itself deep in your bones. Your fingers trembled as you pulled your dress back down, your eyes glued to the curtain like it might come alive. Wide. Fearful. Breath catching in your throat. Each inhale felt like a struggle, your heart thudding violently against your ribs.
You’d thought it was over.
You’d thought Simon had helped you heal. But healing doesn’t mean forgetting. And the past doesn’t always stay buried.
An unknown force pulled you toward the curtain. You had to be sure. You had to know.
You pushed your head through the fabric, heart pounding so hard it made your vision pulse. First, you saw Simon’s broad back, the solid comfort of his presence—but then your gaze locked onto him.
Your ex.
He was really there. Actually there.
The movement of the curtain caught his attention. His eyes landed on you.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped instinctively, like his words were a reflex. Said with so much venom.
That was all it took.
Simon’s entire body went still, rigid with tension. He turned his head just enough to see your face, and that was it. The fear in your eyes. The way your hand clutched the curtain so tightly your knuckles were white. The tears threatening to fall.
He knew. He didn't need you to say a word.
Because the thing about Simon was, he was a soldier. Had been for most of his life. And when he registered danger, his instinct wasn’t to talk. It was to eliminate it.
And while he wasn't in danger, you were. At least emotionally. And that was enough.
Before you could blink, your ex was on the ground, clutching his face, blood seeping through his fingers. The sharp crack of cartilage echoed like a gunshot, Simon had broken his nose cleanly, without hesitation. No wasted movement. No remorse.
He stood over him, expression unreadable, calm in a way that was somehow more terrifying than rage.
“Get. The fuck. Out.” Simon growled, each word edged in steel. There was something in his voice you’d never heard before, something dangerous, something primal, something begging to be unleashed.
And for once, the man who used to haunt your dreams scrambled without a word.
Simon locked the door behind him without a word, his movements steady, deliberate. Then he turned to you.
He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. He simply crossed the space between you and wrapped you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs found their place around his waist, and he carried you to the old, worn couch in the back of the shop.
He sat with you cradled in his lap, as if it was the only place you belonged.
He knew what was coming.
So when your body began to tremble, when the sobs finally broke loose from your chest, he just sighed softly, not with frustration, but with quiet grief for what you’d endured. Maybe this could’ve been avoided. Maybe you should’ve stayed behind that curtain.
But none of that mattered now. He didn’t blame you. Would never blame you. Instead, he just held you tighter.
Soft, reassuring words spilled into your ear, barely more than whispers. His hands traced gentle, grounding circles across your back, keeping you tethered, safe. Present.
You had come so far since the day Simon met you. He’d seen you break, seen you rebuild. He’d offered his strength, his patience, his warmth, everything you needed to find yourself again. To bloom.
And sometimes, the past still reached out with cold, clawed hands. But that was okay.
Because Simon would always be there to chase the darkness away. No questions. No hesitation. Just you, safe in his arms.
“You’re achieving nothing, Your Highness,” John Price, captain of the guard and your personal knight, sighed — as he parred every weak attempt at a stab that you threw at him with embarrassing ease. God, he wasn’t even panting. “We’ve been over this: shift your weight, hold the handle firmly, and don’t do that spinning thing when you swing, or you’ll land flat on your arse the moment your opponent sidesteps.”
You grunted with effort, sweat beading on your forehead as the sweltering sun beat down upon the open courtyard. “I— know that,” you hissed through your teeth, tightening your grip on the hilt as your blistered fingers screamed in protest. The sound of metal hitting metal was starting to make you feel sick.
“Then why do you keep doing it?” The infuriating man retaliated, lunging forwards and — unfortunately — disarming you with one fell swoop of his longsword. Your own weapon dropped to the ground with a clatter, and your body quickly followed — having been caught off-balance just as the Captain had predicted.
You hated him so ardently. Hated how he was always right, and hated how much better he was than you.
But most of all, you hated how he didn’t really hate him.
