Drowning In Fantasy

obsessed with too many things :/ - 21y/o

[pregnanthudsonwilliams]

not naming names but some of you are so creative and talented it's an honor to have you in my phone

[revesephemeres]

I am naming names. @leeny-leens @viperify @pearlescenthoney @puddlesoffrogs @moonstruckme @colouredbyd @mirrormauve @cipheress-to-k-pop @fawnindawn @nottsnymph @suprclark

And s/o to the deactivated blogs; Amiableness, crescenthistory and slytherinslut0😔😔

[pedropascallme]

Meet The Rileys

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader

Summary: "The most troubling fact was that you wouldn’t be concealed backup—a position you had become accustomed to holding on operations like this. Instead, you would be front and center, playing the housewife to Simon’s working man."

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) reader is American (no other descriptors), canon typical violence but just barely, maskless Ghost, fake relationship, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, kinda soft!Dom Simon, some hair pulling, dirty talk, mild degradation, lots of praise, creampie, I still don't know how the military works or how undercover missions work, if I missed anything please let me know!

AN: To be so honest guys I'm not thrilled with this, but I did what I could. Is the plot nonsense? Perhaps. We're rolling with it.

Bonnie Riley.

The name was right there in bold typeface, printed on the fake ID Price had handed you.

Bonnie Riley, from Connecticut, who looked just like you.

But she wasn’t you. Not in a literal sense, anyway.

She was preppy and proper—presentable, in her tennis whites, her hair loose around her face.

Covert operations were awkward. At their worst, they served as a chilling reminder that so many people had no regard for life outside their own; at best, they were mind-numbing, and a bit uncanny, as you were forced into an entirely new role.

When Price had approached the Task Force with the assignment—an undercover op somewhere in Nowheresville, USA—you had been eager, made excited by the notion of returning to the states.

You missed sweet tea; you missed the rounded, drawled accents of America.

But it was only after you had agreed to the mission that it came to light what you would have to do.

One cartel was working with another, but the details of the brief got hazy from there. The country was suspicious about ulterior motives, worried by the links the domestic group had to other countries. Your job was to find out whether those suspicions were warranted.

As far as stealth missions were concerned, this one was comparatively bland.

The most troubling fact was that you wouldn’t be concealed backup—a position you had become accustomed to holding on operations like this. Instead, you would be front and center, playing the housewife to Simon’s working man.

You still weren’t entirely sure how you’d ended up in this position, or whether it was even necessary. But your hand had been forced, as had his.

Ghost’s title as Lieutenant meant a heightened level of responsibility, which was obvious, and more than fair; his consistent silence made him fit for a job that required a hefty dose of observation.

You, in turn, were given the task of having his back; paying attention to his whereabouts just as closely as you did the targets.

Plus, you were the only woman on the Task Force, and an American, to boot.

Playing house ensured that you wouldn’t garner any skepticism moving into the cul-de-sac, granting easy access to the targets.

You leaned against the window of the rented moving van, turning the ID in your hand.

Dragging your finger along the laminated edges, you found yourself thinking of the fake ID you had bought in high school. You smiled at one memory of awkwardly ordering drinks at the local bar, before your father had walked in and seen you and your friends sipping unhappily on warm beer.

You were grounded for a week, but your parents had let you keep the shoddy piece of plastic.

That fake had been adorned with your real name; it was only as fake as it needed to be.

Now, you were Bonnie Riley—faker than fake.

The name Bonnie had been your idea. It was a favorite of Soap’s when addressing you, and you figured a nickname would be easier to remember than something original and unfamiliar. Simon hadn’t been on board with the concept of an alias, stubbornly refusing to pick a name; Price had stepped in and deemed him ‘Jim.’ (“Strong British name, eh?” “S’not me.” “That’s the point, Lieutenant.”)

But when it came to choosing last names, you’d all struggled. Something like ‘Smith’ would be too ambiguous, but anything more unique might be a struggle to remember or explain, were you to get caught up in your web of lies.

When it was time to create the faulty identification, Price had grown frustrated.

“Might as well keep Riley, for all I care—” He had pinched the bridge of his nose as he addressed Simon, “If that’s something you can agree on. God's sake, you’re married.”

“Who says I’d take his last name?” You scowled, already far from pleased by what the mission entailed, but now growing frustrated that your voice wasn’t being heard.

“Aliases aren’t legally binding, Sergeant.” Price quirked a brow at you, daring you to continue your argument.

You had hesitated.

“Should we really go with one of our legal names?”

You posed the question rhetorically, not expecting a response from either of the men.

Realistically, you knew it was a fine idea—it was unassuming, common enough to go unquestioned but not common enough to seem deliberately chosen to blend in. It was easy to remember, and it’s not like people outside the barracks knew Ghost by his real name, anyway.

“Fine," you sighed, resigned. "I’ll be a Riley.”

“Welcome addition.” Simon had nodded in agreement, voice gravelly.

You winced at the memory, watching the landscape pass by as Price drove the van down the highway.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Simon—he was a fantastic Lieutenant, someone you considered a friend before you considered him a coworker. But therein lay the problem; you did like him, maybe a bit too much.

There was a heightened level of anxiety now as you realized that the time and effort you’d spent trying to ignore your feelings for him would be nullified by your need to act domestic with him.

Not to mention his phrasing when the name had been decided upon—a welcome addition. It produced a pang in your stomach not unlike butterflies, which made you more embarrassed, than anything.

You looked down at the ID again. Your picture next to the Riley name made you feel something warm in your chest.

It was an alias, sure—a sham—but the sight was gratifying, either way.

You yawned, growing wary of the silence in the van.

“I still don’t understand why this is something we have to do.” You spoke up, dropping the ID in your lap and staring at Price in the rearview mirror.

“Got somewhere t’be?” He replied with an amused huff.

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the window.

“Just doesn’t seem like our jurisdiction,” you frowned, “Cartel in Middle America? More of an FBI racket, no?”

“Usually.” Price adjusted the mirror.

“But…?” You prompted him when he didn’t continue.

“But, this cartel may be on the ins with a British operation in Wales. And the Welsh fellas are working with a group somewhere on the European continent,” Price drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, “FBI thinks collusion could lead to something bigger than just moving drugs. Already gotten word of terroristic threats.”

“So now you have Ghost and I playing Mulder and Scully?” You scoffed, still staring out the window.

“You’ll have your kit back on in no time, Sergeant.” Price chuckled.

“Good,” you smiled, finally meeting his gaze in the mirror again, “This sweater is itchy.”

“Consider yerself lucky, lass,” Soap piped up from the passenger seat, turning his body to look back at you. “Least ye got a regular sweater. Poor Ghost looks a pure fandan.”

“Nobody knows what ‘at means, MacTavish.” Simon shifted in his seat, typically stoic but clad in a sweater vest and looking just as abysmally preppy as you did.

He looked handsome, but the clothes were so uncharacteristic of him that the thought made you feel somewhat guilty.

“Sorry, LT,” Soap craned his neck to look at Ghost, “A brief translation: ye look like a dick.”

Gaz huffed a laugh under his breath next to you, and Simon clenched his jaw.

~~~

The neighborhood was so polished that it looked unnatural. Identical houses lined up in rows; yards with high, pruned bushes; shiny cars, parked carefully in front of white garages.

This was wealthy territory, and it made you uncomfortable to stare the upper class in the face after spending so much time in the barracks.

There wasn’t much to unpack, despite the number of boxes that had been loaded into the van. Most of them were empty, or filled with small items that would come in handy during the stakeout that would be occurring during the foreseeable future.

But the weightlessness was certainly beneficial, and as Gaz, Soap, and Price acted as movers, you stifled a laugh at their attempts to make it seem as though the boxes were full and heavy.

“This’s the last of it.” Gaz dropped the final box in the middle of the floor.

The cardboard made a clinking sound when it hit the hardwood, and you saw Kyle’s expression turn to one of vague panic as he opened the box to reveal a set of extension cords and small mics.

“Good,” Price didn’t seem bothered about Gaz’s carelessness over the equipment. “S’get ourselves set up here.”

You folded the empty boxes as they were unpacked, stacking them up beside you.

“Why do we all need to be here.” You quickly grew bored of unpacking in silence, mind still buzzing with nagging questions.

“Reinforcements.” Price said simply.

“For a sting operation that we haven’t even started?” You countered.

“Rather do all the work yourself?” Gaz looked up at you, smirking, and you tossed a sheet of bubble wrap at him.

It flew sideways, swaying as it floated to the ground.

“What do we do if people see you?” You voiced a larger concern, “Think they’ll buy it if we tell them the movers just...decided to stick around?”

“Tell ‘em we’re yer kids.” Soap had settled onto the floor, fiddling with an extension cord.

You looked at the Sergeants and Price; none of the three could pass as younger than you, and none of them looked like you or Simon in any capacity.

“You’re stupid.” You laughed quietly, shaking your head at the obvious faults in Soap’s idea.

“Oi—s’no way to talk to your son.” Kyle laughed.

“Big house,” Price butted in, “Nobody’ll see us. And there should be no reason anybody should come in.”

“There room for us all?” Gaz perked up, “Or is someone sleeping on the couch?”

“Not me.” Johnny perked up, ready to argue.

“There’s space,” the Captain chewed his cheek, hesitating before he looked at you, “You two are sharing, though.” He gestured to Ghost.

“Why us?” Your gaze shifted to Simon, who didn’t seem to care, or maybe he just hadn’t heard; he was busy setting up one of the monitors.

“Married.”

“Aliases aren’t legally binding.” You threw his words from weeks ago back at him. “Why can’t any other combination of us share a room?”

“Assume it’s cause the rest of us take up too much space,” Gaz smirked, “’Nd Soap snores.”

“Dinnae!”

“Just—” Price sighed. He’d clearly been anticipating your pushback. “Unless you’d rather take the couch…”

You swallowed, weighing your options.

Sleeping on the couch would be the more admirable thing to do. Simon was putting a lot of effort into this mission—and he outranked you. It felt only fair that he got the opportunity to sleep in a real bed.

Plus, you could feel your ears heating up at the mere thought of sharing a bed with him, and you didn’t want to know what would happen if it actually came to fruition.

“I can take the couch,” Simon spoke up before you had the chance to respond to Price. “Don’t plan on doin’ much sleeping, anyway.”

“Typical honeymooner.” Johnny chuckled.

“Rather keep watch ‘an stay kushy.” Ghost scoffed.

“Don’t care what you do in here. Just remember that outside this house, you’re married.” Price nodded, picking up the pile of empty cardboard boxes at your feet and tossing them by the front door.

“Right,” you sighed. “Yeah.”

~~~

You walked down the stairs slowly; it was dark, and you didn’t want to run the risk of missing a step and tripping over yourself.

Being in a new place always made you uneasy. You had become so accustomed to life on a military base—small rooms and small beds, curfews and floodlights—that anything else felt unnerving.

This house had shadows in new places, the bed was against a different wall. It all felt so liminal, and you despised it.

You remedied your discomfort by wandering the halls, trying to acclimate to your surroundings.

There was quiet chatter coming from the living room, and you turned the corner to see Simon awake on the couch, flipping through TV channels.

“What you doin’ up?” He didn’t bother turning to look at you.

“Big house,” you mumbled, not at all surprised by his knowledge of your presence; he was intuitive to a frightening degree. “Trying to...gather my bearings.”

Simon grunted a response, still not looking at you. You rounded the corner of the couch, keeping your distance.

“Why are you still up?” You chanced the question.

“Been a long time since I ‘ad cable.” He almost smiled, and you liked the way it looked; the light from the TV illuminated his face, and he seemed so docile.

“So, you’re just doing a, uh…” You looked at the TV, “A Brady Bunch rerun marathon?”

He looked up at you, not replying, but he smiled for real now, and that was just as good a response as any.

“Still in your day clothes.” You pointed out.

“My stuff’s in the room you’re sleeping in,” Simon shifted on the couch, and you tried not to focus on the way he let one hand fall over the curve of his thigh. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

“Wouldn’t bother me,” you shook your head, “Change, LT. You’re allowed to get comfortable.”

“Who said anything ‘bout being uncomfortable?” He challenged.

“Ghost, you’re wearing pleated slacks,” you scoffed at him, “I’m uncomfortable just looking at you.”

“Miss my casual attire, love?” He smirked, and you rolled your eyes.

“Yeah. Already sick of having to look at you without the mask.”

It was a deflection, really, to hide the fact that you were thoroughly enjoying being able to see him without the hinderance of the balaclava.

“You wound me, Sergeant.” He heaved a sigh, the smirk on his lips still obvious.

“You gonna change, or not?”

He stared up at you for a moment, short strands of blond hair falling over his face as he analyzed you.

“A’right,” he conceded, standing up and walking over to you. “Go on.”

You smiled, nodding in approval at his cession as you made your way up the stairs.

The bedroom was big—too big for just one person. The high ceiling and lack of any furniture, save for the bed, only served to make it seem even more spacious, which in turn made it feel even emptier.

Having Simon in it with you made it much cozier, and you couldn’t tell if it was just because he physically took up so much space, or if it was just his presence alone that soothed you.

Wordlessly, Simon grabbed the duffel he’d tossed beneath the bed. You watched on intently as he hoisted it by the strap over his shoulder.

He really did look so handsome like this. In another life, maybe this is how he’d be living; white picket fence, a nine-to-five. Maybe even a dog—you could picture him so clearly with a German Shephard by his side.

But you couldn’t imagine Simon living the domestic life in suburbia, not really. You couldn’t picture him without the scars and the grit.

It’s what made him Simon, and you didn’t necessarily think that was a bad thing.

“What’s your story?” You sat on the edge of the bed.

“Y’know enough.” He grunted, turning to you.

“No, your—” You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Your backstory. For…” You gestured between yourself and him.

He nodded in acknowledgement.

“Married two years, together f’eight—”

“You work slow, Jim.”

“I’m careful, sweetheart,” he quirked a brow at you, and you smiled, allowing him to continue. “Moved ‘ere from England cause you missed being home.”

“What do you do for a living?” You prompted.

“IT.” He gritted out.

“Nobody will believe that.”

“’Nd they’ll believe you’re a ‘ousewife?” He shot back.

You shook your head, laughing softly. “Fair.”

He shifted his jaw, and the conversation was over. He turned to leave, but you had one more thing on your mind.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch for the whole op,” you called after him quietly. “I can…we can trade off, every night. If you’d like.”

He turned to look at you again, standing in the doorway.

He shook his head. “Deserve your beauty sleep, Mrs. Riley.”

He turned to leave, closing the door behind him, and you could hear his footsteps as he walked back downstairs. You were left alone in the stupidly large bedroom, the sound of your pulse rattling around your skull.

~~~

To any outward observer, it looked like a chance encounter; people meeting, exchanging pleasantries as neighbors do, finding a sort of simpatico.

But it was a well thought out plan—as well thought out as it could be.

Price had given you the instructions over coffee that morning. You were bleary eyed and felt ill-prepared, but you had to admit, the man worked fast.

“Make sure they stop.” Price stood with folded arms as he watched you and Simon leave the house.

“Can’t really force it.” You paused in the foyer to point out the flaw in his logic, uncertain whether this would pan out the way you all hoped.

“Trap ‘em with small talk.” Price countered.

“Yeah—cause Ghost is known for his chit-chat.”

“S’why you’re helpin’ him.” Price cracked a small smile upon hearing your swipe at Simon.

“What do we do if this works?” You felt a little anxious about being in the spotlight through all of this, “You want us to walk right back inside? Cause that seems—I feel like that wouldn’t…look right.”

“Drive around,” Price shrugged, “Go wherever your heart desires.”

“Pick up some groceries!” Gaz shouted from another room, eavesdropping.

“Aye—yer kids are sick o’cereal and cheese sandwiches.” Soap added his two cents from the couch.

You rolled your eyes as you made your way out of the house in yet another uncomfortably starched outfit.

Simon was already outside, leaning against the front wall of the house. He seemed to have positioned himself fairly purposefully behind the hedges that lined the lawn; he held himself awkwardly without his kit, arms crossed and shoulders hunched.

You realized he was likely trying to find comfort in a more sniper-like position so that he wouldn’t have to face the world more than he already had to in this situation.

“C’mon,” Simon nodded at you when you closed the door. “Y’a’right?”

You nodded, sighing. “We’re getting groceries after this.”

He made a face, but he didn’t say anything as he pushed himself off the wall and followed you down to the driveway.

A few feet from the garage, Simon grabbed your arm.

“Look.”

His voice was low, a gravelly whisper as he nodded to something down the street.

You followed his gaze and saw a couple approaching—they fit the description, matched the pictures; target acquired.

Simon opened the garage door, an action that made him look busy and ensured they would take notice of the two of you.

It worked; they looked up with startled smiles.

“Oh—new neighbors!” The woman called out before she had even reached your driveway.

Her accent rang out as clearly East coast. These were city folk who had run West to avoid the prying eyes and greedy pockets of whichever police department they were under the jurisdiction of; they were finding solace in small-town ambience while they made bank off of moving goods.

“Hi, there!” You waved, smiling wide as you encouraged them closer, attempting to rope them into conversation. “Just moved in.”

“That’s so great! That house has been empty so long...”

The woman finally stood before you, and you could see now that she was older than you, probably by at least ten years or so—though she was clearly putting effort into hiding it.

“About time someone made a home out of it—I was just saying so. Rob,” she turned to her husband, who trailed behind her, “Wasn’t I just saying so?”

“You were,” he nodded, sliding an arm around her waist and reaching his free hand out to Simon. “Robert Ferguson—this is my wife, Deborah.”

“Call me Deb!” She exclaimed, feigning bashfulness.

“Jim Riley,” Simon shook Robert’s hand, nodding sideways at you. “My wife, Bonnie.”

“You’re British!” Deb looked absolutely astounded by this revelation.

“Yes.” Simon nodded, and you couldn’t help but notice how the muscle in his jaw ticked; all of his focus seemed to be on making his features behave to hide his feelings now that the balaclava was off.

“What brings you to our neck of the woods?” Robert asked, quirking a brow, and you wondered if he was already onto you.

“Missed home,” you finally found the opportunity to speak up, inching yourself closer to Simon to keep up the guise of married life. “We’ve been living overseas for so long; I just couldn’t go another day of rain and beans.”

Simon glanced down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a begrudging, but amused, smirk. He wrapped an arm around your waist and tugged you against him.

“S’right.”

You swallowed the sound that wanted to come out of your mouth when his hand made contact with your body.

It was for show, and you knew that, but it felt nice; he was warm, and you could feel the soft rhythm of his heartbeat when you leaned into him.

You willed your blood back down when it began to rush to your cheeks.

“Overseas…You military?” Robert prodded.

“No—I’m in IT.” Simon quickly shut down any discussion of military service, which you knew was not done with any satisfaction.

“Scars are from a wonky laptop, then?” Robert laughed, but you could tell he was prying, trying to get a feel for you.

Simon cleared his throat, putting his free hand in his pocket to avoid reaching up and tracing the scars on his cheek.

He hadn’t really considered that the scars that marred him would be visible; he’d practically forgotten what his own face looked like at this point.

He didn’t think anybody would care to notice the details.

“Mining accident,” you rushed to cover for him. “We lived in Wales for a few years—when we met.”

You looked up at Simon, who looked confused, but grateful.

“Turns out, he’s not as good with a pickaxe as he is with a computer.” You forced a laugh, and Deb followed suit, wheezing out a giggle.

Robert nodded, buying the lie, and you chanced a smile at him.

“Well, if you need anything…” Robert turned from you to look at Simon, who had regained his composure—though you weren’t sure if anyone but you had noticed he’d lost it. “We’re right down the street, love to—”

“You should come for dinner sometime!” Deb butted in.

“We’d love to have you.” Robert nodded.

And just like that, you were in.

You said your goodbyes and watched on as they turned to walk back down your driveway.

Robert paused for a moment.

“You golf, Jim?”

“Once or twice.” Simon lied—he’d never so much as picked up a golf club.

“Should come down to the club sometime—meet some of the other guys in the neighborhood.” Robert smiled, rejoining his wife and walking off.

You and Simon stayed silent as you loaded yourselves into the car.

You drummed on your thigh, staring out the windshield and watching the house get smaller as Simon backed out of the driveway.

The car was nice. It matched the setting; sleek and shiny, though the vehicle didn’t feature any of the off-putting atmosphere that the neighborhood seemed to buzz with.

Simon had taken the moving van back to the lot it had come from the previous day. When he returned in the new car, you hadn’t asked anybody where it had come from, or why you needed something so flashy.

“Wales?” He finally spoke when he turned onto the main road.

“The other group Price mentioned—they operate out of Wales,” you explained, “First thing that came to mind.”

“Right,” Simon nodded, “And I worked in a mine?”

“I just associate Wales with the miner riots…” You felt flustered, maybe a bit embarrassed by the link you’d come up with.

“Where’d you learn about ‘at?” Simon smirked, shooting a glance at you before refocusing on the road.

“They teach us a little more in history class than just Paul Revere and his midnight ride.” You found yourself grinning at him.

“‘Nd you think I’m ‘at old?” He shook his head, “Old enough t’be a miner in nineteen-eighty?”

“In that outfit?” You pointed out his sweater vest, “Yeah.”

“Cheeky thing.” He dropped a hand to your thigh, patting your leg twice before removing it.

For a second time in an hour, you caught the sound that would have otherwise passed your lips. You straightened your skirt in an effort to chase the warmth his palm had pressed into your skin.

“Just thank me, LT,” you sighed, “Saved your ass.”

“Won’t be the last time, sweetheart.”

~~~

It was dark by the time you returned to the house; the streetlamps that lined the road had turned on, and the houses were unlit—save for a few bedroom lamps that glowed through curtained windows.

Simon put the bags of groceries on the kitchen island, tossing the car keys down next to them. He ran a hand over his face, pressing his palms onto the counter.

Soap wandered from his chosen bedroom when he’d heard the front door, sidling up next to Simon and sorting through the food that was still stacked in the bags.

“Johnny?” Simon sighed.

“Aye?” Soap pulled out an apple.

“C’you teach me ‘ow to golf by tomorrow?”

“Think just cause I’m Scottish I play golf?” Soap scoffed, peeling the sticker from the apple.

“Do you?” Simon quirked a brow.

Soap rolled his eyes, hesitating.

“Aye…”

“He agreed to play a round with the target.” You cut in on their conversation, pouring yourself a glass of water and kicking off your shoes.

“Didn’t agree,” Simon scowled, “Didn’t even respond.”

“Told him you’d golfed before, though,” You finished your water, putting the cup in the sink and shooing Johnny away from the grocery bags so you could unpack them. “Seems to me like you haven’t…”

“Already lyin’ about everything else.” Simon folded his arms, glaring.

“Yeah?” You quirked a brow. “You sure you weren’t just trying to fit in? To seem cool?”

“Haud yer wheesht,” Soap laughed, “Ye fight like a married couple.”

“S’the point, yeah?” Simon huffed.

“And ye still won’t share a bed,” Johnny rolled his eyes, “Shame—most couples a’least start in the same room.”

You shook your head with a laugh, trying not to let the topic of conversation get under your skin.

You were bickering like a married couple. It was one thing to keep up the act when you were in public, around people who might recount what they’ve seen to the targets, but it was increasingly obvious that the make-believe was seeping into your real life.

Ghost was on your mind far more often than you’d care to admit. But now, rather than fantasies of lust and satin bedsheets, you were imagining him as the husband he was pretending to be.

Soap put a hand on your forearm when you reached into the bag of groceries again, silently reprimanding you for doing the unpacking, and taking on the job himself.

You thanked him and made your way to the staircase.

Simon followed you, and you turned to shoot him a curious look.

“Don’t need attitude ‘bout my sleep clothes again.” He passed you on the stairs, and you sped up to meet him as he pushed the bedroom door open.

“Didn’t realize you put your stuff back up here.” You watched him wrangle his duffel from beneath the bed.

“Didn’t realize I needed to tell you.” Simon shot back, and you rolled your eyes.

“Does this mean you’re going to stay up here tonight?” You pondered aloud.

“No,” he answered simply, “Fine on th’couch.”

You nodded, slightly stung, but you could understand the awkwardness of the position you’d both been put in.

The room fell silent for a beat.

“Do you miss the mask?”

You thought back on his actions earlier in the day, when you’d watched his face morph in response to the conversation with Robert and Deb.

“I mean…you seem kinda naked without it.”

“Think about me naked a lot?” Simon stood back up, smirking; a pair of sweatpants slung over his shoulder.

“Just—” you rolled your eyes. The answer was yes, often, but he didn’t need to know that. “It’s weird seeing you without it for so long.”

“Not comfortable to ‘ave it off, ‘f’at’s what you’re asking.” He sighed, and you nodded.

“Did you pack it?”

“No.” He almost scoffed, but he seemed to catch himself when he realized that your question was genuine.

“Are you sure you want to take the couch again?” You broached the topic once more, “You can sleep up here—I’m fine with sleeping downstairs, instead of—”

“Stop,” his voice toed the line of superior rather than friend for a moment, “S’a’right.”

“Ok…” You mumbled in lieu of an apology.

“Quick thinking today,” his voiced turned softer—by his standards, at least. “Impressive.”

“Does this make me a trophy wife?” You smiled, trying not to grow flustered by his praise. “My skillful lies?”

He seemed to waver for a moment, brow creasing slightly as he thought.

“No…” He shook his head, turning to walk out of the room. “‘At’s not what does it.”

~~~

Simon struggled to feign interest in the discussion happening around him; the topic of conversation was just as showy as the country club itself.

Getting closer to the targets felt like a loss, despite the overall net gain.

The men who surrounded him—all with the same bland accents and unflattering polo shirts—pushed him into the reality that he was an outsider, no matter who they thought he was or who he was pretending to be.

It wasn’t often that he felt small, but there was a creeping isolation that came with undercover work. Though he tried not to let it get to him, Simon felt completely alien.

With golf clubs in hand, they spoke about absolutely nothing despite talking so incessantly, occasionally pausing to sip their beers.

Soap’s introductory explanation on how to properly hold a golf club had done little to assist in Simon’s actual gameplay, and he knew he must’ve looked downright miserable despite making an effort to remain upbeat.

That was never his forte, though.

He watched Robert swing his club against the green, and the loud thwack made Simon feel more comfortable; it didn’t echo in the way a gunshot would’ve, but it was a nice disruption from the tedium.

A young woman drove a cart over to the hole they were on, offering an array of concessions. When she left, slowly carting herself away, Robert let out a whistle.

“If I were ten years younger…” He sipped his beer through a smarmy expression.

“What happened to age is just a number?” One of the other men chuckled, and Simon felt himself cringe. “I like them young, they should like me old.”

The other men laughed, clinking their bottles together. They looked at Simon expectantly, and he felt cornered in a way he had never felt before.

“Mm?” He offered, running a thumb over his golf club.

“Ah, c’mon, Jim—wives ain’t here. That girl a prize, or what?” One of them nudged Simon’s arm, and he tensed.

He convinced himself that it was pressure from his obligation; that his disgust at the notion of looking at another woman lay in the act he was attempting to put up, convincing those around him that he was a diligent husband.

But he knew the truth.

“Bonnie’s all I need.” He forced a smile, trying to maintain a level of geniality.

“Give it ten years.” Robert smirked, and the others laughed.

The group of men moved on to the next hole, and Simon trailed behind them.

He already knew he hated these people. The things they did for profit, their willingness to allow everybody else’s lives to go to shit for a few extra dollars in their accounts; it was enraging.

But this anger stemmed from something else, an unfamiliar frustration that blossomed in his chest.

You were enough for him. You always had been, you always would be, and how dare they think you weren’t as perfect as he thought you were.

Not that you even needed to be—flaws and all, he’d take you over anybody; he’d choose you in a heartbeat every time.

For the mission, he reminded himself. For the mission.

~~~

Simon was active in gaining intel for several days in a row—infiltrating the inner circle, seeing what there was to see, hearing what there was to hear.

They trusted him enough to mutter when he was still nearby, and that was good enough, for now.  

Simon had been so busy that you barely saw him, rarely encountered him when he wasn’t on his way into or out of the house.

And the separation, for whatever reason, made you feel anxious. You worried that he was mad, despite the fact that there was no real interaction between the two of you in recent memory that would’ve caused any conflict.

Maybe you had crossed a boundary that you hadn’t realized was there; you had really been gunning for him to sleep in the bedroom—and with or without you there, he clearly had no interest in doing so.

But you kept pushing. You wanted to keep pushing.

You recognized that the anxiety probably stemmed from elsewhere, but you didn’t want to acknowledge your feelings more than you’d already had to lately.

Now, though, you felt alright. Better than alright, even; you felt pretty, and, what’s more, you felt eager.

It was just dinner, a meal with the targets; something that would hopefully see the culmination of Simon putting so much effort into gaining Robert’s trust. But the thought that went into your outfit, your daintily applied makeup, the inner turmoil of what you should do with your hair—it almost felt like a date. One you were excited about; one you’d call your mom to dish about at the end of the night.

You felt girlish; you felt thrilled; you told yourself it was for the mission.

The mission was what was making your heart bounce around in your ribs and your stomach flip with every step.

“Look at ye,” Soap whistled as you walked down the stairs in a dress that was only a bit less tweedy than the outfits you’d been wearing. “Hot date planned, lass?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Something like that.”

“Who’s th’lucky guy?”

“My husband.” You quirked a brow, a shy smile grazing your lips.

“Where’s the man o’the hour, then?” Soap chuckled.

“Probably fixin’ up his hair,” Gaz cut in, smirking, “Now that we can all see it.”

“Perfection takes time, Sergeant.” Simon inserted himself into the conversation, emerging from down the hall and fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt.

It was almost unnerving how good he looked.

You’d become so used to seeing him in fatigues, in a full kit and a balaclava, that seeing him in anything else felt foreign. The past few days had remedied that, if only slightly, and though the outfit he wore now was similar to those he’d been wearing for the past few days, something felt different.

Maybe it was the tautness of the sleeves around his biceps, or the fact that there was no sweater vest in sight, or that he’d gelled his hair back enough to make it seem like he put effort into it without really doing anything at all.

Whatever it was, you swallowed thickly, and tried not to stare.

“Christ…” Soap huffed, a borderline sympathetic look on his face as he gave Simon the once over.

“Never seen a man this handsome, Johnny?” Simon smirked.

“Never seen a man this outta his depth.” Soap countered, laughing.

Simon didn’t bother with a reply, grunting resentfully at Soap before turning to you and effectively shutting Johnny and Kyle out.

“Wired?”

His voice was hushed, as if he intended on keeping the conversation a secret despite the fact that Soap and Gaz had already been more than clued in on what was happening.

You nodded, unable to ignore the sticky, tight feeling of the tape on your skin where you’d planted the wire.

You were worried you might sweat it off, but the dress had a tight bodice; you hoped that if the tape did come unstuck, the fabric would keep it in place.

“Good.” Was his only reply, and then he had his hand on your waist, ushering you out the door.

You tried to think of anything other than the way his palm fit so naturally with the curve of your body.

Simon didn’t mind the perfect fit.

~~~

Dinner was nice, for lack of a better word. That was the only way you knew how to describe it; carb heavy and seasoned. It was better than anything you might get in the mess hall, and you didn’t complain when Deb offered seconds.

The conversation, though, was dreary, and you had to pinch yourself to stay awake. There was something so uninteresting about the lives these people led, despite their involvement in such high-stakes business.

After what felt like ages of trying to seem intrigued by their vacation stories and fine china, Deb piped up with a new topic of discussion.

“Rob just got the car—oh, what do you call it, baby?” She posed the question eagerly, anticipating a reason to brag.

“Wrapped.” Robert shot her a smug look, equally as interested in showing off.

“He got the car wrapped—it’s gorgeous!” Deb fawned over the thought of the newly done-up car.

“Cost a fortune.” Robert rolled his neck, looking at Simon and searching for jealousy in his eyes.

“But so worth it.” Deb swirled her glass of wine before taking a long sip.

“I bet.” Simon nodded slowly, not bothering with eye contact or compliments.

“Why don’t you show Jim, baby?” Deb swallowed the wine in her mouth before turning to Robert, “You boys go out to the garage, leave us to our girl talk.”

“Yes,” you tried not to seem too keen on her suggestion, exchanging a knowing glance with Simon. “That’s a great idea.”

Simon smiled softly, a look that was meant only for you—fashioned so as to express understanding and gratitude.

And maybe something else.

He got up with Robert, following him to the garage.

~~~

“You a big car guy?” Robert closed the door that connected the main house to the garage once Simon had made it over the threshold.

“Not particularly.” Simon shrugged; he’d never even had a car of his own.

“Should get into it—ladies love it.”

“Do they?” Simon smirked.

“You’d be surprised by how much a woman appreciates a nice set of wheels.” Robert laughed.

Simon bit his tongue; it was clear that this man knew nothing about women—then again, neither did Simon, so he just nodded through his doubts.

Robert smacked a hand down on the hood of the car. It was bright red, almost glittery, and Simon didn’t understand why it was anything to brag about.

“S’nice.” He offered, letting his eyes trail over the entire vehicle before looking back up at Robert.

“Hope so. Cost a pretty fuckin’ penny.”

“You mentioned.” Simon grunted, though he tried his best to make it seem lighthearted.

There was a pause then, and Simon waited to see if the conversation wouldn’t move; he wanted to make sure he had Robert exactly where he wanted him.

He might not know women, but Simon knew a rat when he encountered one.

“How’d you do it?” Simon’s tone bordered aloof; he let his gaze fall over the car once more, attempting to seem almost disconnected by his interest in the flashy color.

“What?” Robert leaned against the car.

“Afford it.”

“Saved up,” Robert sighed and picked his nails, “Worked for it.”

Simon nodded. “What was it you said you do f’work?”

“IT.” Robert scoffed, eyes darting over Simon’s form.

He seemed impatient, somewhat antsy; either Robert was onto this sting, or he was about to spill.

“Y’know…I been thinking, Jim,” Robert spoke slowly, straightening up from his spot on the car to look Simon in the eyes. “Don’t seem to be out of the house much unless you’re with me and the other fellas.”

“Solitary job,” Simon tilted his head, “Nice house.”

“Uh-huh,” Robert sucked his teeth for a moment before continuing. “Your wife’s a real peach—real prize.”

“She is,” Simon felt the words slip from his mouth without thinking about it, “She’s my everything.”

He barely heard himself, but he knew he’d said it, and he knew it was true, sham marriage or not.

“Never seem to wanna plant one on her.”

If only you knew, you bastard. Simon kept the thought to himself, rolling his eyes at himself; now wasn’t the time.

“Shy.” Simon offered.

“You or her?”

Simon shrugged; he didn’t care if his cover was blown now. He knew what was happening—he’d been here before, plenty of times, and he’d be here again.

He was far from scared, despite the clear attempts of intimidation on Robert’s part.

Robert seemed comforted by Simon’s casual air; the lack of any obvious fear made him settle.

He returned to a more reserved, trusting state, and Simon could only infer that the grilling was a matter of initiation—a poor method to weed out those who weren’t able to handle the truth.

“I—I like you, Jim,” Robert nodded, gaze glued to the floor and chin grazing his chest as he spoke. “I do.”

“I’m glad,” Simon grit his teeth. “Happy to have a friend in the area. Good start.”

Lure flies with honey, that was the saying. Simon was doing just that, however frustratingly slow-going it was.

“If I show you something—tell you something…” Robert seemed to ponder aloud, not quite looking at Simon as he spoke, his gaze now settled vaguely into the distance. “You be able to keep a secret?” His voice was low, his tone almost sour.

“Yeah,” Simon nodded, waiting. “Sure.”

“Sure,” Robert scoffed, “Need a yes or a no.”

“Yes,” Simon couldn’t help the smirk that crept over his face now. “Yes, I can keep a secret.”

“Good.”

Robert walked to the far wall of the garage. Simon watched on as he popped the lid off of one of the various paint cans that littered a shelf, digging around in it only to pull out a slip of paper.

Easy access: anybody could’ve reached in and found it. Further proof to Simon that these people had no clue what they were doing.

Robert handed the paper to Simon. It was obviously some sort of blueprint; an outline, incredibly amateur. But it was evidence of deeper plans.

A bomb of some kind, but messy and unfinished.

“What’s’is?” Simon feigned ignorance—the more Robert talked, the more a takedown was warranted.

“You never seen a bomb before?” Robert furrowed his brow.

“What’s it for?” Simon pressed on.

“What’s with the questions?” Robert shot back.

“’Umor me.”

Robert exhaled slowly, huffing into the air as he walked around Simon, practically stalking him.

“You wanna know how I could afford a car like that?” Robert laughed, gesturing to the garish car, “How I can afford a wife like mine?” He paused, grabbing the paper from Simon’s hand. “It’s all money, Jim—just without the trail.”

“What are you saying?” Simon was playing a little fast and loose now, but he was eager to get this over with.

“I’m saying,” Robert put the blueprint back into the paint can and sealed it shut again, “If you say anything about this, I’ll gut you.”

Robert walked back over to Simon, putting his hands in his pockets.

“What?” Simon quirked a brow, trying desperately to keep his features under control as his lips threatened to curl upwards into a smile.

Suddenly, Robert lunged, and Simon’s back was against the wall; a small knife pressed to his throat.

He almost allowed himself the joy of kicking Robert’s ass, finishing this once and for all, but he knew better.

Instead, he just stared; this was far from a dire situation. He’d had guns to his head and landmines underfoot—a dull Swiss army knife was hardly comparable.

Still, he feigned shock, putting his hands up and freezing.  

“You tell me right now if this is something you don’t think you can handle,” Robert was growling, “You tell me right now if you’re gonna cry like a bitch about this to your wife—you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Simon swallowed, and the blade dug against his Adam’s apple.

“This is bigger than you. This is something that’ll give people like us a leg up,” Robert rambled, “Give us everything.”

People like us. Simon missed his gun.

“So you’re building a bomb.” Simon kept his voice above a whisper to ensure the mic picked it up.

“That’s it.” Robert nodded.

“Why?”

“Stop with the fucking questions!” Robert was growing more agitated by the second, “You wearin’ a wire?”

“Why would I be wearing a wire?” Simon deadpanned.

“Fuck!”

Rob dropped the knife from Simon’s throat for a brief moment to reset his grip as his palms grew sweaty, quickly replacing it with a bit more pressure.

“Alright—alright. Listen…we got connections. Ok? Down in Germany, in Britain—that’s your neck of the woods, right?”

Robert smiled, as if adding humor to the situation would lessen the impact of holding a knife to Simon’s throat.

“Gonna target the airports.” Robert’s eyes were dark, but deeply uncertain.

“The airports?” Simon had a feeling that was coming—same old tired story, same old awkward plan.

“Major hubs in every country. Get to New York, London—guys in Germany can get this to Frankfurt,” Robert wiped his forehead with the back of his free hand, “No movement through the big city hubs, harder to smuggle shit in—no competition.”