Because whilst he was, undoubtedly, infuriating, he was also a good man. And it reflected in the way he was always urging you to improve, and always helping you back up with infinite patience whenever you messed up.
“Your Highness,” he exhaled, staring at you with a disappointed sheen in his furrowed eyebrows as he held out his own calloused hand to assist you back up.
“No, thank you,” you huffed, snatching up your sword and pointedly ignoring the gesture as you heaved yourself back into a standing position with little of the grace that would be excepted of a crown princess.
“Getting angry at me won’t improve your form, Princess.” John picked up your sword from the ground and handed it to you. “Again.”
You were too stubborn to let him win. And so, you did go again.
And again.
And again.
Until your hands were bloody and raw, you couldn’t feel your legs, and your chest was heaving and soaked in sweat that swam down your skin in waves. It could’ve been hours, or days, but the man was goddamn relentless — thick brows furrowing further every time it took you just a moment more to pick yourself back up again, or stumbled as your vision spun.
Any form of light conversation you had engaged in previously waned as your energy was sucked from your figure, draining you slowly, until one sudden blow took you down with such force that you were completely unable to get back up again.
You hit the ground with a nasty thump, and whilst that wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world, your sword once again came tumbling down with you. This time, much closer than usual.
Too close.
And you only realised what happened when you felt a sharp pain in your forearm, and something oddly viscous beginning to run down to your palm. Your gaze flicked down to the limb, and immediately dark crimson was all you could see — a haze that blurred your vision and had you blinking down at yourself in shock.
“Bloody—“ A gruff voice suddenly barked, and you didn’t have to tear your gaze away from your wound before a large figure was cradling it. “What have I told you about covering yourself on impact…!”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered absently, cutting him off and gazing at him with watery eyes that weren’t quite focused on his face. You didn’t want him to be angry. It hurt far too much for you to even want to offer some retort. All you wanted was for the pain to go away. God, why did it hurt so much? You felt your exhausted and beaten body begin to tremble. All other words faded from your mind, except for that one sentiment.
I’m sorry.
You truly meant it, too. He had only been trying to help you, and was under orders.
Immediately, John’s words died in his throat. “It’s… okay,” he rasped abruptly after a moment. “Just— just be careful next time. Here, your highness.” With no hesitation, he wrapped a thick arm around your torso and hauled you upwards, steadying you as tremors continued to wrack your frame. “The cut isn’t awfully deep, but it’ll need stitches. I’ll take you to the infirmary and we can continue this training when you feel up to it.”
You just nodded, offering no resistance to his help, and watched the Captain’s expression as he began to help you stumble over to the infirmary. Something about his eyebrows had softened since you trained, that weary expression easing just a bit and replaced by something you couldn’t quite name.
Blood continued to leak down your arm, pooling at your fingertips in droplets before hitting the cobblestone. You watched them in a morbid fascination, flexing your fingers just slightly and watching the drops fall. Having been sheltered the majority of your life, you had never seen your own lifeblood leak out of you in such a way before.
“Here we are,” the man said after a few minutes, signalling a servant over and informing them of the situation. The poor lady almost tripped over her own feet to retrieve medical aid for the crown princess. Nonetheless, fresh bandages and gauze were provided within the minute, and your knight began to clean and wrap your wound in silence.
Once he was finished — the sharp pain now dulled to an uncomfortable but bearable throbbing — you once again found your voice. And something about being cut by your own blade must have changed something about you, because your next words were unusually soft. Especially when it came to your language around John.
“Thank you, John,” you mumbled. If he felt surprised at the gratitude, he didn’t outwardly show it. “And I’m sorry. Really. I’ll… try to listen to you more, from now on.” After the feeble attempt at camaraderie, your gaze immediately dropped back down to the marble floor — nervous of his response.
The man grunted. But it held no bitterness. And, after a long pause… “No need for that, princess. All I ask for is for you to look out for your safety. If that includes you listening to me more, then so be it. But I am your guard, not your captor.”
“You need me safe so that you can keep your job?” You teased weakly, daring to glance back up at him. His bright blue eyes hadn’t left you.
A light in his irises flickered. “…Something like that.”
A small teaser of a long-form fic in the works… taglist is open for those intrigued xx
Johnny is the type of man who would sit you down for a fully prepped powerpoint presentation about how breastmilk has a really high amount of protein, and how he'd need to consume it daily for his own health and muscle growth
Do you have an feelings on the term chubby vs fat? Is one term more inclusive? I've noticed a lot of people use the term chubby for a reader more than fat.
If a reader was described as chubby would you still feel included or does it necessarily just refer to smaller plus-sized people? I've also seen "curvy" used as well. Would than make you feel included or nah?
self report as someone around 250-300lbs, i'm like,,, am I "chubby"? XD
In my fics I do want to also include smaller plus size AND larger plus sized people but I'm nervous about what term fits the biggest range, ya know? I was curious about your thoughts. I'm worried the smaller plus-sizers still find "fat" icky. Maybe plus-size is the safest word?
whoo boy. i won't lie, i heard kill bill sirens reading this.
so my polite answer is to use whatever term you resonate with most when you write. it's your fic, use whatever term you like best.
however.
i am very much team 'just say fat'.
bc in terms of my own feelings? i will cunt punt anyone who calls me 'chubby'. babies are chubby. puppies are chubby. the occasional raccoon is chubby. i am a fully grown woman and i am fat, god dammit. when i read 'chubby' and 'curvy' and whatever other terms people have invented to describe fat bodies without saying the actual word, it doesn't resonate with me at all.
if i see a fic tagged 'chubby reader' or 'curvy reader' i straight up won't read it, not because i don't like fat reader fics (i do!), but because i don't think that author views being fat the same way i view it. i know in my heart that fic is going to have some self-loathing, 'but how could they love me when i look like this?' shit, and i am so beyond over that. i did my time as a self-loathing fat girl, now that i've fought my way through that shit i wanna read about fat joy, fat excellence, or at least being fat in a wholly neutral way.
imho using cutesy little terms that dance around saying the word 'fat' is just straight up cowardice to me. it's like the fat version of saying 'graped' and 'unalived', but it just happens to have a longer history in our culture. i strongly prefer 'fat' to a lot of the other euphemisms we've coined in order to not say fat, because, frankly, there's no fucking shame in being fucking fat. just say the word itself! it doesn't bite!
acting like 'fat' is a bad or mean or hurtful or 'icky' word is childish imho. 'curvy' denotes a certain body type that not all fat folks have (shoutout to the flat-chested and flat-assed fat broads out there), and 'plus size' is just a marketing term that thin people invented in order to categorize our clothes so they can more easily add a fat tax and charge us more for the same style clothes that thin people wear.
after all, it's called the fat acceptance movement, fat liberation, fat activism, fat empowerment. it is not the 'chubby acceptance movement', or 'curvy liberation', for crying out loud.
(also not that you asked but imho 'body positivity' is frankly a useless buzzword anymore- defanged to simply mean 'this dove campaign has one size twelve model in it plus winnie harlow' instead of 'we are including and showcasing people who are not only all sizes and body types, but also physically disabled and disfigured folks, too'.)
i am fat. you are fat. that is in no way a moral judgement, just a statement of fact. censoring what we are for the comfort of other (smaller) people is something i think most fat people need to unlearn, pronto. that's the shit that has us apologizing for taking up space and existing in public, and i have had e-fucking-nough of it.
because, really, what does refusing to use the word 'fat' actually do? it just further stigmatizes not only the word itself but also the people who could easily be described with it. 'plus-size' is not the 'safest' word, it's the one that a society that hates you has told you to use so they don't have to think about fat people existing.
bc darlin', there are people who think my entire existence is 'icky', and no matter what i do, it always will be. i don't care if they don't like the word fat. when i grab my belly, that's what i have a handful of. same with my thighs, hips, ass, upper arms, chin, you name it. i got a nice thick layer of it on me, and i love myself too much to let myself be ashamed of it anymore.