Christ. This was hardly worth the FBI’s time, let alone the Task Force’s; these people had no idea what they were doing. This was the most hastily tacked together plan Simon had ever heard—not to mention completely batshit insane, and not at all logical.

“In a year, we’ll be rich. Get access to our own planes—drones, we’ll be the biggest cartel in the country.”

“Right.” Simon couldn’t stop his voice from taking on an amused lilt.

“So…you in?”

~~~

“Blond, British—and he’s so tall!" Deb shook her head with a giggle. "You are one lucky girl.”

Once Simon had followed Robert out, you found that Deb was serious about the aforementioned girl talk.

Eagerly, she poked and prodded into your personal life. It wasn’t as if you cared, but it was hard to keep your lies straight when you were faced with question after question.

At least she was tipsy—that made it easier for you to get away with things on the off-chance that you slipped up.

“Can’t complain.” Your face burned in response to the heaps of praise Deb lauded Ghost’s husband alter ego with.

“How’d you meet him?” Deb’s eyes went wide, and for a moment she looked so young, so excited. “Was it love at first sight—oh! I love that.”

She seemed to be filling in the blanks herself, and you played along.

“Something like that, yeah.” You sighed.

Deb topped off your glass of wine, and you smiled.

In another life—maybe the one where Simon had a German Shephard—you thought you might be friends with Deb for real; you were in a book club together, you drank together on Saturdays and gossiped about the other families in town.

“That’s so sweet—I love it. Love it!” She topped her own glass off. “Have you thought about kids? Got that nice big house now.”

“I…we haven’t really talked about it…”

You yourself had never considered children an option—not at the moment, anyway.

Maybe someday. Maybe when you retired; maybe if you found someone who understood all the nightmares and the adrenaline; maybe when the time was right, and the stars aligned, and you could trust yourself to properly hold an infant. 

You dared, momentarily, to imagine Simon as a father—a father to your children. Chubby babies with his piercing gaze; fat little hands that grabbed at his nose, traced his scars.

Maybe you did want kids.

“Honey, it’s just us,” Deb leaned forward over the table, “Is he…you know…?”

You stared blankly at her.

She sighed, almost giggling. “He shooting blanks? Cause Rob—”

You almost spat out your wine.

“No! No—no, it’s not—” You exhaled through a surprised smile, “…We really just...haven’t thought about it.”

“You’re young,” Deb shrugged, “There’s time.”

There was a pause as you both sipped your wine.

“So,” she glanced up at you with a smirk, “He’s good in bed, then?”

You looked at her like a deer in headlights. You tried to think of a lie, wondering if you could stall for time by chugging the wine in your glass.

“I mean—he certainly looks it. You don’t have to worry about me, but some of the women in this town—God, they’ll be all over him if they get the chance.” Deb continued, her animated gestures threatening to spill the wine over the rim of her glass.

You felt a flare of unwarranted jealousy at the thought of Simon being interested in other women; of other women being interested in him.

“I’m not worried.” You lied, unsure of why it was a lie.

Deb leaned in even further, and you could see every eyelash where they connected to her eyelid.

“He go down on you?”

Now, you did chug what was in your glass.

Before you had time to answer, Simon and Robert walked back into the dining room.

Something was wrong. Robert looked tense, but Simon seemed overly casual.

Simon was never casual.

“Grab y’coat, love,” Simon tilted his head forward a bit, which struck you as odd, but you knew better than to question it. “S’get on our way.”

“Oh,” you pouted, trying to make it seem as though you were disappointed to part from the other couple. “Alright.”

“Thank you for having us,” Simon shook Robert’s hand, and maybe his grip was a little stronger than necessary. “Was lovely. Really.”

“Come back soon!” Deb stood, swaying a bit as she placed both her hands on Simon’s outstretched one, “This was so fun.”

Robert said nothing, grunting a farewell as Simon shuffled you to the front door and out of the house.

You didn’t like how silent he was being as he walked you to the car. It wasn’t out of character—he was always quiet. But this silence seemed more anxious than anything.

You found your voice when you had gotten a good few yards from the house.

“Jim…?”

“Sh.” Simon turned his face towards you, and it was then that you realized he was bleeding from a cut on his neck.

“Jim.” You pressed on, uncertain about what to call him when you were in this strange limbo.

“Shut up.” He hissed, opening the passenger door and all but pushing you in.

When he took his seat behind the wheel, you glared at him.

“Lieutenant, you’re bleeding.”

“Not a word till we get home.” Simon was whispering.

Home. It almost felt real for a moment.

When you didn’t respond, he grabbed your face to hammer his point in.

“Got it?”

You huffed at him, and he dropped his hand. For a split second, you were tempted to ask him to replace it; to continue to hold you, even in the slightly callous way, just because.

Instead, you turned to stare out the window as he put the car in drive.

~~~

The house was calm; the lights were off, and the only sound was the faint hum of the monitors scattered about. Everybody else had already gone to bed, that much was clear.

The stillness left you and Simon to yourselves, and you weren’t sure whether or not that was a good thing.

Simon closed the door behind himself, stretching his shoulders back and undoing the top two buttons on his shirt.

“Got what we need.” He said simply, rolling his neck.

“Why’d you get all paranoid back there?” You turned to him, your discontent with his demand for silence in the car overpowering your interest in what he’d uncovered.

“’Ad to be certain.”

“About…?”

“We’re bugging ‘em—s’not crazy to think they might be doin’ the same to us.” Simon tilted his gaze down at you, and you sighed.

He had a point.

“You…” You eyed the nick on his throat with uncertainty. “You got what we need?”

Simon nodded as he untucked his shirt and peeled the tape off the wire, “Gotta make sure the mic picked it up.”

“You’re bleeding.” You mentioned once more.

“S’fine.”

“LT.”

“Enough.”

You stared at each other, tense.

“Let me clean it, at least.”

“S’not necessary.” 

“…Simon…”

“What?”

You hesitated, looking down at the floor before you could find the confidence to make eye contact.

You didn’t want to come off as desperate.

“Let’s…let’s go upstairs,” you sighed, “Let’s listen to the tape, let me just…wipe it off.” You tilted your head at him, hoping he could see that this was important to you.

Not that you knew why it was so important.