so yeah, tl:dr my thoughts are 'i absolutely loathe all of those terms' and 'just say fat, for the love of god'.
who to call to clean up after an "accident" than your sick and twisted military boyfriend? :D (dark!ghost x dark!fem!reader, 18+)
cw: dark!reader, dark!simon, horror movie vibes, graphic depictions of character death/murder, unhealthy relationship dynamics, one slip of daddy, smut, unprotected piv, simon "spit in my mouth" riley, reader and simon are kinda psycho :D
you've been so nice to her. really nice. you've let it slide off your back whenever she doesn't do her dishes. you pretend you don't notice when she borrows your shoes from the hallway and wears them out to dinner. you hide yourself in your room when she has her awful, loud guests over, and you have never once said anything about how she takes her sweet time in the shared bathroom in the morning and makes you late 2 days a week for work.
but this? this?
she needs to keep simon's name out of her fucking mouth.
"excuse me?" you say finally. your roommate is shrugging on her jacket to leave, her purse in her hand as she types on her phone, using it as a way to not make eye-contact with you. her long nails are tapping against the screen, and it feels like fucking drip water torture. "what the fuck did you just say?"
she sighs, irritated, rolling her eyes as she keeps tapping away at the screen.
"you're so dramatic, it was just a fucking joke."
"you know, i let a lot of things slide," you laugh, humorlessly, and you cross your arms over your chest as you follow her into the kitchen. "but you need to be careful what you say."
"i don't do anything except call it like i see it," she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and looking at herself in the reflection of the mirror hanging on the wall. "you need to just...go out more. man like that isn't gonna stay for long if you don't give him something to go for. he's bored, you know. when you have him over here all the time. and i've totally caught him peeking at me after i shower, y'know."
"well why the fuck are you wearing nothing but a towel when my boyfriend is here, anyways?" you snap. "he's trying to be polite, he's a guest. what if i wore a fucking towel when you had your guy friends over?"
she laughs, poking at the edge of her lip to fix the gloss of her pout. "trust me, honey, no one's looking at you in a towel."
you step back, a little shocked. she rolls her eyes again, sighing.
"i didn't--"
"are you kidding me?" you retort. "you're the worst fucking roommate in the world, and i put up with all your bullshit, and now you're going to go so low as to insult the way i look just to make yourself feel better?" you make your way around the kitchen island. "you don't wash your fucking dishes, you steal my fucking clothes, you're always late on your rent so i have to spot you--"
"you know what, just because i'm fucking happy, and you're not, doesn't mean you have to take it out on me!"
"i am happy, you sorry bitch!" you cry. "i'm so fucking happy, you're the only thing in my life making me constantly miserable!"
"oh, shove it up your ass, you ungrateful little shit!" she snaps. "you're just so fucking insecure and hate me so badly just because simon would rather fuck a girl like me than have to spend another minute with--"
the crack of cast iron against her head shuts her up. it dents the side of her head easily, and her face smacks against the countertop before she crumples to the floor.
it's so fast. one minute, she's yapping, high-pitched voice straining your ears. the next, she's silent.
and she won't say simon's fucking name again.
you watch with bated breath as she folds into herself, her head hitting the hardwood last, a slow puddle of blood beginning to grow under the tendrils of her hair as your eyes move to the heavy pan you're still holding in your hands.
fuck, that's a lot of blood. god, you thought she was just full of fucking air.
you drop the pan once the rush of anger leaves your chest. it thunks onto the ground, and your hands shake as you see the specks of blood that are on the back of your hands, sprinkled over the shirt you wear. it stains your bare legs, even your toes, and you don't even want to look at the spray of it along the counters.
you should be crying, you think. you should feel bad. you're trembling a little, but you think it's just the adrenaline beginning to fade and not the guilt you know is supposed to be racking your insides.
you turn your eyes back to her. her eyes are dull. she doesn't move. it's so quiet now, utterly silent, and you take a deep breath as you take in the silence that you've craved for a long while now. you make your way quietly out of the kitchen, stepping over her body before going for your phone that sits on the coffee table in front of the couch.
you keep your eyes on her as you put your phone to your ear. it rings, and you tilt your head to the side as the blood begins to spiderweb under the kitchen table.