He surrendered with a sigh, dropping his head and gesturing forward with his hands. You led him up the stairs.

~~~

You put the tape into the slot, hitting play before turning your attention to Simon.

He sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread; he’d undone a third button on his shirt, and you tried not to ogle his chest.

You’d managed to locate a first aid kit, but upon closer inspection of Simon’s scrape, all you really needed was Neosporin and a band aid.

You moved to stand between his knees, fingers drifting to his chin and encouraging him to tilt his head back as you began gently cleaning the scratch and applying the Neosporin.

“Shallow.” You muttered, now clearly able to see that this was a nothing—something you’d talked up to yourself, thinking it would be more serious than it was.

He had been right—it wasn’t a big deal. But you still felt a weird obligation to patch him up, and there was a large chance that what compelled you to do so was the promise of being able to touch him.

“Mm.” Simon grunted, and you could feel the vibrations move through his throat.

You fell silent, listening to the tape.

Your hands went shaky as you heard how Robert interrogated Simon—not that it was really grounds for any anxiety; Simon could hold his own just fine, and Robert clearly wasn’t well versed in grilling someone.

“Your wife’s a real peach—real prize.”

“She is. She’s my everything.”

You chanced a glance up at Simon upon hearing his words played back on the recording.

He was already looking back at you, and even without the mask, his face was unreadable.

He waved off your attempt to put a small bandage on his scratch, and even so, you found yourself reluctant to leave your place between his legs. So you stayed, and you listened back to the whole tape like that; him sitting on the bed, you standing awkwardly in front of him.

When the tape looped, you sighed, walking over to remove it from the slot. You found a safe space for it in your luggage.

“Told you.” He seemed smug, but you knew it was in jest.  

You looked at him, rolling your eyes.

“Yes, well—thank you, LT.”

“Don’t ‘ave to be my wife anymore.” His words were sudden, and you felt a bit hurt by his apparent eagerness to be rid of this partnership.

Simon wasn’t entirely sure why he said it. He spoke mostly out of disappointment; he liked having you as his wife, even if it was pretend.

He liked to have something tangible, something that proved he could do it, someday. He liked having you. And maybe, in his own, socially awkward way, he was trying to gauge your interest; look for indicators in your reaction to see if his affection for you was one-sided.

“It’s a shame,” you laughed nervously, “I was just getting used to it.”

He smirked, still looking at you.

“Glad you got what we needed,” you were suddenly very set on changing the subject. “Deb wouldn’t talk about anything important.”

“Girl talk.” Simon echoed Deb’s earlier sentiment with a barely-there smile.

“She only cared about the kind of sex you and I have.” You winced as soon as you said it—so much for veering the conversation into less awkward territory.

“What’d you tell ‘er?” Simon seemed genuinely curious now, and you couldn’t help but imagine what you would’ve said to Deb had this been a real marriage.

“Told her it’s just pathetic missionary,” you smirked, “And I always fake it.”

Simon chuckled lowly, shaking his head.

“Let’s ‘ear it.”

“What?” Your brow furrowed.

“Tape,” he nodded to the tape player. “Showed you mine, yeah?”

“Ghost—”

“None o’that,” he huffed, smirking. “C’mon.”

You hesitated, but did as he instructed.

There was a sick part of you that was somewhat eager to see what he would do when faced with the questions you’d been barraged with.

You managed to reach into the neckline of your dress, peeling the wire from your skin. You put the tape into the machine and hit play.

This time, you stayed next to the tape player, leaning against the wall and watching Simon.

You snuck glances at him while the tape played, alternating between keeping your gaze on the floor and letting your eyes dart up at him. It was so unimportant—such awkward lies told by your recorded voice.

But you wondered if he could see through it all.

When you heard Deb on the tape player asking whether Simon went down on you or not, followed by Simon and Robert re-entering the room, you popped the tape from the slot.

“See?” You huffed as you tossed the tape into your luggage alongside the other one. “Nothing important.”

“Y’never answered ‘er.” Simon’s voice was low, almost hesitant.

“Hm?” You looked up at him, confused.

“Never answered ‘er question,” he tilted his head back, eying you up in your entirety. “Do I?”

“You…” You felt warm.

“C’mon,” he smirked, “Part o'the backstory, yeah?”

“I don’t…” You breathed, “I didn’t think that far.”

“D’you want me to?”

“To think up a backstory about our sex life?” You scoffed.

“To go down on you.” His voice was suddenly serious, and the low tone he had taken morphed from nervous to downright possessive.

You felt your heart flip, or maybe it was your stomach; your body felt too tingly to tell what was what anymore.

“I…” You took a breath, nodding slowly. “Yes.”

Simon exhaled audibly, maybe a sigh of pride. He clapped a hand down on his thigh, encouraging you to take a seat on his lap.

You practically tiptoed to him, perching yourself on his thigh and letting him wrap an arm around your waist. His other hand fiddled with the hem of your dress where it rested, just above your knee, and the subtle gesture made your pulse pick up.

He leaned in, not to kiss you, but to appreciate your proximity. You could feel his breath against your neck, your jaw; he paused just below your ear, pulling back to look down at you.

“Look pretty,” he muttered, “Don’t think I told you ‘at yet tonight.”

“Thank you…” You found the confidence to bring a hand up to his collar, fiddling with the unbuttoned part of his shirt. You still couldn’t look at him, not trusting yourself to remain collected beneath his gaze.

He smiled softly, bringing his fingers to your chin and tilting your face up to him.

“You gettin’ shy on me, Mrs. Riley?”

You swallowed, unable to stop the way your eyelids fluttered in response to his touch.

“No,” you sucked in a breath. “Just—don’t usually hear things like that from you.”

“Y’like it?” He quirked a brow, still smiling.

“Yeah,” you nodded as best you could with his hand beneath your chin. “I do.”

“Good,” he nodded back at you. “S’good…Do it more often, then.”

There was a moment of incredibly charged silence between the two of you before he finally leaned in to kiss you.

It was slow, but eager; you wrapped your arms around his neck, and he slipped his tongue past your parted lips once you’d matched the pace of his movements.

You allowed yourself the same kind exploration, pushing your tongue against his, licking into his mouth just as he did to you. You let your spit mingle, breath turning heavy when Simon brought both of his hands to your waist.

You trailed your palms from behind his neck to his chest, running your hands over the bit of exposed flesh his semi-unbuttoned shirt allowed, tugging gently on the fabric. Simon let out a quiet groan, and it spurred you on; you dipped your fingers beneath his collar, grazing your nails over his skin.

His hands wandered over your back, finding the zipper on your dress and toying with it. You made a sound of approval, soft and breathy against his lips, as a go-ahead for him to strip you of the layer. He tugged the zipper down, and you let the top of the dress fall over your shoulders, exposing your front to him.

He didn’t even look at your bare chest, too focused on pressing his mouth to yours. You, in turn, pushed your body against his—a subtle gesture, one to encourage him to lie down, and it worked well enough; he leaned back on his forearms, breaking the kiss to admire you as you looked down at him.

“Take it off, sweetheart.” He reached a hand up to fiddle with one of the straps of your dress where it hung loose over your arm.

Somewhat reluctant to rise from his lap, so content with the closeness, you obliged nonetheless.

You let the fabric of the dress pool around your feet, leaving you completely bare, save for the basic panties you had on.

Simon looked unbelievably pleased as he drank you in.

“Got a damn good-looking wife.” He teased, sitting up and reaching out to run his hand over your side.

“Yeah?” You looked down at him, responding in a similarly playful tone. “Your everything?”

“Yeah…” Simon glanced up at you, cold stare reduced to something more tender, though still serious, “Yeah, ‘at’s right.”

You smiled softly, unsure of how to respond.

Simon busied himself, playing with the waistband of your underwear.

He hooked his fingers beneath the elastic and slid your panties down your legs, exposing your core to the temperate air of the bedroom. You stepped out of them, along with your dress, and waited with bated breath for his next move.

He gripped your thighs, enjoying the warmth of your body and the sight before him; you could feel his breath fan against your stomach, his eyes glued to your form.

“Sit,” Simon commanded as he rose from his seat on the edge of the bed. “Here. C’mon.”

You took the spot where he had previously been sitting, pressing your thighs together and staring up at him with uncertainty.

With little hesitation, Simon moved to kneel before you, placing a hand on one of your knees.

“Open.”

He seemed focused, determined, and the imbalance of his title and the fact that he remained fully clothed wasn’t lost on you; it made your heart beat a little faster, head swimming with desire despite the as yet gentle, chaste touches he’d laid upon you.

You spread your legs for him, and he made a sound akin to a soft growl. He pressed a kiss to your knee before moving up your leg, nipping at the plush skin of your thigh and pulling breathy gasps from you as you watched him move further up your body.

By the time you could feel his breath fanning your bare cunt, you had grown impatient, fingers lacing in his hair and tugging gently as you combed through the strands. Simon huffed a shaky breath, glancing up at you with a look that verged a sneer.

“Fuckin’ needy,” he whispered, and you could feel the displaced air around your body as he spoke, “Use y’fuckin’ words if you want it so bad, love.”

“Simon…” You let your eyes flutter closed, letting the outline of him between your thighs fall in and out of focus, “Please…like you said you would.”

“Say it.” He was demanding, desperate to hear the words fall from your lips.

“Go—go down on me. Taste me. Just like you promised.” You felt pathetic begging for it, but you didn’t really mind, given the circumstances.

You tried to keep your voice even, but the anticipation was killing you. He smirked, a subtle expression, as he leaned his face forward into your cunt.

“Man o’my word.” He quirked a brow before all but diving into you with his tongue.

You inhaled a gasp, a choked sound that hit the back of your throat sharply. Still pulling gently on his hair, you spread your legs even wider, hungry for the feeling of his tongue on your cunt.

“Fuck—” You couldn’t find the words, content to offer brief curses of gratitude while he flicked his tongue over your clit.

He teased the bud, flattening his tongue over you before pulling back to delicately trace it with the muscle.

He wrapped his lips around you, sucking and applying pressure to varying degrees while occasionally letting his teeth threaten to close around you. It offered a sort of sinful thrill; the suspense of whether or not he’d really bite down made your back arch as you watched him.

When he pulled his mouth off of your clit, he licked a stripe up your slit before using his tongue to tease your entrance, slowly tracing your hole before pushing into you.

Simon looked drunk off you; eyes closed and groaning softly as he licked into the warmth of your cunt. He collected your slick, swallowing it as if it were a sort of heavenly ambrosia.

“Christ,” Simon pulled back for a moment, bringing a hand down to your core and spreading the messy combination of spit and slick around, admiring how you glistened. “Fuckin’ soaked, sweetheart, look’t you.”

You bucked your hips with a whimper when he swiped over your clit, and he growled at the reaction.

“You need more?” He looked so smug, “Give you a finger, see ‘ow much you can take?”

“Yes.” You breathed the one-word response, looking down at him with half-lidded eyes.

He growled at your enthusiasm, removing his hand to lick one more stripe up your cunt before pressing his middle finger to your hole and slowly pushing in.

“Fuck,” he muttered, entranced by the way you wrapped around the digit, “So fucking tight.”

He thrust his finger down to his knuckle, curling the digit upwards and letting it dance over your most tender spot.

You whined, reaching for his wrist and lazily tugging at it.

“'At's’it,” he finally tore his gaze from your cunt, “You enjoying y’self, sweetheart? You feel nice?”

“Simon I—I’m gonna cum.” You gasped as he leaned forward again to press his tongue to your clit.

“Nah, no you’re not,” Simon shook his head with a smirk, “Gonna give y’another—not fair ‘f my girl only gets to cum on one finger, yeah?”

You just mewled, letting your body fall back onto the mattress and raising your hips in submission.

Simon pressed kisses to your inner thigh as he pulled his hand back, giving himself the space to push another finger into you. He followed the same pattern, curling them up against your g-spot, sucking eagerly on your clit and watching you squirm from the stimulation.

“Still wanna cum f’me, sweet girl?” The thrust of his fingers slowed, focusing all of his energy on your sweet spot, twisting his wrist to amplify the squelch of your cunt. “Wanna show me 'ow this pretty cunt can squeeze me nice ‘n’tight?”

“Ye—es,” you sighed, “Simon, just like—like that.”

“Right ‘ere, yeah?” Simon’s gaze darted between your face and your core, as if he couldn’t decide which view was prettier. “C’mon, love—right on my 'and like this, lemme taste it.”

He brought his mouth down to you again, sucking down hard and speeding up the pace of his fingers again. He made a point to nudge your delicate spot every time, in sync with the pressure he put on your clit.

Your back arched, writhing in pleasure under him and letting your orgasm consume you all at once; it was white-hot, a culmination of your longing for him, coupled with the speed at which he’d let his walls down and allowed you the pleasure of having him.

Your legs trembled, muscles tensing rhythmically as you gasped through your high and the shivered aftershocks.

“Look’t ‘at,” Simon groaned, still nestled between your legs, “Fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart.”

You reached down to comb your hand through his hair. When he continued lapping at your slick, nose nudging your clit and refusing to let up until the experience bordered overstimulation, you yanked lightly at the strands between your fingers.

“Right,” he sighed, allowing you to pull him away from your core and placing kisses on your inner thigh instead. “Can’t get enough, love.”

“Hardly an issue…” You mumbled, staring down at him with your lust-blown eyes, cheeks flushed.

He continued to nip at the skin of your legs, alternating between each of your thighs and occasionally pulling away to admire the subtle marks his teeth left on you.

It gave you enough time to recover from your release. But just as soon as the heat in your core began to quell, you were hit with a fresh ache between your legs, amplified by his breath fanning your skin and the position he remained in, so close to where you still wanted him.

“Simon…” You sighed, propping yourself up on your elbows to gaze down at him properly.

He managed to tear himself away from you, replacing his mouth with his hands and pressing his palms soothingly against the tops of your thighs as he analyzed your expression.

He didn’t respond, staring up at you expectantly and waiting for you to continue.

“Give me more.” Your voice didn’t falter now, well aware of what you wanted and what you hoped to receive.

“You givin’ orders now, sweetheart?” He chuckled lowly, letting his fingers press a bit harder into the plush flesh of your thighs.

“Not as your subordinate,” you smiled shyly, “As your wife.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to read his expression; his eyes seemed to darken just as much as his smirk widened.

“…Please?” You added in an effort to get him to respond, whether it be verbally or physically.

“S’right,” he nodded, “Knew my wife ‘ad better manners 'an my Sergeant.”

You laughed softly at his words, appreciating the uncharacteristically lighthearted approach he seemed to be taking.

But he cut your giggles off, forcing you to replace them with a gasp as he grabbed you by the ankles and stood.

“Y’want it like this?” He practically cooed, though his voice was sweet to a mocking degree, “Lemme fuck you out while you lay ‘ere?”

He rested your legs on his chest, positioning himself in a more than suggestive manner as he pressed his hips to the back of your thighs.

“S’at what you want, love? Or did you want me to bend y’over?” He let your legs fall, leaning over you so that he was close enough to let his nose press against your cheek. “Treat my sweet wife like a fuckin’ whore…”

Your mouth felt dry, breath hitching in your throat at the apparent promise he was making to treat you as gently or as roughly as you deemed fit.

“You…” You felt lost for words, turning your face and letting your nose bump his. “Bend me over.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he breathed his words softly. “Can’t leave my girl wanting.”

He left feather-light kisses over your jawline, maneuvering his hands under you to haul you up and flip you onto your stomach. You let out a soft grunt, content to allow him to manipulate your form and position to his liking.

“Christ, ‘at’s a sight…” Simon ran a hand over the curve of your ass after he’d helped you settle, his calloused fingers rubbing roughly against your softer flesh.

You laughed softly—at the gesture, at his words. There was comfort in knowing him this way; in seeing the man with the mask fall out of his stoic demeanor and into something so much more gracious and inviting.

You pushed back against his hand, chasing the heat and weight of his palm and whining slightly as you became impatient at his lack of action.

Simon tsked softly, now using both hands to knead your ass.

“Gave y’what you wanted, love,” he gave your ass a light smack, and your whine caught in your throat. “Lend me some patience, yeah? Wanna admire what’s mine.”

The sheer avidity in his voice, the quiet tone in which his possessive words spilled out, made you exhale a dreamy sigh as you surrendered to his touch.

You stretched your arms out in front of you on the mattress, resting your head on your bicep and letting your eyes drift closed.

Simon’s breath was hot against your skin, and there was a moment where you wondered if he was going to ignore your pleas and instead use this time to go down on you again—not that you would complain, but it was amusing to think that a man so tough in stature could be so easily pussy whipped.

Instead, though, after what felt like ages of him simply sweeping his hands over your body, kneading your flesh and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the back of your thighs, he seemed to vanish from behind you.

You emitted a quiet whimper in confusion, craning your neck in an attempt to look back at him from where you lay spread out on the mattress.

Simon shushed you softly, pressing his hand to the small of your back.

“Not leavin’ you,” he spoke gleefully through a growl, thrilled by your need for him. “But I can’t fuck you with my trousers done up, sweetheart.”

You nodded lazily, listening to him unfasten his pants and pull his cock from its confines.

The waiting was the worst part; you had already done so much waiting for him in the time that you’d known him.

Still, the building suspense was oddly delicious, forcing your body to acknowledge that you would finally, finally, be getting what you’d been craving.

You whined when Simon finally offered more contact, placing his cock between your ass cheeks and rocking his hips.

He was heavy against you, and the warm, smooth skin of his length urged a new flood of arousal throughout your body.

You could feel the fabric of his pants rub against the back of your thighs, and you subconsciously pushed yourself back towards him to chase the implication of his power.

“Gonna go nice ‘nd slow f’you, love.” Simon moved, fisting his cock and aligning himself with your entrance.

You sucked in a breath. “Don’t have to…”

“Can’t go breakin’ my wife in 'alf.” He answered frankly, and you wanted to point out his ego in the moment, but as his cockhead nudged your hole, you forgot all about chastising him.

“Simon—”

“Easy, sweetheart…” Simon sunk into you slowly, as he’d promised; his hands guiding your hips backwards onto him. “Jus’ take what I give you.”

You let out a shaky breath when he bottomed out, mewling softly into the bedspread as you grew accustomed to the intrusion of his cock inside you.

“’Ere you go,” he groaned, looking down to get a proper eyeful of your cunt wrapped snugly around him. “Feel nice, sweetheart?”

“Y—eah,” you kept your face buried in the comforter, the pleasure of the stretch absolutely overwhelming. “S’so good…”

“I know.” Even with your back to him, you knew he was smirking.

He pulled out quickly, eager to get it over with so that he could bury his cock back inside of you. He thrust back into you just as fast, swallowing a moan as he was hit with the pleasure that was being hugged by the warmth of your cunt.

“Fuck,” he swallowed a moan, tossing his head back, “Such a fucking—you got the most perfect cunt, sweetheart. Made f’me.”

“For you,” you moved your head, tilting your face up in a poor attempt to look at him behind you. “For you, Simon.”

“’At’s right.” His grip seemed to tighten on your hips, possessive to the point of leaving his fingerprints on your skin.

Maybe it was the way you said his name with such fierce desire, undercut only by your quiet whimpers; maybe it was your murmured promise: for him, and only him. Something about this—about you—had him completely at your beck and call, no matter what the reason.

He moved one of his hands to press against the top of your back, pushing you down and forcing your back to arch.

“What a pretty fuckin’ picture,” his thrusts were growing sloppy in the midst of his enjoyment, and he reeled himself in slightly as he spoke. “So easy to fuck you out, sweetheart—little slut of a ‘ousewife, you are.”

The position allowed him to fuck into you deeper, his cock pounding your cervix with every thrust of his hips.

You gripped the bedspread, desperate to ground yourself in the haze of such intense bliss.

“Simon—,” you felt your eyes roll back as you tried to maintain a level of composure so that you could get your words out. “So fucking—y-you’re so deep, Simon.”

“Yeah, you say my fucking name,” he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “You let everyone ‘ear who’s nice ‘n’deep in your pretty cunt.”

“S—imon!” You heeded his request, though you needed no instruction.

He straightened up, and his speed steadily increased.

You felt a heady sort of pleasure that traveled throughout your body and all but turned off your brain. Babbling, you reached back for him as best you could.

“What d’you need, sweet girl?” Simon took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over your palm. “’M right ‘ere.”

“…See you…” you tried to verbalize your want. “Wanna—see you.”

Simon’s hips slowed, stilling inside of you as he took in your request.

“You wanna see?” He wasn’t asking as if he’d misheard; he was teasing, drawing the scenario out before he inevitably gave into you. “Wanna watch yourself get fucked, love? Act like a whore while I treat you like one?”

You moaned in lieu of any real response, nodding against the mattress.

“Prefer to see my face, or my cock?” He queried, once again leaning forward to press kisses to your shoulder.

For some reason, although the latter option was absolutely something you’d like to see—a front row seat, watching him fuck you senseless—you felt yourself much more eager to watch him; to view the pleasure on his face as a mirror of your own enjoyment.

You wanted a domestic level of intimacy, something filthy but so pure, in its own right.

“Let me see your face, Simon,” you whined, “Please.”

He let out a sharp breath, not quite a laugh but in the same realm.

“Hoping you’d say ‘at.” Simon slid his hands down your body to grab your waist, using his grip as leverage to slowly pull himself out of you.

You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, and he stroked his palm over your back in an apparent effort to soothe you.

“C’mon. S’get you up.” He squeezed your sides, encouraging you to flip over onto the mattress.

Just as you settled onto your back, Simon moved away, dropping himself onto the bed and patting his thigh.

You turned to face him as best you could, still hazy with lust, and shot him a curious look.

“Come sit, sweetheart,” he smirked down at you, “Wanna see how you look bouncin’ on my cock.”

You smiled, “You just want me to do all the work.”

“Promise no wife o’mine’s gonna be left wanting,” Simon quirked a brow at you, leaning forward to coax you over to him. “’Less y’keep talking back like ‘at.”

You fell into his arms, allowing him to pull you onto his lap. You rolled your hips against his cock, the zipper and fabric of his pants biting gently at the flesh of your ass as you made yourself comfortable.

“All the work,” Simon huffed, reaching between your bodies to align himself with you again; you lifted your hips to provide the necessary space. “Kinda shit husband d’you think I am?”

“You—fuck—” Any retort you’d had planned was immediately subdued when he pushed you down onto his length, one hand on your hip while the other splayed out over your ribcage to keep you balanced on top of him.

“Can you manage, sweetheart?” He was teasing again, taunting you as you tried to compose yourself by pressing your hands onto his chest.

“It…” you breathed, refamiliarizing yourself with the stretch of his cock nestled deep inside of you. “Simon…”

You rocked your hips slowly, grinding down on him and letting him open you up; enjoying the tingling pressure of having him buried in your cunt.

“What’s’at?” He reached up, pressing his thumb to your bottom lip.

“I—” you kissed the pad of his thumb, gaze drifting down to his face. “I love it.”

Simon grit his teeth, pushing his thumb between your lips and letting his jaw fall open when you began to suck eagerly on the digit.

“Yeah…” His eyes drifted from your face to your figure, his free hand rubbing up and down your side as he began to pull you back and forth over him.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth, trailing the wet digit over your nipples and watching them pebble before he placed the hand on your thigh, his other hand still rubbing over your side.

Your head fell back, breath coming out in short puffs. His control was easy, comfortable to be under, and the occasional twitch of his fingers when he felt you clench around his cock was something you could get used to.

When you’d become accustomed to the position, you used your hands on his chest as resistance to push yourself up and down on his length.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart—look’t ‘at…” Simon’s voice was raspy, chest heaving as he watched you bounce your hips over his cock. “Pretty cunt’s making a fuckin’ mess on me.”

You chanced a glance down, craning your neck to get a proper look at his cock as it disappeared into you.

He was right—it was messy; slick and wet, you coated him with your arousal. You could feel the stickiness between your thighs and under your ass when you ground yourself down against him.

Simon tsked, reaching up to wrap a hand loosely around your throat, refocusing your attention on his face.

“Said you wanted t’see my face, love,” he smirked up at you, forcing the smug look as best he could through the daze of having you ride him. “You fuckin’ look at me, then.”

You moaned, eyes fluttering closed at the way his fingers felt around your neck before you quickly opened them to stare down at him.

He dropped the hand from your throat, but it stayed on your skin, roaming your body and exploring every dimple and curve of you.

“Perfect,” he was muttering to himself now, admiring you in a way that felt so unfamiliar but so natural to the both of you. “You’re fucking perfect. My sweet girl—fuckin’ incredible.”

You whined, feeling as though you could cry.

His actions were one thing; his touch, the way he raised his hips to meet you, chasing the warmth of your cunt and burying his fingers into your flesh. But the words he spoke, the tenderness you were receiving from such a typically cold man—one you’d yearned for, one you’d assumed would never reciprocate your hunger for a decent touch, a kiss—made you feel a sweeping sense of pride; a sort of validation that made your ears warm and your heart stutter happily.

It was almost too much, and you could feel the spring in your abdomen tense in the same way the muscles in your thighs did as the exertion of riding him became more than a little tiring for you.

But Simon knew—intuitive to a frightening degree—and as your hips stuttered above him, he wrapped his arms around you, pressing a hand to your back and coaxing you to curl against his chest.

“So good, sweetheart,” he mumbled into your hair, arms still wrapped around you as he bucked his hips. “Perfect little wife, did your best, yeah? Ridin’ me so nice, let me put in the work now, right?”

You whimpered into the crook of his neck, relishing in the way he used your cunt like a toy for himself; hands moving to your hips to keep you steady, he fucked into you at a much faster pace, but the comfort you found lying on his chest was unparalleled.

When he pushed you down a bit rougher, letting the head of his cock punch into your cervix and making you let out a mewl of pained contentment, your jaw went slack. You felt drool pooling beneath your cheek and over the shoulder of his shirt.

Simon all but laughed when he felt the damp spot on his shirt, craning his neck to smile at you as he slowed the pace of his thrusts enough to reach up and tug you back gently by the hair. He forced your gaze on his, letting his voice take on a sweet, taunting lilt.

“What would the ladies in the neighborhood say if they saw you dirtying my clothes like this?” He cooed, pushing his cock into you so slowly that you could feel your walls moving, contorting to take the intrusion inch by inch. “Soaking my pants ‘nd droolin’ on my shirt? What would they think, sweetheart?”

“Probably be—be jealous…” you sighed, the angle and his slow movements creating the perfect storm to properly stimulate the spot on your front wall while your clit dragged over the base of him. “Probably want you just as bad as I do.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Simon growled, voice coming out almost hoarse as he spoke, his grip on your hair tightening ever so slightly. “Only want you.”

Suddenly he was burying his face into your chest, mouthing at your breasts and offering deep, fast thrusts up into you.

You cried out, clawing at his shoulders as you found the strength to wrap your arms around him and press yourself against him.

“Pretty thing,” Simon moved to look back at you. “Only want my wife. Only need you, sweet girl.”

“Simon—” You could feel the lust reach a fever pitch, the spring in your abdomen threatening to unfurl completely.

“I know, sweetheart,” he was panting, putting all of his effort that wasn’t focused on fucking you into responding to your moans. “C’mon ‘nd give it to me. I got you, lemme ‘ave it.”

It was almost pleading, the way his words came out, and it only served to push you over the edge.

You felt a deep seated tingle, muscles spasming and stomach tightening as a soft, needy gasp of his name escaped your lips.

You felt electric, charged and satisfied, slumping into Simon and letting yourself free-fall into the warmth that bloomed from your core around his cock.

“Fuck, ‘at’s it,” Simon moaned beneath you, wrapping his arms around you tightly as his hips stuttered feverishly, chasing your release in an effort to find his own. “Talk to me, sweetheart, gotta—”

“Inside,” you breathed, already anticipating the question and dead set on your answer. “Inside me, Simon. Please.”

He groaned, head falling back and eyes squeezing closed; wanting to draw out the pleasure of being inside of you, if only for a moment longer.

“I’ll give it t’you, love, I—fuck, lemme see you. Show me ‘at pretty face. Wanna see my wife when I fill ‘er sweet fuckin’ cunt up.”

You pushed yourself up, immediately obliging.

Pressing your forehead to his, noses brushing, he captured you in a brief but bruising kiss before pulling back to admire you above him.

“Fuck—‘ere you go, my pretty fuckin’ girl,” his eyes were heavily lidded, his gaze plastered to you, hungry and triumphant but so soft. “Jus’—Christ—”

Simon met his high with a grunt, thrusting lazily into you and coating your walls with his spend.

You whimpered, melting into him once more; listening to the way your breath fell in sync with his; appreciating the warmth of his release inside of you.

Simon sighed, splaying a hand over your back and tracing shapes on your skin.

After a moment of tranquil silence, he reached for your hips and carefully eased you off of him, both of you making quiet sounds of discontent.

Just as soon as you were off of him, though, you curled into his side, slinging a leg over him and pressing your face to his chest. He wrapped an arm around you, tugging you against him in a manner that made you feel like you were made to be there, flush against him.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time, Simon,” you spoke softly, but there was already a level of playfulness returning to your tone. “Do you wanna sleep up here tonight?”

You felt him huff a breath, laughing at your question.

“Does the bed come with the woman?” He tilted his face to look down at you.

“Up to you…” You held your breath, though you were unsure why; at this point, it seemed clear that he wanted you around, that he was just as eager to share space with you as you were with him.

“I’ll stay, sweetheart,” his other hand came up to toy with your hair. “Be a damn shame to make you sleep alone, Mrs. Riley.”

“What a doting husband.” You rolled your eyes, but you released the breath you’d been holding. 

“Don’t you forget it.” He tugged playfully on a strand of your hair, and you squeaked, swatting at him just as impishly.

~~~

By habit, you woke up early.

The room was quiet, bathed in a blanket of hazy sunlight that poked in through the curtains.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, so intent on staying up and appreciating Simon’s presence next to you in this brand new, exceedingly pleasant way.

But now that you were awake, you could enjoy it again.

His arms were still wrapped around you, soft breath fanning the top of your head as you lay tucked into his chest.

Sometime during the night he’d stripped down to match your level of nudity, and you trailed a finger over his bare shoulders, admiring him. You couldn’t help but press a kiss to his skin, warming your lips with the heat that radiated from him.

He stirred slightly, grunting as he tugged you further against him. He placed a kiss to the top of your head before falling back asleep, and you closed your eyes, happy to join him.

Covert operations were awkward. Not this one, though. 

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[tongue-twists]

btw dating sucks as a concept.

[tongue-twists]

meeting up with someone with the explicit goal of figuring out whether or not you want a relationship with them spoils the dynamic. it sucks. it's terrible. fall in love with your friends like normal people.

[tongue-twists]

as expected this one is a hit with the autism website

[mirrormauve]

wolfsbane

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | 10.7k

widowed after a terrible tragedy, your only company was a wolf who seemed even more grief stricken than you.

cw; werewolf!au, abandonment issues, loneliness, grief, angst, tension, hurt/comfort, very brief smut, references to self-harm and depression, hunger, suicidal ideation, references past violence, descriptions of pain, description of death, canon typical violence, simon is a wolf through most of this, he shows affection in the only ways he knows how, don't ask me when or where this takes place

A shadow followed you through the woods. 

Soft as a whisper, slicing through the dense copse of trees behind you, he stops at the edge of the woods, venturing no further than the brush at the edge of the thicket. The fields, thick with grazing sheep between the edge of the sharply culled forest and the village in the distance, was wide.  

A growl spilled out behind you, warning and wary, as you stepped onto the path that cut through them.

You ignored the sound and hurried toward the village, just beginning to flicker with orange lamplight, wine dark dusk settling over the land like a thrown quilt. Thin tendrils of light still reached across the Earth in shattered ocher threads. 

It wasn’t raining for once, and sunset was still about an hour away. 

Plenty of time.  

The rumbling growl faded as you crossed through the meadow, undulating with wavering grass, skirting clumps of calmly grazing sheep. They paid you little mind and the walk was easier now that you were once again on flat land. The bunched muscle in your calves seemed to lengthen with your strides. 

Their shepherd was not so forgiving. He had not forgotten the flock that was killed. 

He watched you with a malevolent gaze. 

He spit as you passed, muttered something about devils as you went. Of the villagers, his hatred ran the deepest. 

The forest stretched over the mountains behind you, refuge and shadow in one. Already you ached to slip back into its dark, safe roots. The shadow at your side. 

People quieted as you passed them on the street, eyes following you warily. 

The apothecarist did not greet you when you pushed open his door and slid back the hood of your cloak; he did, however, keep his eye warily on you, watching your progression to the counter, basket over your arm. 

To the village, you are an omen and a curse, a gravedigger dragging the corpse of the past behind you.  

He continued to arrange his vials and potted tinctures until you cleared your throat and pointedly set your burden on the counter between you.

You waited silently as he lifted the emerald cloth and examined the herbs and plants you’d collected over the last month. When you left the village again, you would not return for at least a fortnight. 

“Ten years ago,” he said suddenly without prompting, his voice as weathered as his face. “The last of the wolves were killed. That werewolf, too. We’ve had no trouble with killings since.”

You watched him remove the herbs, bundled with twine, and lay them in a neat row over the length of the scarred wooden benchtop. 

“There are no wolves left,” you agreed. “Only stories.” 

His hands froze, then resumed their work. “Stories,” he said slowly. “Do you want to know what tales are told about you?” 

You didn’t reply, waiting for him to finish assessing the plants.

“A sheep was found mauled.” 

“Foxes?” You offered. “Shame.”

“Do not think, girl,” he said lowly, as he finally looked up and coin was slid toward you across the counter, “that we do not see the smoke that follows you.” 

You counted the coin into a pouch at your hip. “Smoke,” you huffed, gathering your basket as you turned away. “You’re seeing things. Smoke doesn’t linger, does it?” 

The floor creaked beneath your feet as you crossed the shop again, eager to be back in the quiet hum of the woods, nestled between the trees, shrouded beneath the mountains. 

Summer was in full swing, the sky a bruised purple, fingers of sun still draped over the fields. You passed through the village, an outsider looking in. The townsfolk milled around each other in that easy way only people who had known each other their whole lives could. They watched you pass uneasily, and you knew it wasn’t only the wolf rumors that made them draw together like a clutch of frightened sheep.

A woman alone in the woods was suspicious by nature, and you had been outspoken even when your husband was alive. 

You traded a little of your coin for a new gutstring and departed as quickly as you’d come. 

The air in the valley was still warm as you left the village, sweet with the scent of freshly cut hay and lavender pocketed along the path. 

The shadow was waiting just inside the treeline, and vanished as soon as you glanced at it. 

You knew, though, that you were not alone. The so-called smoke kept an even pace behind you, though you knew it must be tiresomely slow for it, only veering sharply to the left and away as your cottage came into view. 

To circle the perimeter you knew, the vegetable patch and the herb garden and the crooked fence that contained it all. The pine trees swayed, shushed against each other in the darkness that had finally fallen. The stars were bright overheard, silent pinpricks in the purple black sky, a crescent moon rising through their sea. A rare clear day was transitioning into a beautifully crystal night. 

The shadow, the smoke, returned, coming no nearer than the gate. No more than a suggestion of a shape in the dark.

“I told you it would be fine. We need to hunt in the morning.” 

The growl was, you thought, unilaterally troubled with your assessment of your little excursion so near nightfall to a place so hostile. “Okay,” you conceded. “In future, I’ll plan better.” 

Your wolf was gone from one moment to the next, faded from existence, as if in agreement with your promise. 

He would be back in time for dinner. He would slink through the gate then, and keep watch while you ate, back to you, body tense and coiled with unwavering intensity. 

If it weren’t for the pained, lonely yips you had sometimes been privy to in the early years of your grief, the gentlest, lowest of howls cut short without answer, you might have believed once, too, that he was no more than a phantom that haunted the hills. 

.

.

.

You had first seen the wolf nine summers ago, a year after the hungry madness that had engulfed the town in the valley. He was silent as a wraith, immaterial and immaculate, flickering between the swaying pines, shade and ink and smoky impartiality all at once.

Not one of the wolves, you thought at first, from the pack that used to live there. 

He was big, even for a wolf, massive and unearthly silent, his coat a pristine, dove white.  

The mountains were covered in snow for much of the year, but in the mild summer months, he moved so quickly he was only the suggestion of something monstrous moving through the ever present fog, nothing more than an apparition. Blink and you missed him, blink and you might think you were seeing things. 

He kept his distance and you kept yours, worlds orbiting each other but never touching. Wolves never quite scared you. Stories of monsters lurking in the woods had been more like a siren song than a cautionary tale. Your husband had loved them, too.

Though that pack had tolerated your husband, uncannily seemed to understand some truth about him and disapprove, like he’d made a choice they could only begrudgingly accept, they embraced you. They loved you, your unusual wolves.  

And you’d loved him, and them, and your home, and these breathing mountains he’d settled you in. It felt as though you were finally home. 

You’re more wolf whisperer than I’ll ever be, he’d once said, delight, love, in his voice. He had been fascinated with them, understood them, but they were fascinated with you.

You waited anxiously for a new pack to emerge when the pale wolf arrived, to enforce its territory around your cottage. You dared to hope that maybe some of your wolves had survived the culling. 

But none ever did.

He was alone. 

It hadn’t been until that winter, six months later, that you truly saw him for the first time. 

That winter had been a harsh one. Food was in very short supply as nearly every creature had gone to ground. It meant that traveling down the mountain for supplies was impossible. Your stomach shrank with hunger.

You weren’t sure you would survive. 

The wolf’s fur blended into the barren landscape, invisible among the snow that fell in ever increasing drifts, shimming, beautiful, deadly waves. Hungry, bored, trapped, you lay in the snow in what was a vegetable patch in the warmer months, by your husband’s grave.

Perhaps you would have been more concerned with the possibility that the beast was lurking somewhere nearby, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You spent hours sitting at his grave, the grave you’d been left to dig yourself, a black hole in your chest. If you were eaten by a wolf, you wouldn’t be hungry anymore, or lanced with cold pains, or lonely, and the wolf would be fed. A sound victory all around. 

The supplies in your larder dwindled to nothing; the once full shelves were left with only a few jars, and the spring thaw was very far away. You spent nearly all your time digging for winter potatoes with bloodied, dry fingers, or hunting, sitting statuesque on icy ground with your bow, waiting for deer or hare that never came. 

It seemed, for a time, that you were totally alone in the world. Nothing moved, nothing breathed. 

Then, one afternoon, the snow stopped, and a rabbit appeared. 

You were lucky, given how your arms trembled with the pervasive chill, that you were able to pull back the bowstring, let alone hit your mark moving stealthily across a clearing in the gray woods. 

Your mouth watered as you dressed it and hurried home, reminding yourself that this was no feast, that you would need to make it last. 

Darkness had curled in the air as you cooked a small portion, divvying up the meager remains for maybe two more meals, if you were lucky. 

Still, you felt as if you could finally think again. Things were not so bad as they seemed.  

You were crossing the garden with a basket for firewood, not willing to sit in the cold and stare at the fathomless, bleak sky that evening, when movement caught your attention. 

You stilled, and turned slowly. 

The wolf who moved too quickly to be seen, who you had not glimpsed since the autumn snows first came, was sitting perfectly still at the threshold of your garden, neatly in the open gateway. 

The garden smelled of fresh snow and blood. 

You had carried the scent of meat and blood for miles through a frigid, empty landscape, and here was your reward. 

But he did not move, only watched you.

Despite his size, he had clearly not been eating either; he was thin, gaunt. You had spent so much time observing the wolves when the mountains were thick with them, that you knew that they could go for long stretches without food. But it had been a very, very long winter. You wondered when he had last eaten.

Belly fully, you suddenly did not want to be eaten alive. You could survive this winter, as you’d survived everything else. 

A minute passed in thick silence, regarding each other warily, before you noticed the blood on the snow behind him, that his right front paw was torn and bleeding red in a steady pulse into the snow. The scent of copper in the air was the smell of his own blood. It was tracked all through the snowbanks outside the gate, as though he’d been pacing, waiting. 

It was clear he had stepped into a trap. He must have been exceptionally hungry, to have ventured so close to the village where they still lined the edge of the woods with metal claws. 

Wolves were too clever for traps. He must be exhausted, starving, ignoring instincts dulled and deadened, to have come close to a trap at all, let alone step on one. 

You lowered the basket to the ground, feeling a fool when you spoke. “Did you step in a trap?” He did not blink. He had never been still enough for you to see his eyes. They were a deep, dark brown, near black, glittering with lupine intelligence and pain. The fur around his eyes was darker, too.  

You also saw, for the first time, that the fur along his right shoulder was matted down, laced with scarring that spoke of burns. He was one of your wolves, then. It made your throat close. Though you had never seen him among their number, that did not mean he hadn’t been there. 

You knew better than anyone that this wolf wasn’t seen when it didn’t want to be. He’d lost as much, more, than you had. His pack was dead. 

He didn’t move when you crossed back into the cottage, retrieving your medicine bag and the leftover portions of rabbit. 

Likely, you were about to be mauled by a wolf, but you’d never been good at letting things lie. You hunted out of necessity, but a hurt animal, even a wolf, wasn’t something you could ignore. 

He didn’t move when you kneeled in the snow with a healthy distance still between you, and offered the back of your hand, eyes cast down. “I can help. I have food.” 

You couldn’t help feeling that was the point. He’d returned to your cottage because he was hurt; he already knew you could help. 

Minutes passed, and you jumped when his cold snout pushed into your hand. He moved, as always, so silently. 

You allowed him to sniff your hand for a long moment, warm breath fanning over your wrist and palm. When he sat, nose pulling away from your skin, you reached for the rabbit and lay the two reserved portions in the snow.

He gulped down the raw meat in one great swallow, two of your future meals gone in half a second. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have more,” you said, his warmth seeping into the air around you. You didn’t move, afraid to be the next thing chewed and swallowed. “You must have been very hungry to venture so close to the village.” 

You dared to glance up. 

He eyed you as he licked blood from his maw, huge teeth glinting in the low, pale light. Snow began to sift down, flecks stuck to your cheeks, his lashes. His face was scarred as his shoulder, cross sections of lines across his snout and brow as though he’d been in a lot of fights. 

You held out your hand. “Those traps are barbaric.” 

A long, unblinking, tense moment passed, then his paw settled in your hand. It wasn’t like the paw of a dog. It was large and heavy, bigger than your hand. The fur was soft despite the blood, the pads rough. 

Tentatively, you felt along the musculature of his foreleg, found the wound where the trap had clamped around his leg. “Poor thing,” you murmured. 

He didn’t so much as twitch as you cleaned the wound, applied a poultice and wrapped cloth around it. “There you are,” you said softly, lowering his great paw to the ground, after you’d tied the bandage off and tucked the ends into themselves. 

When you looked up, the wolf was regarding you again, watchful. 

Your heart nearly stopped when his head dipped forward, sure you were about to be eaten now that your utility had run its course. 

But he only pushed his massive head into your jaw, then along your throat, great, warm huffs of air venting against your cold skin. 

You were being scented, remembered. It made you want to cry, just a little. It had been such a hard, lonely winter, but this was good, this made it worth it. 

Slowly, you lifted your hand to his scruff and let your hand lie there for a long moment. When he didn’t seem to mind, you buried your fingers deep in his fur and felt just how thin he was beneath his coat. His fur was soft, silken against your dry, rough palms. It had been a hard winter for both of you. 

His nose touched the soft flesh beneath your ear and your shoulder ticked up when it tickled, a laugh escaping your mouth. You froze but he only inhaled hard again and then pulled away. 

You let your hand fall and watched him stand, test the foot. He limped a little, but he was no longer bleeding out. He disappeared in a blink, left you kneeling there. If not for the blood, your missing rabbit, you would have thought it a strange dream. 

The following week he would return each evening to stand sentinel in the garden. You ignored him, letting him craft whatever boundary his instincts told him he should. 

On the fifth day, he approached and guided you bodily out of the garden as you were collecting wood. The sky was silvery and fat with the promise of more snow. He led you, huge shoulder pushed against your hip, to a sheep in the forest, carried up the mountain between his teeth. Smart, you thought, not to have the blood trail lead to your front door.

Impressive, too, when you knew the sheep remained inside barns for most of the winter.  

“You went back to the village?” You asked him of the sheep at your feet. He sat several paces away, watching you, still wary. “Didn’t you learn your lesson the first time?”

If wolves could appear unimpressed, this one did.

You shared the sheep.

He remained an unmoving guardian between a pair of spruce trees as you took a cut of meat, the still hot blood melting the snow, draining in rivulets through ice. “You shouldn’t take their sheep,” you said. 

The wolf was unmoved. We needed to eat, his stare seemed to say, and here is food. 

“If they think there are wolves here, they will come again.” You shook your head, something shaken in your voice. “Thank you. Please don’t take their sheep.” 

The fucking sheep, got your wolves killed. Got your husband killed. Got a man in the village killed. 

You were almost killed.  

Perhaps you’d been alone and isolated for too long, but you swore he seemed to understand you. 

He didn’t follow you home, but he returned a few hours later, muzzle wet with blood, and allowed you to change the bandage around his leg. 

The wolf never brought you another sheep. 

As best as you could understand it, you began to hunt together through the rest of that long, lonely winter. The snows eventually abated, and though teamwork was no longer necessary, you continued hunting in tandem.  

He watched the cottage at night; he protected you while you ate. You cared for his wounded paw until it healed. He laid in the snow with you, albeit feet away, his back always to you, watching the dark landscape beyond the garden gate. 

You kept each other fed through those inhospitable months.

A partnership of sorts, you realized, had formed somewhere along the way. 

When summer finally arrived, cool and wet, the mountains awash in humid fog that now provided cover in lieu of snow for your wolf, you thanked him with a meal. Venison with potatoes and carrots and plenty of bones to chew and suck the marrow out of, presented on a plate in the garden. 

You watched him eat, lined cloak tucked around you. 

It was dangerous to name wild things. A wolf was still a wolf, no matter how he had adopted you. Still, it felt like it was time. Each of you were well fed, no long starving, haunted, lonely creatures. 

Naming something, too, meant it was yours. A protection or a curse. 

You carefully held out a hand when he finished, and, as always, he met the back of your hand with his cold nose. 

“Would you mind having a name?”

He huffed against your skin. 

“Suppose that means you wouldn’t,” you hummed, slowly moving your hand along his snout, lined with scars. His eyes closed as you stroked the silky black fur around his eyes. “Shadow,” you mused. “You move like one, afterall.” 

A grumble. 

“Grudging acceptance won’t do, darling.”

You pulled your hand back and tucked your cloak more tightly around your shoulders as you thought. “Hm.” Shadow didn’t fit. “Smoke?” Another grumble. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”  

Gloomy names tracked through your mind, his disposition and his penchant for skulking about in the dark, blending into the landscape in a near undetectable mass. 

“Ghost.” 

This time he did not grumble. Those oddly intelligent eyes flickered. 

“Ghost,” you said again, just to be sure it would stick. 

He turned his back to you, the great heft of his flank leaning heavily against your calf as he watched late shadows crawl across the garden. 

It was the first time he kept watch next to you. 

It was as much acceptance as you could ever hope for, even if you did still find yourself waiting for him to turn and sink his teeth into you. 

Ghost only trotted to his usual spot at the garden gate when the stars emerged from behind the usual gray sweep of clouds. 

You had weathered a season together. 

.

.

.

They called you wolf whisperer in the village. 

It was a dangerous thing to be called. You’d played witness to the madness that overtook the townspeople ten years before. Vast swaths of your beloved mountains burned, wolves shot and left as carrion that you had buried with your own hands.

It had, too, left you a widow. 

Your husband had been a great defender of the wolves, and died for it. Shot, they later claimed, accidentally, during the hunt. Suspected to practice communicating with wolves, the gossip in the village said he had taught you this dark art before he died. Not only did you understand wolves, you could control them, so the stories went. 

It had been a hungry year, the sheep in the pastures dwindling day by day, and hysteria had given way. The outsiders in the mountains, those people who loved wild animals, were to blame, convening with devils and wolves to destroy their flocks and livelihoods. 

You were only tolerated now because you stayed away, safe in the great shadows of the hills and trees. Your innocence was proven only by the accident of having been locked in the jail while it all unfolded. 

And, most importantly, because there had been no mauled sheep for many years now, and no wolves to do it. 

But your wolf survived it, somehow. He was the last of his kind. You had heard it in those howls. There was no one to answer, a grief in the song that you at once recognized and could never understand.

The morning after your too late descent into the village, the wolf was waiting in the morning mist at the gate again. 

“Ghost,” you greeted as you sat on the front step to restring your bow. 

He crept through the gate and settled among the herb garden, nestled neatly beneath the blackberry bush. 

Despite his size, he was quiet and always careful of the plants. His fur often smelled of soil and thyme and yarrow. He was surprisingly clean, for a wolf, when he wasn’t covered in blood and viscera. He smelled mostly of mountain air, something animal and smoky just beneath. 

“They found a dead sheep. Did you kill it?” 

Those clever brown eyes found yours, glaring from beneath the shade of the foliage. “I didn’t think so. But they’re worried again.” 

You wondered how far a wolf’s memory stretched, if he remembered the forest in flames, the sounds of the hunting parties moving through the trees, underbrush cracking like bones beneath their boots. The other members of his pack dead. 

When you stood, bow slung across your shoulders, basket over your arm, he trotted alongside you for a moment as you trailed into the trees, fur brushing your fingertips. His size never failed to surprise you. His shoulder reached your hip, his head could easily rest at the curve of your waist. 

And then he was off, noiselessly disappearing between the trees, a testament to the name you’d given him years ago. He would return to your side, once the way ahead was well scouted. You padded after him at a slower pace, over a deadened carpet of orange pine needles, the breeze warm and gentle on your skin. 

The hike to the stream took a few hours. 

You knelt at the waters edge as the fog dissipated, sun peaking through the ever present thick bank of clouds, to harvest the meadowsweet that grew in clumps along the edge of the water. 

His behavior was not typical of a wolf, you’d known that for a long time. You had told yourself he was an unusually intelligent animal, that without other wolves to form a pack with, he’d formed a pseudo pack with you, driven by loneliness and survival instincts. 

But the apothecarist’s words rattled around your mind. 

That thrown away line—you’d forgotten about the man they’d accused of being a werewolf. Some kind of amorphous being that could shift between wolf and man, wrecking havoc on their sheep and fields, marshalling the other wolves along with him. 

He’d been tried, found guilty, and killed in a matter of hours. 

You had spoken for him, or tried to. Rumors already swirled about your husband speaking with wolves, it didn’t help that his loudmouthed wife had defended the town outcast accused of being a wolf in disguise, shoved into the lone holding cell for it as things escalated beyond anyone’s control. 

It had been, you’d heard years later, an uneasy, difficult struggle to drag him to the gallows, which had only confirmed what they thought they knew. 

He was easy to blame. An outsider with a suspected checkered past because he was not a regular in the village, in a too large body that loomed above most of the other men in town. You had never seen his face, his nose and mouth always covered by cloth, his hood always pulled over his head. But he sold you the best cuts of meat back when you still bought meat, and spoke quietly in a rough voice. 

His body was burned, you had been told, afterward, to be sure. 

You dipped your fingers into the stream, cool water rushing over your skin. 

Ghost gracefully loped out of the underbrush and sat next to you, close but not touching, until his nose nudged your cheek and then your throat. 

“That tickles.” 

His nose dug in a bit harder, right over your pulse point, rough tongue lathing over your skin before he bit you lightly. You laughed and pushed his face away. A grumble followed, but he leaned heavily against your side instead.  

You sat there for a long while, watching fish dart beneath the crystal water, a ridiculous idea turning in your mind. The sun emerged and disappeared in quick flashes, warmed your skin beneath your hooded cloak. 

“They would have me shot for this,” you said, burying your fingers in his scruff. “I’m already a traitor.” 

A snarl shuddered against your side. 

“You’d like to see them try, yes, I know,” you answered. 

The wolf had heard it all before, the story of that night, many times over. He never seemed to mind. But you had a different story to tell. 