"'ello?"
you blink, looking towards the door. you clutch your phone a little tighter to your ear.
"simon?" you say softly. "a-are...are you busy?"
he hums lowly, chuckling, "no' at the moment, swee'eart, why?" he asks. "mmm...missed y'r voice..." you close your eyes as you hear the buckle of his belt. you try not to picture your giant of a boyfriend leaning back on his worn couch and shoving his jeans low enough to fuck his fist. "tolk t'me, luv...tell me 'ow much ya miss daddy."
you clear your throat gently, willing yourself to ignore the soft squelch of what you know is his hand around his cock, to not let it distract you from what's more important. "uhm...i liked the flowers you gave me, simon. t-they were beautiful."
the sounds on the other end of the phone quiet. you hear shuffling, and then a few moments later, the clink of his car keys.
"tha' right, baby?" he asks, and you close your eyes as you hear the front door of his flat opening. he's already on the way, already coming.
"yeah," you sniffle. "really nice sunflowers."
a yellow flower. he huffs on the other end of the phone, breathing a little easier.
"good girl," he murmurs, and then the line cuts. you set the phone down, making your way back to the kitchen and taking a seat at the table. you watch as the blood continues to curl over the floor. you make no attempt to help her; you just swing your feet under you as you look at her spoiled outfit, just grateful she isn't wearing your shoes or one of your jackets. you would hate to have to throw something out that she got all dirty.
there's a curt knock at the door ten minutes later, and then it opens. simon shuts the door behind him, cracking his neck by moving it from side to side before narrowing his eyes at you. you bite your lip, blinking, forgetting suddenly why he is here when he looks so fucking good. he's got a sweatshirt on under his windbreaker, worn jeans tucked into his boots; you like these jeans, his ass looks incredible in them.
"wot happened?" he asks. you stand, remembering your place. your lip starts trembling, and simon's eyes soften just a little. he's wearing his balaclava, hood up over his head and jacket zipped up, shadowing any true expression on his face. his gait sounds heavy as he lets his hands out of his pockets, coming towards you. when he steps into the kitchen, his eyes dart towards your roommate who's still on the floor, laid out unnaturally just by the oven.
he lets out a low breath, clicking his tongue under the mask. you hold your breath as you wait for his reaction.
"bloody hell," simon mutters, reaching up and throwing his hood off. you wring your hands together nervously, your eyes beginning to sting with tears. you brace for the accusations, for the inevitable terror of facing the music. simon is military, for fuck's sake, why the fuck did you think turning to him would be a good idea?
"i...i-i--" you start, looking up at him, and he holds up a hand, taking the side of your face into his palm before smoothing a gloved thumb over your bottom lip. you blink in confusion, not understanding.
"'s olright, baby," he shushes you, shaking his head. "don't cry."
"simon, i--" you sputter a little, gripping his wrist gently. "i just--i couldn't do it anymore, she just--"
he pities you. maybe you can explain. maybe if you tell him a warped story of what happened, he can help you. he must know someone. he must have important friends, he must--
he uses his free hand to move his mask up over his nose, and you lean into him when he bends, kissing you warmly. your eyes flutter shut, and you shuffle closer as he kisses you sloppy, kisses you hot. you mewl as he slips his tongue into your mouth, licking over your teeth and humming low as he pulls away. his eyes are flashing.
mmm. love.