“There was a man killed, the same day as my husband, when all that madness broke out,” you said. “They said he could transform into a wolf. I hadn’t thought about him in a long time.” 

Ghost went motionless against you, listening, you guessed, to something you couldn’t hear, something other than your voice. 

“He was kind to me in his own way,” you said. “He didn’t live in the village, but I saw him often enough. I’m from a city. I was just learning how to dress an animal, and I wasn’t very good at it. Very messy. He showed me how.” You rubbed one of his pointed ears between thumb and forefinger. “I spoke for him that day, tried to save him. But I think that’s why he died. And I think that’s the only reason I wasn’t shot during their hunt too.” 

The water burbled, a bird sang a sweet song, clouds drifted over the sun again, dark rainclouds rain on the horizon. 

“What am I still doing here?” You wondered. “It was my fault and I’m all alone, but I don’t know how to leave.” 

The question inspired a discontent noise from your wolf. 

You leaned into his shoulder, buried your face in his fur. 

There had been an absurd notion stirring in your head since the apothecarist reminded you of the supposed werewolf.

You were just lonely. 

But this wolf.

He seemed to understand you, his behavior was nothing like a wolf’s. The—

The wolf was just a wolf. 

Your wolves had just been wolves. 

You couldn’t bear it any other way. 

Still, you murmured into his scruff because it didn’t matter, because he was just an animal you were projecting every bit of loneliness and hope you’d ever felt onto, because he didn’t—couldn’t—underrstand you, “I wouldn’t mind, you know. If it was you.” 

Ghost rumbled, and then stood and padded off, splashing up the stream a little way before bounding onto a river rock and turning back to you, clearly waiting for you to follow.

He hardly ever left you alone in the woods.

You stood and followed him upstream to your usual hunting grounds. 

.

.

.

Ghost repaid the favor of saving his life the second winter you spent together. 

The nights were long and unending, the days so short the sun barely breached the horizon before it descended again. The mountain became impassable once more and food dwindled quickly, though that summer season had yielded a better backstock than the one before. 

It had been months since you spoke to another person, years since conversation had not been tinged with wariness and barely leashed disgust. You were so lonely, it was like a spectre in the room with you, following you. Much as you adored the mountains, your wolf and your solitude, it was not enough. 

Grief was like a rock in your chest. 

You cried a lot, sat for hours at your husband’s grave, talking to ghosts, to people and wolves and a time long dead. 

Then Ghost disappeared, too, as he was wont to do occasionally, following some smell or instinct you could never be truly privy to. It made the long, nearly endless and enterally dark days seem even longer. You, too, were without a pack, without something tangible and worth holding onto. 

Snow piled up, and though you had plenty to eat comparatively to the winter before, you didn’t.

You laid in the garden or at your husband’s grave, staring up at a sky you knew there must be stars in if only you could see past the clouds. 

Ice stuck to your eyelashes, collected in tiny piles on your frozen skin and clothes. You were so cold it hurt, but still you didn’t move. You missed your husband, and wished you knew how to howl. 

The cold turned warm and comfortable, a sense of serenity curling amongst your bones. You closed your eyes, so relaxed you felt sleep, and peace, was only a breath away. 

You didn’t know if you closed your eyes or slept, but it seemed that seconds later you were being pawed awake. Something high pitched stinging the air. 

Ghost’s teeth were latched into the hood of your cloak, tugging your body over the frozen ground toward the cottage. 

“Ghost?” 

The high pitched whine stopped abruptly. He peered down at you, nudged you. 

Then, desperation seemed to set in, if a wolf could feel such a thing. For the first time, he snarled at you. It was an angry, mean noise, lips pulled back over huge teeth. When you didn’t react, your limbs stiff and unwieldy, he did it again, snapping at your face and hands in huge, ferocious bites that never landed. 

But it was hard to keep your eyes open, let alone move. 

“‘S okay,” you mumbled, wishing you had the energy to pat his neck, feel his fur between your fingers. “Go ahead. You can have me.” 

Your eyes closed again, soothed by his dark eyes staring down into yours. He would have something to eat, at least, and you’d failed the other wolves you’d known so badly.

The night went dark, sleep curling at the edge of your mind. 

Your body swayed, a voice whispered. 

It was a nice dream. 

Arms fitted beneath your knees and behind your shoulders, a warm chest pressed against your ear. 

Johnny, it must be. 

A dream of your husband. 

“Please,” a graveled, weak voice said. “Please, love, stay. Fucking hell, I need you to stay.” 

You tried, but the dream faded. 

Morning light woke you, bled into your cottage through a gap in the curtains. You were on the floor before the fireplace whose embers had burned down, but were still putting off heat. 

The wolf, inexplicably, was next to you, radiating a heat that was almost defiant and daring in its intensity. 

Ghost had managed it, somehow. He had dragged your unwilling, unyielding body inside next to the fireplace you don’t remember lighting, but that you must have. 

His body was half atop yours. Sweat slicked your forehead. 

He was an inert mass over you. 

You put your hand in his coarse fur and pushed your face against his scruff, turned into his body. “I’m sorry.” 

His maw closed around your opposite wrist. His teeth pinched and dug in, but he did not bite. It felt like being held.

He growled when you tried to move, and would not let you up for several hours. 

He would not forgive you until spring was well and truly arrived. 

Neither would he leave. 

.

.

.

That second winter with Ghost was at the front of your mind as you knelt near the blackberry bush. 

The inexplicable fire in the hearth, blanket and wolf curled over you, the door shut tight. 

Did it matter, you wondered, if it was him? 

Your fingertips were stained purple and red as you picked and dropped the fruit into your basket. Autumn was already upon you, showing its face earlier than you had hoped. The berries were still a bit under ripe but you were determined to make a pie. 

Since that winter, you and Ghost were rarely apart. Protection, spell, determination, you didn’t know what to call it. 

He had loped off something earlier, you had thought he wasn’t far.

But when a twig snapped behind you and a human voice rang out, you were decidedly alone among the dead orange leaves beneath your knees. 

“Get up.” 

You glanced over your shoulder to find a rifle aimed at you. You looked past the gun to the man. The shepherd had finally come to call. It was a small miracle Ghost wasn’t there, and at that moment, you were grateful for it.

“Up,” he barked when you didn’t immediately move to follow his command.  

You put your hands up and got to your feet slowly. You didn’t say anything, blinking placatingly at him, uniformly unimpressed. 

“Where is it?” He said, lowering the rifle a fraction when you didn’t lunge at him. 

“Where is what?” 

“That goddamned wolf.” 

“I don’t—” 

He took a step forward, silencing you as the barrel lifted again. “Don’t lie. I’ve seen you with it, calm as can be, just walking along. Talking to it. I told the others we should have done you in that day too.”  

You shook your head. Anger prodded delicately behind your breastbone. “I’m alone here. There are no wolves left.” 

“Liar,” he snapped back. “You always have been. Crying for those wolves, screaming for that beast we burned.” He jabbed the barrel of the gun at you. “I’ve seen you,” he said again. “You and the big, white one, yeah? Always knew we missed one.” 

You breath caught but you slowly shook your head again, trying not to look at the rifle. “I haven’t seen a wolf since that night.” 

A flicker of doubt crossed his face, before his resolve hardened again. “We didn’t have wolves before you. You brought them with you.” 

“To eat your sheep? What’s that get me?” You shot back, unable to help yourself. The grief, the loneliness, that bleak darkness in you, surge to the back of your throat. “You lost sheep. I lost my husband.” 

“I lost everything!” 

His voice echoed off the mountains, loud as thunderclap. 

You flinched a little, feeling, for the first time, a thread of fear. 

“You seem to have recovered well enough.” 

He huffed. “I lost half my flock. It’s taken me a decade to recover. And now my sheep are dying again. Three are dead. If you were decent, you would have left while you had the chance. We starved that year while you set wolves on us. I won’t let you do it again.” 

You gritted your teeth. “I’m sorry for what happened that year. But it was not wolves killing your sheep then, and there are no wolves left to kill your sheep now, even if they had been.” 

And, you thought, the only wolf left, your wolf, didn’t kill sheep. You knew he didn’t, because you’d asked him not to, because he inexplicably listened to you. 

The shepherd’s mind was already made up. You were guilty the moment you stepped into the village. Outsiders were easy to blame. “We didn’t have wolves,” he said again, “before you and your husband showed up all those years ago.” 

You stepped forward, until the barrel of the gun was pressed against your chest. “Do it then, if you’re going to,” you said calmly, evenly. “Shoot me. I don’t care.” Maybe you would be enough, maybe if he killed you, he wouldn’t go looking for Ghost. 

Surprise pulled at his features. He didn’t know what to make of you, most of the men in the village never had. 

His lips parted instead of pulling the trigger, when a horrifyingly loud growl echoed around the silent garden. 

No, you thought desperately.

But Ghost was already there, stalking through the garden gate, circling you and the shepherd in a wide arc. 

There was no fear on the man’s face, just a vindictive satisfaction. “Liar,” he said softly. “And now I have proof. You’ll hang for this.” 

Ghost snarled again, louder, but you didn’t look at him. You grasped the barrel of the gun with both hands, to keep it pressed against your chest, to keep his focus on you. “Yes, you’re right. I lied. I’m the one you should be angry with. I brought the wolves here.” 

He considered you, holding the gun against your chest, eyes not leaving yours. 

Ghost growled again, louder this time, more desperate than menacing. You dared look at him, then, hoping he could read the do not behave like the violent wolf he thinks you are in your eyes. 

The shepherd slowly shook his head. “You aren’t the one killing my sheep.”

“He’s not the one killing your sheep,” you rasped, anguish coloring your voice now. “Please.” 

He was all you had left. You were the only two left. 

“I reckon there’s only one way to know for sure,” he said, suddenly thrusting the gun forward into your chest. You doubled over in surprise, before the butt of the rifle smashed into your temple. 

Vision blurred by sudden tears, you couldn’t see. 

But you heard the violent, ferocious bark, followed by the sound of tearing cloth and a snarling so deep and deadly it seemed to shake the ground, before a gunshot cracked through the air that rendered you deaf except for a terrible ringing in your ears. 

Your heart lurched into your throat, fear curling up the back of your neck like an electric shock, so swift it made your head swim.

 “No,” You leapt forward blindly and latched onto the shepherd’s elbow, dragging his arm down with all your weight. 

He threw you off and another gunshot rang out. A blinding pain you couldn’t understand the origin of tore through your side.

It threw you to the ground in its intensity, rendered you mute and confused, a desperate, feral howl renting the air apart. It’s shredded tatters swept across your vision in painful stripes. 

Leaves churned beneath paws and boots in a horrible struggle. 

You stared across the garden, Ghost tearing, covered in red.  

The man still had the gun in his hands. Even with his throat torn out and Ghost’s massive paws pushing all his weight into his chest, he was still trying to kill your wolf. 

You lurched up, just lifted the gun again a final time, even as his throat was being shredded to a fine pulp by Ghost’s ripping, tearing teeth. 

“Ghost!” 

Ghost unhooked his teeth from around the shepherd’s neck and his massive front paws pounced on his forearm. Bone snapped loudly, like a twig beneath a boot. 

The gun went limp in his grasp, and he stilled with a final horrible groan and sigh. 

You took a shaky breath and slumped unceremoniously back to the ground, hands trembling as you pressed them to your side. There was so much blood. 

You could feel it rushing out of you, pooled warmly on the ground beneath you, steaming in the early season chill.

Dizzy, you looked to Ghost instead.

“Come here,” you mumbled, beckoning your wolf forward. “Are you okay? Did the first shot hit you?”

Ghost didn’t move, terribly still, eyes locked on you, but the only blood you could see dripped from his scarred muzzle. The rest of his coat was its usual pristine white. Relief made your shoulders sag, the tension in your head pulsing along with your slowing heart. You choked out a deliriously happy laugh. 

“Please come here. I’m going to die and I don’t think I can do it alone.” 

The pain spread, glass shards tumbling through your veins. 

There was so much blood. You were swimming in your own red sea. Your fingers were stained with berry juice, slick, salted blood. You were just picking berries and now you were going to die.

“Ghost—” 

Ghost finally appeared silently at your side, nudging your hand with fierce, unforgiving growls until you put your arm around his neck. You tried, just for his sake, to stand, leaning on his massive frame, but your body would cooperate, and you slipped back down to the ground. 

He whined, a sound you hadn't heard in a long time. Once when he had been newly alone, pack mates gone, and that night you almost died in the snow.

“‘S okay,” you mumbled, petting his muzzle when he stuck it in your face, still making that horrible, grief soaked sound. “I probably deserve it. My fault, all of it. It’s over now.”

The whine cut off suddenly when your eyes slipped closed. 

Sleep beckoned, but, just like the last time you’d been tempted to lapse into oblivion, arms pushed beneath you, under your legs and shoulders, lifting you gently. Violent pain lanced up your side with the motion. A cry slipped out of your mouth.

A voice rough with disuse murmured in your ear. “I know,” the voice said, strangely gentle and desperate. “None of that. Not again. Eyes open, love.” 

You peeled open your eyes with no small amount of effort. The blank gray sky wheeled overhead, droplets of rain pattering against your skin. 

A man was cradling you to his naked chest, the movement of his body like the lull of wind through the trees. You recognized the scars cast across his face, the dark eyes set forward. That intelligent, steady, lupine gaze. He smelled like autumn woods, the crackle of leaf and loamy wooded forest floors, undercut by the smokey brine of blood. There was a certain handsome wildness about him. Brutal, some might have called it. 

It would be hard not to recognize your wolf after nearly ten years together. 

“Ghost?” You murmured. Your hand moved of its own accord, left bloody fingerprints across his stained jaw. 

He looked down at you. “Don’t close your eyes,” he barked. “Keep lookin’ at me.” 

You wanted to, for as long as he’d let you, but you were so tired. You could hear your blood pattering onto the ground as he walked, steady and unyielding as an oak tree. 

His voice was familiar, but you couldn’t place it, didn’t know how it could be. 

“Sorry,” you said as your vision tunneled and the world went dark. 

.

.

.

There was a lot of blood. 

He packed the wound to stem the flow so he could search for the medical supplies he knew you had somewhere. 

He yanked on trousers from the wardrobe that he knew belonged, once, to Johnny.

Ghost’s hands trembled. He wasn’t used to this body anymore. The pale hands he extended made him want to bare teeth he didn’t presently have. 

He was unwilling to admit that the shaking might be in part due to watching as you were shot because of him, that you were catatonic and might die. Because you had been trying to protect him. Some wild animal that you shouldn’t care about at all. 

He slammed into a wall and lurched into the kitchen to scrub your blood off of his hands in the bucket of water by the basin, and hoped you didn’t die while he did. 

He was near blind with pain from the sudden colorful clarity of his sight. He couldn’t smell anything, couldn’t hear your breathing or the tempo of your heart. All the avenues of you that he had painstakingly mapped over the last decade were lost to him. Your scent was familiar to him as his own, maybe even more so. He could smell your fear and joy and sadness. He knew what your grief and loneliness felt like in the back of his throat. He could track your mood through the spikes and dips in your breathing and heart rate. 

All of it was fucking lost to him. Years of carefully collected information, inaccessible. 

But a wolf was not suited to assessing or tending wounds. He had to stay, remain exposed, in this horrible body until at least then. 

He scrubbed until his hands were raw, and thankfully didn’t have to search long for your medicine bag, stuffed full of cloth bandages, poultices, disinfectants. A needle and surgical thread. 

Ghost had only been in your cottage once, when you nearly froze to death in the throes of your grief. He’d been assaulted by your scent, your blood and musk, and, worse, the dead smell of his pack mates still somehow lingering in the air. He had been sure you would die then, that he had not found you in time and wasted too much time trying to warm you in the garden, then to move you. His wolf was useful in many more ways than the human ever could be, but it was not suited to that kind of movement and care. 

You might have died, all because he had not wanted to transform and suffer the ache of being a person for even a few minutes. Of being seen for what he was, even by you. 

There was too much to explain, too much history. 

He returned to the bedroom, still clumsy with the taste of another failure so close. 

Fear still gripped him, the sight of you with a gun pointed at you, him not there to prevent it. He should have been there, should have smelled the shepherd from miles off. 

Though your skin was clammy and ashen, you were breathing evenly, closed eyelids fluttering. 

Ghost carefully maneuvered your body to the middle of the bed, and sat next to you. The feather mattress dipped a little under his weight and when he pulled the packed cloth away from your side, blood gushed out and then stemmed a little. 

His hands were unsteady, shaking. This body was slow, cumbersome. 

It didn’t look as bad as he’d feared. It would have been a graze, if you had not been shot at such close range. Flesh was missing. You would scar horribly, and his surely botched stitching would only make it worse. 

He cleaned the wound, slow and methodical. The shaking stopped as he worked, hands steadying. 

His stitching was as bad as he predicted it would be, but you wouldn’t bleed to death. The cloth bandage had to be wrapped around your middle, his unwieldy hands sliding between your inert form and the mattress, rough fingertips brushing the soft skin of your back and belly. 

It was all he could do, all he should do. 

He should leave, disappear into the forest and let you think the whole thing had been a bizarre dream. 

Instead, he pushed his fingers against your pulse and felt the reassuring throb of it, imagined it was loud enough for him to hear. Ghost kept his hand there, pressed to that thin delicate skin. He lifted your wrist to his nose but all he could smell was the salt of skin and blood. 

Though he wished he could taste your scent on the air, be comforted by it, for the first time in a decade, he was seeing you with clear sight. The wolf’s vision was poor; he, ironically, saw you best at night. Now, it was like finally seeing a finished painting after looking for so long at a rough charcoal sketch.  

He’d taken for granted those years he’d been able to see you clearly, speak to you as you smiled and your lashes touched your cheek. Something of a pretty bride. Gentle in a way he didn’t know people could be.

The village had been a way to check in with Johnny, to learn anything he couldn’t glean just from watching the two of you. News of fear of wolves, that he’d disastrously failed to heed.

He’d waited for you to leave for so long, counting the days and weeks and months like a clock that had timed itself to the moment you would realize there was nothing left for you there. You would go back to the city; he would live out his days as a lone wolf. 

He had known, at first, why you didn’t go, all those nights you lay in the cold at Johnny’s grave. You couldn’t leave him, couldn’t leave the memory of him there. 

But the grief had faded with time, and still you’d stayed. You laid in the snow with a wolf, opened your arms to it, talked to it. And though you didn’t have the words for it, didn’t understand the feeling, Ghost knew. 

The pack had shrunk, but it was still a pack. 

He would wait for you to wake up. 

You knew, now, after all, what he was. 

Ghost didn’t want to leave, anyway. 

In the meantime, he had a body to dispose of, and your blackberries needed bringing in. 

You would not wake up for two nights. 

.

.

.

A candle was guttering on the window when you woke, warm yellow flame jumping against the dark glass.

It was late, quiet in a way it only ever was when most of the world was asleep. Rain pattered against the roof. Its familiar rhythm would have been comforting if not for the sharp pain in your side and the memories that accompanied it. 

Ghost. 

Your wolf turned man, just as the stories had said. 

A fever dream, surely. Delirium and shock. 

Gingerly you pushed yourself upright. 

The sheets were clean. Your wound was bound, and when you lifted the bandage, you found it had been expertly cleaned, and stitched. The stitching was messy, but careful. 

You winced and attempted to change the bandage with more cloth wrapping that had been left on the sideboard. But your fingers were stiff and graceless and you could not get the wrapping to cooperate. Since it wasn’t bleeding, you decided to leave it for just a moment. Just to check on the house, to make sure your wolf was okay—

As soon as your feet hit the floor, something in the house shifted.

You were so used to being alone, that another human presence within the walls beats like a second heart in your hand. For one moment, you forget, think it’s only your husband stoking the fire. He would come back to bed and smile and ask why you were getting up. 

But when you turned to glance over your shoulder, pain swelling up your side, the unfamiliar-familiar man loomed there like a shadow manifest real. 

You stared at each other for a long moment. 

He was wearing Johnny’s clothes, too small for him. The trousers are too short, the shirt too tight. 

“Shouldn’t be movin’,” he said. 

You could only stare. Massive as your wolf was, this man was bigger. 

Fear and dread coiled in your stomach. He was an unfamiliar man. And men could hurt you in ways a wolf never could. 

You touched your side and a needlepoint of pain raked up your side, settled just under your arm. A hard breath caught in your throat. 

The man didn’t step forward, still as stone, just as your wolf often stood. 

“Ghost?” Your voice stammered out of you.

He nodded, once, the movement barely perceptible. 

You stared at him, your wolf made man.

“You’re a wolf.” He nodded, gaze guarded, maybe even afraid. “You’re my wolf.”

Possibly you were in shock, but you thought a hint of pride replaced the fear behind his eyes, satisfied, at least, with that assessment. 

“A werewolf?” 

He huffed, his mouth ticked up a little at the corner. “No. Not like your stories.” 

Ghost still didn’t move closer, and you were glad for it. The space was a kind way to let you adjust to his presence. 

The word werewolf loosened something in you, though. The man they’d executed. You shifted your gaze to his shoulder, to the same burn scars your wolf had, that you had always assumed were from the forest fires that day. 

The knowledge sunk like a stone in your belly. The wolves. How your husband loved those animals. How odd their behavior was. How they seemed to know something they shouldn’t. How he was killed along with them. How they loved you. 

You were, you were beginning to understand, part of a pack all along. 

Your chest constricted, throat tightening. 

You looked away, salt welling at the corners of your eyes, inhaling shakily. 

One question would tell you all you needed to know, but you were afraid to ask it. 

The floor creaked gently as he shifted in the doorway. 

“I need help,” you said instead. “With the bandage. Could you—I can’t get it to—” When you looked back again, he was already moving across the room, rounding the bed, as though he’d only been waiting for permission. 

He knelt on one knee and whatever threads of fear and anxiety you’d felt dissipated. You recognized his eyes, the scar across the bridge of his nose. Your wolf who had never done you harm, and wasn’t likely to start. 

You hitched your shirt up beneath your breasts and watched him carefully clean and tend your wound as you’d once tended his paw. He worked as if he’d done it many times before, cleaning it again carefully, applying a poultice when you pointed it out in the medicine bag. 

“Shouldn’t have done that.” 

You knew what he meant. Shouldn’t be speaking for wild animals. 

“What?” You ribbed. “Stand there? You did all the work.”

He ignored your joke. 

“Get shot,” he clarified roughly.  

“Next time I’ll dodge,” you tried again, touching his wrist. 

His mouth twitched. It was, you suspected, the equivalent of the wolf huffing into your hand. Irritated that he was amused.

“Willin’ to get shot over a bloody wolf.” He shook his head.  

“Not just a wolf,” you said. “In more ways than I knew, apparently.” 

He remained silent, focused on his task or ignoring you, you couldn’t tell. His lashes were very blond, angelic around such dark irises. 

“Why?” You asked. “Why did you never tell me. . .show me?”   

He didn’t answer, working quietly. He wrapped your wound methodically, and though his hands shook a little, his work was sure. He looped the cloth around your waist, arms circling your body but not touching. His biceps were massive, all muscle and corded blue veins. 

His hands anchored tentatively on your hips when he finished, as though waiting for you to throw him off. 

It was the closest you had been to another human in a very long time. You tilted your face closer to his. He smelled like your wolf, cut with blood and sweat. 

You lowered your free hand to his shoulder and when he didn’t shake you off, rubbed your thumb against the column of his throat.

“Not exactly the easiest thing to tell,” he finally answered, meeting your eyes. “Don’t like people much,” he added when you nodded in understanding. “Don't like being one either.” 

“The other wolves—“

Grief crossed his face. It was answer enough. He carried the blame and guilt like armor, something to wield. It was his fault they were all dead and that was reason enough to never reveal himself to you. You both wore that guilt and grief so poorly.

“I’m sorry.”

His thumb tracked down your side, beneath your ribs. Your breath caught and hitched, which made your side ache. “You—” you shuttered, and inhaled slowly, “—You don’t have to stay like this.” 

His gaze was unwavering. “You have questions a wolf can’t answer.” 

Slowly, you shook your head, brows knitting together. “I don’t think I do,” you said. 

You could see all the markers of the story laid out in front of you. The pack, your husband, what choices had been made about who wanted to be human and for which reasons. 

One question would give you all the answers you needed. 

“Was he like you? Johnny?” 

“‘e was.”

You wriggled your hand into his, found you missed his teeth around your skin. His fingers tightened instead. “He never told me.” 

“It was supposed to be behind him. For you.” 

You felt raw, tuned inside out. Your body ached all over. 

He moved his hand from your hip to your chin, angling your head to the side, examining your temple. A dissatisfied sound rumbled out of him, more animal than human. 

“But all of you came, too.” 

“He was still ours.” 

It was the simplest kind of belonging, where leaving didn’t mean you were alone, didn’t mean you were forgotten.

“Do you have a name?” 

You wondered if it was a product of being an animal for so long, or if he was unusually prone to long silences. You waited. 

“Did,” he nodded. “Once. ‘aven’t been him in a long time. ”

You hummed. 

Exhaustion tugged at your eyelids. The warmth of him so close was a balm. “Would you like to have one again?”

He pushed away from the floor, and pooled over you lithe and liquid as the wolf you knew he was. You breath caught again, your side ached, but you allowed yourself to be guided down, his large hand supporting your spine. 

His gaze was steady and intense. He had been watching you for a long, long time.

“Already gave me one, yeah?”

“Ghost,” you said. “Yes.” 

“You don’t want ‘im,” he said softly. “No use to you.” 

“Who?” 

His body engulfed yours. You felt torn apart beneath him, though he wasn’t touching you, supporting all his weight on his palms against the mattress. 

“I feel blind,” he admitted.  

“You don’t have to. . .you can be a wolf,” you said again. “I don’t mind.” 

It would, in actuality, be more comfortable. You didn’t mind the unease, though, of being so close to another person again. 

He only stared at you again, his body easing down against yours. It was so careful, so tediously mindful of the fragile stitches on your side. You wondered what he saw, what he was blind to now that he hadn’t been before. It was a terribly different experience, too, being watched by a wolf and being watched by a man whose body heat was slowly bleeding into yours. 

The silence unraveled, then winched you together. 

Just as there were questions a wolf couldn’t answer, you realized, there were things a man wanted that a wolf couldn’t have.

You tilted your chin up, offering. 

You expected him to hesitate but he didn’t. He pressed his face against your throat. The inhale was sharp and frustrated. His biceps bunched around your head when he fell to his forearms instead. His weight settled over you still so carefully. 

"Can't smell you proper," he complained.

"Sorry."

You widened your legs to accommodate his bulk, sliding your hands beneath the shirt that once belonged to someone else. His back was littered with scars, raised lines against your fingertips, constellations of who he claimed was no use to you. His past, his previous name, all the grief and pain you’d experienced in tandem. Your fingers trailed gently over the blanket of old burn scarring. 

His teeth digging into your skin wasn’t totally unexpected, but it still made you flinch. A choked groan carved a path through your throat. 

“Are you real?” 

Maybe it was a dream, a feverish delusion brought on by your long weathered loneliness. Your wolf was a man who saved your life. The world knew the husband you’d lost, the pack that had been slaughtered. 

But then he touched you, and the doubt sloughed away. 

He pushed one hand to your hip, holding you in place though you weren’t moving. It covered an alarming amount of skin before he pushed it along your spine to the base of your neck. His fingers tangled in the hair at the nape, resting against your skull that suddenly felt incredibly fragile. 

He lifted his head and tilted onto his side. His body formed a neat pocket for you to fit into. He drew you further into him when you cupped his jaw. Your neck pulsed with an ache. Unlike your side, it felt good.

Ghost closed his eyes, a pleased hum lodged somewhere in his chest. You rubbed your hand through his hair, traced the scar that hooked the corner of his mouth.  

His cock was heavy and half hard against your thigh, fingers of arousal you’d thought long dead curling to life in your belly. When you brought your face close to his, eyes fluttering nearly closed, he automatically met you, as though it were the easiest thing in the world. 

He shook his head when your fingers skimmed the waistband of his trousers.

“Stitches,” he said. 

“So be gentle,” you answered. “This time, at least.” 

His hand tightened on the back of your neck. Your breath hitched as you waited for him to decide. “If that is something you want,” you said after a moment. “It should go without saying.” 

“If,” he repeated. “Funny, that.” 

But he seemed to make up his mind, hand wandering to your waist instead, curling his fingers in your dirty tunic. You felt as though you couldn’t breathe, air crushed from between your ribs as he kissed you again, tongue sliding against yours, hand squeezing your breast until you gasped and hissed. 

“Careful,” he said.

It was only when he was deep inside you, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the stretch, the slow, even rhythm of his body against yours, the heavy, intoxicating weight of him in your cunt, cautious and gentling, that he told you. 

How careful he was, for someone with such a sharp bite.

His name was pressed into the skin below your ear.

For safekeeping. 

A past self he thought dead slipped into your mouth. 

It was a name you already knew.

I read a book about lone wolves recently. can you tell?

as always thank you for reading, thank you for being here. would love to know your thoughts <3

[viperify]

oneshots | ʙᴜʟʟʏ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

‎𝜗𝜚₊˚ WATCH YOURSELF.

⟡ SUMMARY: insecurity strikes when the dress you bought months ago no longer fits the way you need it to—but Tom, sworn enemy and bully, is rightfully angered when he overhears you talking badly about yourself. only he can do that after all.

⟡ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. mirror sex. insecure!reader. talks about gaining weight, feeling unhappy with your body (tummy, hips), Tom comes to save the evening, slight teasing, semi-public in the dressing room, fingering, clit play, clit slapping, nipple play, orgasm denial, edging, he makes you watch yourself in the mirror while he fucks you, unprotected p in v, Tom Riddle has a big dick, he makes you come twice, praise, creampie, stuffing cum back inside

⟡ AUTHOR'S NOTE: gosh this took some time to write but im overall really happy with how it turned out, and I hope you enjoy it as well <3 listened to many songs during it, so I decided to make my first dedicated fic playlist, which should be around the length of the fic + in order of the themes discussed <3 (shoutout to my wifey @yuunarii-arii for helping me!! ily, and shoutout to my other wifey @cexoria for being the most supportive bub ever, ily MWUAH)

FANFICTION PLAYLIST: listen here while reading!

wordcount: 6,7k

The dress doesn't fit, and you are painfully aware of it. It's an ounce too tight around your hips and waist, and you cannot stand the way it makes you look—the excitement you initially felt for the Slughorn's annual ball tonight fading into grave disappointment.

You bought it months ago. Before you'd gained a few kilograms due to exam stress and resorting to your comfort snacks to keep you motivated enough for hour-long study sessions in the library after an already long day of classes, assignments, and projects.

And now, well—the zipper closed merely just so with the help of your friend. You feel that with every wrong move, every small bow, the fabric would rip into two pieces and grant you the title for the "funniest" acciddent of the school year.

You've been staring at yourself in the mirror of your bathroom for thirty minutes or perhaps more. You have done your makeup and your hair, chose the matching jewellery from the bottom of your drawer—and still, the tears keep coming. They keep flowing down your cheeks in wet, glistening streaks, and as soon as you calm yourself, the dam breaks once more as your vision unblurrs and your reflection in the mirror clears again.

When you first tried it on, it fit you like a glove. The exact colour you wished to find, with a V-cut to reveal just enough of your cleavage. You fell in love almost instantly and did not bother looking any further. It's the most beautiful shade of emerald green, a silky, expensive fabric which is rare to find around here and which you wouldn't have been able to afford without the help of your parents.

You were gleaming with joy when they packed and handed it to you. And now, your only wish is to bury yourself underneath your fluffy blanket and not reappear until the sun comes up in the morning, missing out on the event you've been excited for all year.

Nevertheless, your friends have been persistent.

You will go. No excuses.

Just this morning, when you left breakfast early with a headache, they'd shot you incredibly judging looks.

So, after all, you have got yourself ready and joined them for the ball as they wished, even if you'd rather gone to bed instead.

・・・

Slughorn loves speeches.

Riddle, in return, loves listening to his speeches.

This is what you have gathered not only from this evening, but by being a member of the infamous Slugclub for the past three years. Every time your Potions professor interrupts the flow of the evening to speak, the Slytherin Prefect and Head Boy is first to turn his head. He watches him with intrigue, puts on his usual charming smile—the one he only ever uses with people he looks up to—and nods with approval when Slughorn occasionally meets his gaze.

How can you be the only one to see through his facade?

You haven't exactly been successful with confronting him about it. While he acted slightly surprised at your accusation at first, he conveniently twisted the situation his way and left you standing in an empty corridor with more resentment than ever.

But you know you are right. His behaviour since your talk has proven it—he hasn't exactly gone easy on you. Tom now always has something to say about you, your grades or your inability to pay attention in class (drawing in your notebook is often is more fun than listening to Trelawney rambling on about different divination practices), and his "friends"—Rosier, Malfoy, Mulciber, who are following him around like lost puppies—have caught on and been tormenting you with him, or sometimes on their own when Tom isn't near and they spot you walking by yourself.

For some strange reason, they are worse by themselves—more cruel, more persistent with their snarky words, and more hurtful.

You wonder why.

"Pssst." your friend's voice tears you from your thoughts, elbowing you lightly in the ribs. "They've noticed you are staring at him."

Oh.

You've been so lost in thought that you haven't stopped looking at the very man you have been cursing in your head since Slughorn started speaking—and is now done, apparently.

Mulciber has a nasty grin plastered on his stupid face, and Riddle's gaze meets yours—briefly, before he too smirks and turns to whisper something to Rosier which you cannot quite make out.

They all collectively laugh and then return to the meal in front of them.

Normally, you wouldn't pay it any attention. You have learned not to care. But tonight, already feeling uncomfortable and on edge—it hurts. It hurts more than you know it should.

After all, they aren't someone of importance to you. Never been, never will. You speak to them when you must, which is rarely. Luckily so.

Perhaps it is because today they are dressed nicely, in expensive, hand-tailored suits, and you've caught yourself staring at Tom more often than you usually do. Which is horrible. Terrible. Devastating for your sanity, to be fair. It's simply unfair for him to look like this when you—

Ugh.

"Yes, thank you." you say under your breath, finally tearing your gaze away, lowering it to the untouched food on your plate, which has long cooled out.

More than ever this night, you aren't feeling hungry.

Instead you excuse yourself, hurrying off to the bathroom, only returning once dinner has been cleared from the table and Slughorn officially opens the exciting part of the evening—dancing and conversing with other members, accompanied by live music, games, and snacks.

・・・

"Yes, I would agree with you," Tom murmurs under his breath, taking a sip of the Firewhiskey, which he's barely touched up until now.

While he's somewhat listening to what Malfoy has to say to him, his attention is elsewhere—eyes sweeping across the room for a certain someone he hasn't seen much of today. The only two occasions he remembers, though, are rather worthwhile.

First, your entrance. Slughorn has the habit of greeting every single guest individually—and so, when you and your friends entered the venue, his eyes dragged towards you like a damned magnet. Like they always do.

Second, the grumpy face with which you absentmindedly stared at him during dinner—which, in his opinion, came across as adorable rather than threatening.

His dark brown orbs finally find their desired target, drinking in the sight of you before anything else. The dress you're wearing is beyond anything he's seen—a gorgeous shade of dark green, fitting you as though it were handcrafted for your body, accenting your curves perfectly. The jewellery you are wearing matches the colour of the dress, and your handbag is adorned with a stunning green gem.

The only part about you which is off today is the look on your face. You've been carrying a frown for the entirety of the evening, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out you are not quite feeling yourself.

Normally, you'd be busy talking, perhaps even dancing—but today, you are keeping to yourself, often stepping away from the spotlight and hiding at the side while your friends dance or visit the snack bar.

What Tom notices too—you haven't once let go of your bag, tightly clutching it to yourself, occasionally tugging on your dress when you think nobody is looking.

Yet, he is—and slowly, the shards of information begin to connect like a jigsaw puzzle in his head. Tom thinks he has an idea as to why you are so quiet tonight. When you and your friends leave in the direction of the dressing rooms, he—finally by himself after getting rid of Malfoy—decides to test his luck and confirm what he's pieced together by observing your behaviour. After checking his surroundings for anyone who may be watching him, he quietly follows after you two.

・・・

"It's just too tight—don't you see?" you complain, fingers pinching at the fabric for what must be the 100th time this night. "It doesn't fit as it ought to. Perhaps I shall retire to our dormitory earlier tonight."

"None of that," your friend retorts quickly, looking at your reflection in the standing mirror of the girl's changing rooms and giving you a gentle smile. "You look perfect. Stunning. In fact, Wood has been pestering me when you'd finally join the dance floor."

You huff softly, swallowing the guilt of your own failure. "Well, Oliver is just too kind of a soul not to ask. He always does."

"He likes you." your friend insists, but you shake your head, sinking down on the bench with a heavy sigh.

"If he really did, he'd have asked me himself."

"You've been hiding since dinner. He hasn't gotten the chance." they say, gesturing vaguely with their hands, voice dimming to match your tone. "What can I do to make you feel better?"

You shake your head weakly, and you wish for nothing more than to sleep and leave it all behind you. "I don't know, I really don't. I don't like the way it makes my tummy look, how the fabric stretches over my hips, I am just not happy with it in general."

After what feels like a very long minute, your friend finally speaks, seemingly having found a solution to your problem. "I might have something for you in my dorm. I will be back in a bit—stay right here for me."

Before you can tell them that it is unnecessary to bring anything because it wouldn't help you, they disappear behind the door, and the clacking of heels can be heard down the hallway.

"Ugh," you exhale a deep breath and bury your face in your hands. Friends like yours are worth gold, truly—but sometimes, perhaps, it'd be smarter to stop trying to lift you up, especially on days like today.

Before you can immerse yourself too deep in thought, the door creaks open and closes just a moment later—and of course, assuming this is one of the girls seeking refreshment or a moment of privacy, away from the spotlight, you don't immediately lift your head.

But there's no rush in the footsteps that approach you, strangely enough.

Your eyes widen once you do peek a look at the person currently in the cramped space with you.

Not another girl seeking refreshment at all, as you come to realise.

It's Tom—with a rare, oddly gentle expression on his usually guarded face.

You smooth your dress over your thighs and rise from where you've been sitting.

"These are the girl's changing rooms, Riddle. You better leave before I get the chance to hex you."

He doesn't make a move to do so, though—the opposite, if anything. Tom takes another step closer—just a few metres away from you now, so close you can make out the exact shade of brown of his eyes.

"Oh, I think I am just where I am supposed to be." he replies confidently, emptying the remnants of the drink he has in hands—Firewhiskey, you presume—and settling the now empty glass on the vanity.

His eyes, which until now have been trained on your face, slowly travel down your body—dread blooms in the pits of your stomach, spreading across the surface of your skin like wildfire, having goosebumps rise on your arms.