"hmm..." simon licks his lips, smiling a little. he looks over you, almost pensive, his eyes scanning over your face before he settles back on your eyes. it's tender, the way he looks at you. romantic. "let's get this off of ya."
he reaches for the large shirt you are wearing, pulling it up and over your head. he crumples it into a ball before tossing it on top of your roommate, nodding his head behind you.
it's then that you realize simon isn't going to do the noble thing. he isn't going to call the police. he isn't going to turn you in, make you explain, he seems uninterested in knowing what really happened. no, he already knows what happened. but that's not important.
his pretty, perfect girl got into a little trouble. and he's going to make this go away.
"go on, luv. take a nice shower, yeah?" simon turns you around and pushes on your back gently. you suck in a shaky breath when he fondles your ass, pulling on your panties gently. "mmm...take these off, too."
you slip your panties down your legs, handing them to him.
"they have blood on them, too?" you ask, wiping your face, and he chuckles lowly.
"nah," he shrugs, stuffing them into his back pocket after taking a little sniff. "these are just for me."
jesus fucking christ, there's really something wrong with him. there's something really, really wrong with him.
and something wrong with me.
simon looks you up and down, his eyes catching on your naked body for just a few moments before he nods his head again.
"go on," he tells you. "before i get distracted." you pause for a moment, tilting your head back a little as he reaches out and cups one of your breasts in his big hand. you bite your lip, swallowing back a heavy breath as he flicks his thumb over your nipple gently. "greatest tits 've ever seen," he mumbles, scrunching his nose under the mask before he lets you go. "yeah, go on, baby." it takes everything in you to walk away when you see him reach down with that same hand and grip his bulge through his jeans, adjusting himself as he turns back to the mess in the kitchen.
when you shut the bathroom door behind you, you hear shuffling in the living room. the coffee table scraping. the couch being pushed. the rustle of the rug you have there. he grunts a little, and you hear his boots track from the kitchen back to the living room.
you turn the water on hot. you decide to take a bath, not looking at yourself in the mirror as you sink into the tub and plug the drain. you make the water scalding, and it soothes your sore muscles as you rest your cheek against the edge of the tub and stare at the door.
you're not sure how long you stay there. long enough for the water to nearly slosh over the edge of the tub and for simon to swing the bathroom door open, seemingly done with his...tasks.
he's taken his sweatshirt off. just a black t-shirt tucked into jeans, and there's a slight pant to his breaths that tell you he's exerted some energy. you notice he has his gloves still on, but before he touches you, he takes them off and tosses them into the sink.
"move over," simon mutters, starting to undress. you look up at him as he undoes the button on his pants, shucking his shirt off and into the corner before dropping his jeans. the water swishes as you sit up, and you swallow hard when simon kicks his boots and pants off, his cock hanging heavy as his mask is the last to hit the floor.
fuck, he's so pretty.
he has no regard for his size. he simply steps into the tub behind you, taking a seat. he looks comically large in your small bathtub, and you squeak a little as the water spills over the edge of the bath and wets the floor. he hums as he feels the hot water on his back. you don't say anything as his hands start to turn the water a little red. you just look up, away, at him.
you shuffle between his legs, tucking yourself into his space. you can't help but look him up and down, admiring his naked physique. he's just hot. big arms, thick thighs, sunburnt tattoos and scars cutting across his face. he hasn't shaved today, so there's some stubble along his jaw, but your eyes focus a little too much on his girthy length, heavy as it sits on his stomach and leaks a little there. his fat stomach, all solid and pudgy, such a nice place for you to rest your hands.
"you did good today," simon says finally. you look at him, and he tilts his head to the side. his approval makes your chest warm. "callin' me like tha'. wot a good girl you are."
keeping quiet on the phone is what he doesn't add out loud.
you purse your lips, trying not to keen at the praise, but it's hard not to when he reaches over and slides his hand over your shoulder, thumbing at your jaw.
"i-i didn't...didn't know what to do," you admit, and he clicks his tongue, shaking his head. you didn't know what to do, so you called him. level-headed enough to not do something rash and call someone else, no, you called him.
"mmm...tha's wot i'm 'ere for, luv," simon soothes you. "made such a little mess..."
you close your eyes. it's sick. deranged. fuck, it feels nice.
why don't i feel anything?
"i know. i'm sorry."
"nothin' ta be sorry about."
you slump into his arms, resting your cheek on his solid chest. you can feel his cock pulsing against your tummy, and you adjust yourself in the water, straddling him as you rest your chin on his pecs and look up at him through watery eyes.
you aren't sad. no. not sad at all. simon has shown you what he will do for the you. the lengths he will go. what he'll forgive just to take care of you. he's so capable, so understanding.
sick. twisted. mine.
"then i'll just say thank you," you mumble, grinding your hips slowly. simon hums, a wicked smile coming over his scarred face. he licks over his bottom lip, big hands gripping you by the fat of your hips as you grip the edges of the tub for stability. "say thank you to my big, strong man for taking such good care of me..."
he chuckles, his eyes lowering, watching your tits sway as you fit your pussy over his length and grind down on him.
"tha' so, baby?"
you nod.
"mhm," you whine. "how can i thank you, my big boy? how can i show you how grateful i am for cleaning up after me, hmm?" you bend at the waist, kissing him wet and warm, and he hisses as you suck his tongue into your mouth. he tastes like cigarettes, and normally you would curse him for it, but right now it tastes so much like him, and you lick around his teeth trying to taste more of that sweet nicotine.
"fuck--such a naughty little girl..." he snickers, reaching down. you sigh when he slides his big palms over your ass, forcing you to grind slower, the tip of his cock sliding through your folds leisurely. you grip the edges of the tub tighter, pressing down to give you more leverage to grind down harder. "make such a mess, oll the time..." you gasp when he presses into you just enough, the tip breaching your entrance and forcing you to squeeze around him, your cunt trying to suck him in. "olways needin' me ta pick up afta ya..."
you giggle, sliding your hands up his chest, gripping his shoulders for leverage as you sink down onto him. he grits his teeth as you do, his eyes focused on the way his cock disappears inch by inch until you're seated down in his lap, his length kissing deep and twitching excitedly. he always feels like a teenager again whenever you fuck--like you're the first pretty girl to ever wet his cock.
you cup his cheeks finally, smoothing your thumbs under his eyes as you bring his gaze up to meet yours. you swallow hard, looking down at him.
"i-i love you, simon," you breathe. he stills underneath you, his jaw clenching as he frowns just a little. you come a little closer, nuzzling your nose against his, your thumb falling to trace the outline of his torn lip. "i should've said it a long time ago...i-i..."
"heart's beatin' out y'r chest, luv," he mutters lowly. "'s olright...'m not goin' anywhere."
it's so disgusting. you should be fucking ill. you should be scrambling to the toilet, your breakfast halfway up your throat. you should be crying, emotional, begging simon to tell the cops that it was all your fault, because it is. he should've come here and made you do the level-headed thing and confess your terrible crime.
he shouldn't be here, sitting underneath you in your tub, cock-deep inside of you after helping you commit murder and then fucking clean it all up.
"what did i do?" you gasp, sitting up. you move to get out of the tub, but simon growls, putting two firm hands on your ass and shoving you back down on his cock, making you cry. "w-what did i do? s-simon, why don't i feel bad, why am i not sorry--?!"
simon tsks, feigning comfort. he juts his bottom lip out into a pout, mocking your little cries.
"oh, luvvie, don't start cryin' now," he chuckles. "don't start pretending like y'care."
uhm...
"simon--"
"no one likes a liar."
you're still trying to pretend, and he knows this. you're still trying to act how someone normally would react. someone normal, someone who thinks rationally, would never have picked up the pan in the first place. and even if they had, they would've scrambled, cried, picked up the phone and confessed, called an ambulance as they tried to get her to start breathing again, put both hands on her chest and tried to get her wake up.
but you didn't. you watched, unnervingly calm, as she stained the hardwood with her blood. you watched as her eyes glassed over, lifeless, and you watched as her insides began to paint the floor in abstract shapes as you gave it time to spread. and not once during that time, or waiting for simon, did you think to help her.
you didn't want to help her. and you certainly didn't think she deserved to get back up. maybe she hadn't done anything quite harsh enough to deserve death in someone else's eyes. annoying, overbearing, rude.
but it's hard to feel bad when she talked about simon. when she called him by his name. when you've seen her let her towel slip when he's in her vicinity, trying to coax him into her room when you're looking away.
you should've taken one of the throwing knives that simon hides in his boot and thrown it at her then, just for that.
"we're cut from the same bloody cloth, baby," simon says, almost accusingly. you grip the edges of the tub, trying to stand again, but he cants his hips and fucks up into you, drawing a frenzied moan out of you. you reach for his shoulders as he does it again, his tongue darting out before he licks a fat stripe over your pebbled nipple. "'s olright. 's okay, luv. don't worry. don't hafta get y'r hands dirty, swee'eart, i've got it."
"but simon," you whine, but all he does is shake his head. you don't have to put on this morality act for him. you don't have to pretend that you are sorry for something that you had every right to do, you don't have to explain to him why you aren't feeling the way you should be feeling.
simon doesn't care about how you should feel. he only cares about how you actually feel.
"she was in y'r way," simon grunts. "always bein' a bloody brat." he fists your hair and brings your mouth to his, groaning as you tighten around his cock. "'ow many times did she fuck ya over, baby, hmm? 'ow many times did she steal y'r fuckin' things, come outta the loo wearin' nothin' but her fuckin' knickers, yeah? 'ow many times?"
you kiss him, frantic, digging your nails into his pecs and dragging them angrily.
yeah. fuck her. fuck what she did to me, fuck the way she behaved, fuck her stupid face and her stupid attitude and her stupid little games.
"called ya names..." he's hitting your sweet spot now, making you cry from pleasure. your pussy feels so hot, squeezing him because you know he's right, and the way he fucks this time makes you think he really knows what you are and knows exactly how to get you there. "wot a fuckin' twat. deserved every bit o' it, baby."
you meet his eyes, dark and cruel. he's still moving, still holding onto your hips and drawing out little whines, but it's different suddenly, it's more. you nod, understanding.
simon is terrible. no good. his head isn't in the right place, maybe it never has been. you wonder, briefly, if this is what he does when he's at work, if these are the things that he's used to. maybe simon has been in service too long--maybe he doesn't understand that you aren't at war here, that you can't just kill and clean up, that you aren't in the field.
"she deserved it," you whimper, and he grins, all teeth, all mean.
"tha's it."
"she was such a bitch."
"fuckin' right."
"she got what was coming for her."
"nnghhh--fuck, baby, gonna make me fuckin' cum, tolkin' like tha'," he hisses. you practically smack him as you grab onto his scarred face, gritting your teeth as you glare down at him. his lips part, and you spit in his mouth as he fucks up into you, thighs hitting your ass with a wet smack that makes your head spin.
"and i'll get rid of the next bitch that so much as looks your way, simon."
the kiss is searing. hot, blinding, white noise fills your ears as he cums with you, stuffing you full as he cums hard, a pained groan leaving him as he collapses against the porcelain tub with a harsh thud. you follow him, chasing after him, kissing him between heavy breaths as you don't make any effort to move off of him. when simon opens his eyes, he can't help but smile.
I’m pretty sure that Australians don’t have more then maybe 30-50k MAX people on tumblr. Like American had some 30 million users in 2020 (aka basically probably peak over the last 7 2018-2025) while Australia only has 26-28million people depending on who you ask (27 to be safe) so I’m just genuinely curious how many of us there must be on here.
If you Currently live in OR were born / raised in Australia and ID as (born/raised + ID, as I know a lot of born/raised here don’t ID as Aussie) you are Australian in this poll!
Are you Australian?
Yes, I am
No, I am not
Voting ended onMar 21, 2025
Please reblog for bigger sample size
Im Not Here To F*ck Spiders @halfglasscrazy - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