You feel sick. You want to vanish into thin air. You are too tired to actually defend yourself, at least for tonight. Tonight, he might as well have this satisfying moment of teasing you for all you care.

Your voice is small when you manage a full sentence without shedding a fresh tear. "If you wish to make a comment about my appearance tonight, I'd highly suggest you keep it to yourself. I am aware."

Tom is frozen in place, seemingly contemplating his next move on the chessboard from which you've retired the second he set foot into the room. Instead of cruel words, he inches closer once again and stops when he's stood directly in front of you.

You swallow tightly, averting your gaze—but before you get the chance to retreat, his index finger curls under your chin, and he lifts your head gently to force your attention on him and his eyes.

Your lungs fail to expand for your next breath when he parts his lips to speak. His voice is soft and gentle, a tone you've never heard coming from him—subsequently, your brain fails to quite connect the words that follow.

"Remind me," Tom murmurs, keeping your gaze locked onto his, drawn to the gentle honey-brown—have they always been like this?—of his irises. "When have I ever made a remark about your appearance?"

Your mind begins to reel, memories of things he has said to you resurfacing. It's been mostly about academics, you remember that. You aren't a bad student, that's for sure—though you are often not able to keep up with him. Which is, in the end, not uncommon.

In fact, nobody can.

You merely seem to hold a special place in his heart—ironically so—to have been picked as his target.

Sometimes, he points out the most unsubstantial things, and other times, he uses academic achievements to ruin your mood for the day.

Yet, strangely, he's never spoken about your looks, as you conclude. Not Riddle, at least.

Sudden confidence takes over what's left of your functioning brain cells, and you answer him with a voice stronger than it has been all evening. "You perhaps haven't, but your friends don't shy away from it."

Tom's eyes sharpen as he processes your words, eyebrows pinching together ever so slightly. "When?"

You huff, turning your head away from him. The hand he's held so close to your face, below your chin, drops to his side. "All the time, Riddle. All the fucking time when you aren't there."

He clears his throat, sincerity reflecting in his body language and expression, his voice softer than before. "They won't any longer."

You almost laugh. After everything he's had to say about you, this is where he draws the line? When they comment on your appearance? "Are you sure about that?"

"Absolutely certain," he replies instantly without wasting a second to think, and you stay silent for a long moment in return. He doesn't have any reason to tell you this now, in the girl's changing rooms, where anyone could walk in and report him. Where his reputation could be tainted, seen with you alone.

But even if—why the sudden change of mind? Does he feel pity for you? For your dress? In case even Tom Riddle feels pity, you may as well change schools. You've heard great recommendations for Ilvermony, all the way across the Pacific in the Americas. Would that be far enough to never see any of them again? Perhaps you should research space travel once you retire to your dorm.

"You're becoming inattentive again. You can trust me—this once."

"Oh? How very polite of you," you reply snarkily, crossing your arms over your chest. "Riddle allows me to trust him, but how can I be sure that he's being—"

Tom interrupts you before you can ramble on. "You remember the exam you beat me in this May?"

Your eyebrows draw together, but soon a slight smile forms on your lips. "Defence Against The Dark Arts, yes."

Tom's expression softens as yours does, and normally you wouldn't notice such a minor detail—but right now, with all your nerve endings on high caution and your mind working overtime, you do. You notice when his head dips subtly, the corner of his lips lifts into a faint smirk, and his pupils blow wide as though he is replaying a memory in his head.

"Perhaps you should know what was on my mind for the entirety of the following week," he whispers finally, the warmth of his words ghosting over your face, having your heart skip a beat.

You know for a fact that Tom Riddle did in fact not just speak seductively to you. How much have you had to drink? How much has he had to drink?

You swallow tightly, lost for words. Before you can answer him, his eyes bore into yours almost painfully so, and just a moment later, the dressing room around you dissolves and you no longer find yourself in an emerald green dress but clothed in your school uniform and at the front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom on the third floor of the castle.

The memory becomes clearer with each passing heartbeat, and with it, the realisation that he's sharing a daydream of his with you.

If you weren't quite so shocked at what was happening right before your eyes, you would question his ability to daydream.

Tom Riddle, your sworn rival and bully since your first ever lesson together, has you bent over the professor's table in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom—and to your horror, is groaning with pleasure as his hips rut into yours from behind, his hands steady on your waist, keeping you right where he wants you. His brown curls are falling messily over his forehead, shifting with each of his thrusts, beads of sweat forming at his temples. His lips kiss down your neck hungrily, tugging your blouse to the side for better access.

Tom Riddle is fucking you in an empty classroom. Over the teacher's desk.

Yes, you read that right. Holy fuck.

When the memory switches to his point of view, his eyes descending your back, Tom cuts the connection between you two before you get to see more, and you are thrust back into reality. The dressing room. Him, right before you, his breath ghosting over your face.

You blink a few times, present-you and present-Tom still stood in the exact same spot as moments ago. One shaky inhale later, your whole body numb with what you just witnessed, you manage to lift your gaze to meet his.

"You're— oh my God, Riddle."

Tom now actually smirks, and you feel like you may faint any second. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"It's— I—"

"Listen to me," he says thoughtfully, placing his finger beneath your chin again to keep your eyes on his. "I won't allow you to talk badly about yourself. Not now, not in the future."

You cannot stop the laugh from spilling over your lips at the seriousness of his voice and expression while telling you the most ironic sentence you've had the pleasure of hearing. "But you can? Is that it?"

"That's right," he replies smugly. "Smart girl—for once."

This man is unbelievable. You cannot grasp all the things which have happened these past three minutes. Your mind has been working tirelessly the entire evening, trying to not be perceived, worrying about the way you look at any moment. And now, Riddle thinks it's the perfect moment to share this daydream—this incredibly fucking hot daydream—with you?

"Let me show you a proper way to treat you in that dress," he says, once again tearing you from your thoughts.

"You're fooling me again, Riddle." you respond after a moment, your voice softer than before. Vulnerability has crept its way back into your being, aware who it is that is in the room with you. Telling you all those things. Making you believe that—perhaps—there is some truth to them.

A reluctant tear spills over your waterline and down your cheek, leaving behind a wet trail—though, before you can wipe it away, Tom's fingers wrap around your wrist, and he leans in. His eyes never leave yours—not even to blink.

He inches closer unhurriedly, giving you the space to draw back if you so wished.

You don't wish to.

At last, his lips connect with yours—still waiting—and then, when you sigh softly against his lips, he kisses you. Gently at first, a breath of a touch, really—barely there, but you still feel him. If you are being truthful, it's not just your lips where you feel him. It's everywhere. He's everywhere. You don't want him to leave.

It's perfect how he moves against you, slow and gentle, allowing you to set the pace—letting you forget for a moment that it's Tom who you're kissing.

When you part, his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tenderly swiping over your tear-soaked cheek.

"Matter of fact, I am very serious about this." he murmurs, and his eyes don't reflect his usual cruelty but genuinity. You nearly choke on your next breath.

"Anyone could see us here. My friend will be back in a few minutes at most," you whisper, checking your surroundings. You don't know why they're taking so long, anyway. Should you be worried?

The door locks behind Tom without him having to turn around.

"Still, anyone could hear us."

His lips lift into a subtle grin, and he simply casts Muffliato. "You can be as loud as you wish now, darling."

Your arms cross over your chest, and you raise a brow. "Who gave you the idea that you'll be able to draw any sound from my lips?"

"Kneel right in front of that mirror and I'll show just what I'll be able to do with your body." Tom demands, pointing to the very mirror you've watched yourself countless times in today, finding a variety of flaws which have made you want to disappear to your dorm before the clock strikes midnight.

"Why the mirror? I—"

His thumb swipes over your lips, silencing your complaint with a stern, yet gentle tone. "You will watch yourself while I teach you how to worship your body."

You fail to swallow the discomfort building anew in your stomach. "But—"

"Let me show you," he offers, guiding you towards the mirror with a hand on your lower back. You wince as you spot yourself in the reflection, however, Tom does not give you too much time to dwell on it. One of his hands is on your waist, steadying you against him, the other gradually wanders down your thigh, gathering the silky fabric of your dress in his palm. It reveals the plush of your thighs, but with his knuckles brushing over the skin there, inching upwards, you fail to find something wrong with yourself—instead, you have to keep yourself from trembling, have to keep the whimper from spilling over your lips, anticipation building in your core. It's been a while since someone has touched you like this. Since you have allowed someone this close to you, let alone see you like this.

Your gaze is locked onto his hand in the mirror—veins bulging beneath his skin as it's splayed across your thigh. He's stopped moving upwards, his fingertips instead stroking over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, waiting for approval to continue moving. He doesn't speak. He lets you drink this in in silence, and you cannot find the words to complain.

Please, you tell him with your eyes as you meet his own in the reflection. Tom hums in approval and does not waste a second before he slips beneath the thin material of your gown, and when his fingertips brush over the seam of your panties at the apex of your thigh, you can no longer stop the gasp which tumbles from your mouth.

You want more. You are greedy for it, and he knows it.

Tom's fingers follow the seam between your legs, whispering something you cannot quite make out as his thumb finds the damp spot which has formed on the cotton of your panties. As though on command, he traces it upwards, along your folds, pressing his thumb right onto your clit.

For a moment, you see stars dancing in front of you. Nothing else. Then, you see yourself bent over the professor's desk. You blink, and you, again, spot yourself—this time in the mirror, dress slipped so far up, you can see his hand on you. On your clothed pussy, your underwear soaked with arousal.

Perhaps you didn't realise just how long you were staring at him during dinner.

Tom begins to circle your swollen clit through the fabric, and you moan. Actually fucking moan. Your back arches involuntarily, legs buckling—and that's when he stops. He helps you steady yourself on the heels you are wearing, then drops his hands to his side and lets the fabric slip back down your legs.

For a beat of a moment, neither of you say anything. You think this is it—he's gotten what he wanted. He'll turn around and leave.

But Tom doesn't allow your brain to expand on the thought.

"This is why you should listen to what I say—kneel and I'll continue."

On any day, where sanity might still have played a role in your decision-making, you'd have told him to leave. To forget this ever happened. You'd have stopped this.

But today, the entire compartment in your brain responsible for sane thoughts has effectively shut off. There's no accountability but only burning desire coursing through your veins, and your knees meet the wooden floor panels before you can think twice about the decision.

Tom follows, settling behind you. His honey-brown eyes are locked onto your face, the way your lips are swollen from trying to keep yourself from making sounds, your eyes unfocused yet sparkling with need.

Most unfortunately, he has been dreaming of this, too.

"Spread your legs for me," he mutters, slipping his hand under the hem of your dress once more, gently nudging your knees apart, bunching your dress around your hips. "Just like this—you'll watch."

You'll watch. The words repeat in your head like an echo, all the while your eyes sink to his fingertips, tracing along your inner thigh, briefly stroking his thumb over the dark spot on your panties, letting your hips chase the friction when he stills.

Then, his breath ghosts past the shell of your ear, and he brushes a kiss to your jaw. "Tell me you want this."

You nod. You want nothing more than this. It should be out of fucking question. "Yes, please."

"That's a good girl," he praises lowly, kissing along your shoulder while his hand dips beneath the waistband of your panties, groaning into your ear in approval when your slick greets his fingers.

"So wet for me, and I've barely touched you. Pathetic as always," he drawls, and you can feel and see the faint grin on his lips. The words don't sting—if anything, he's meant them to challenge you. He wants you to have a reaction. Bastard.

"Riddle." you say through gritted teeth, definitely not focusing on the way his middle finger drags through the slick between your folds and circles your pulsing hole, all the while his eyes are focused on your reaction.

With a wet, muffled sound, his hand comes down on your sensitive clit, having you flinch. "It's Tom for you—at least for tonight."

"You fucking—" you start, though you don't get to finish the insult about to spill from your tongue—a moan does, instead. His index and middle finger dip between your folds, gathering arousal and dragging them up your slit again—until they find your clit, drawing slow but firm circles on the throbbing bud.

Your head tilts backwards, resting on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed with pleasure—and he lets you have it. For a moment. Lets you feel. Allows you to enjoy his fingers where you need them most, gives you the chance to experience the warmth spreading from your core throughout your entire body.

Until your lips part on their own, the sweetest sounds pouring from you—until your hips begin to ride his hand, and he feels your body going rigid.

Then, he stops.

"Open your eyes and look at yourself while I make you come. It's the only way I allow it."

Your eyes blink open slowly, and with slight reluctance, you look at yourself in the mirror. At your dress, at the flushed, dazed expression on your face. Your eyes drop instantly, but Tom doesn't grant you the relief. His hand softly wraps around your throat from behind, and drags your focus on yourself once more.

You whimper. At both the warmth of his hand on your skin, but also the sight of your crumpled dress. "You're mean."

"Nothing you aren't already aware of then, sweetheart." he purrs, and resumes drawing figure-eights on your most sensitive spot. "Don't you dare look away again."

You clench your jaw tightly enough to stop yourself from ruining your chances of the orgasm you've been chasing, instead focusing on the feeling of his fingers between your soaked folds, watching his hand stuffed in your panties.

"Up here," he insists, and hesitantly, your eyes drift to your face. Tom dips two fingers into your entrance then, until the second knuckle, curling them in a way that makes you gasp. "Right here. You stop, I stop. Understood?"

You nod, and the hand on your throat travels down your body—roaming freely across your tummy, thighs, tits. All the places you've been eager to hide, he touches in a way that leaves behind goosebumps. In a good way.

Tom switches between your clit and throbbing walls until your hips eagerly meet his thrusts and your pussy clenches his fingers so tightly, you barely let him move. He has reduced you to a moaning, trembling mess—and he enjoys every second of unravelling you more and more.

His lips brush kisses down your neck, and you're begging now—begging for his fingers just a little deeper, just a tiny bit faster—and when he sees you are still watching yourself, he gives in.

He slips his digits inside your welcoming cunt until the last knuckle, angling them to massage over the spot he's learned makes your eyes flutter shut—his second hand too descending to your pussy, rubbing fast circles over your pulsing, neglected clit.

"Tom, fuck, I—" you blurt out with a trembling voice, the amount of pleasure overwhelming your senses—and right when you think it's too much, that you can't take it—he lets you tip over the edge, allowing you to freefall and descend into the rough waves of your orgasm. The last thing you see before your vision goes white is yourself. Your mouth, opening to moan his name.

Tom works you through it all. Doesn't stop until you are shaking, whimpering in overstimulation. He gently withdraws his fingers from your pulsating walls, slows the circular movements on your clit. Allows you to return to reality without rush.

You blink a few times after coming down from your high. Your mind is still clouded—too clouded to entirely realise what just happened—but what you see is yourself, the reflection of the mess he's made of you. Your eyes search Tom's, only to find he's been studying you this entire time.

Your first instinct tells you to get up, and that is what you try—until one of his arms sneaks around your waist, telling you wordlessly to discard the thought as fast as it came.

Tom spots the confusion on your face, and he is no longer interested in keeping you in the dark. His hands adjust your hips slightly, and he grinds himself against you—letting you feel the effect you have on him, too.

You swallow the knot which has formed in your throat. He's rock-hard. Because of you. Because he's watched you come, and he is aware you don't know, but it was the most gorgeous expression he's ever seen you carry.

"Stay," he coaxes, kissing your neck, brushing the first strap of your dress off your shoulder.

"You are out of your mind, Riddle."

He merely cocks an eyebrow at your words, and you realise your mistake.

"Tom."

"Oh trust me," he croons, letting the second strap slip off. "I am feeling quite all right, sweetheart."

You don't stop him when he unzips your dress, helps you up to let it fall to the floor and leaves you in your underwear, which he, elegantly so, removes within the matter of a few seconds, never taking his eyes off your reflection in the mirror.

He's mesmerised, to say the least.

You're completely bare. From head to toe, naked. While he's fully dressed. Heat creeps onto your cheeks, and your hand moves to cover your stomach—and he removes it just as quickly.

"Don't you fucking dare." he sneers, but without the usual venom in his voice. "You are gorgeous. And I won't stop until you believe it yourself."

Tom works open his belt and zipper, easing his trousers down his legs far enough to free his aching cock, throbbing in anticipation when his hand wraps around it and he gives himself a few strokes to your bare reflection.

You want to have a look—a peek—just to see what you're getting yourself into, however, he doesn't allow you. Doesn't allow you to turn around, having you focus on yourself instead.

God, you hate this man.

"I'd fuck you like this," he says casually, a bit of smugness mixed into his tone, dragging his tip through your puffy, glistening folds. "But your legs are trembling just from this. So I'll have to ask you to kneel for me again."

You nearly choke on your breath. If these three and a half seconds of contact are enough to go by, you'll be ruined when he's done with you. Merlin fucking save you. This is just unfair.

"Be gentle. I warn you," you grit out, and he drags you down with him, hand pressing you snugly to his hips.

You are sure of it now. This man is not just blessed with an abnormally large brain. If that wasn't already enough.

"Scared?" he asks smugly, a stupid grin plastered on his face. You refuse to feed his ego any further.

"Never of you."

Mistake. Big mistake.

His tip dips in between your folds, gliding up and down your slit—once.

Then, he nudges it against your entrance. Twice.

Lastly, with one determined thrust—he drives himself home.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, and he groans lowly, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. He stays there for a moment—buried to the base—for you to adjust, but also for him. Tom knows this won't last long—he's not proud of it, but how could he? You're too blind to see the beauty reflecting back at you.

He isn't. Which is, in this case, a problem.

"You're— God— tight. Tighter than a fucking noose, sweetheart." he grumbles behind you, dark curls messily falling over his forehead as his head dips to look at where you are connected. He nearly comes from the sight of your pussy stretching around his cock, your slick leaving a glistening trail on his skin, cascading down his base and balls.

"Move— God, Tom, fucking move, damnit—" you choke out, arching your hips into his. Though Tom—he's as still as a statue, eyes trained on him inside you.

"You won't be able to—"

"Fuck. Me." you interrupt him, and finally, his eyes meet yours again. Briefly, they study your face. Look for any hint of doubt, regret.

When he finds neither, he pulls out—almost all the way—and pushes back inside.

You moan. He groans.

The dam breaks. He begins to snap his hips into your own with purpose, barely giving you enough mental capacity to breathe. As already once this evening, you feel him everywhere. Every single one of your nerve endings seems to be screaming Tom Riddle, and if you weren't already on the path to your second orgasm of the night, you'd curse your entire being for betraying you like this.

Though, you too, end up screaming his name.

Slick, wet sounds fill the cramped dressing room, every deep thrust of his having your skin smack against his. Tom doesn't fuck you particularly fast—slow and deep is what you'd call it—but it's too much as it is. Not only is he big, he's stretching you out in ways you could only have dreamed of up until now. Every ridge, every vein of his cock drags against your inner walls, which greedily pulse around him in return.

"You're intelligent," he rasps, breathing heavily as his gaze locks onto yours. "Repeat it."

"You're unbelievable," you gasp, shaking your head in disbelief.

A sharp slap on your clit makes you yelp.

"Damn you, Riddle—Tom—I am intelligent."

"Good fucking girl," he responds, angling his thrusts deeper, better. Meaner. "You're gorgeous."

You scoff. "I am not—fuck—saying that."

Tom's hand dips between your legs, finding your clit. Circling around it. Teasing you. Keeping you right on the edge of your orgasm.

"Say it. Say you're gorgeous, and I'll let you come."

A tear rolls down your cheek, and this time, he doesn't wipe it. He knows you aren't hurt. His second hand cups your tits, plays with your hardened nipples, and brushes over your tummy.

You cannot take it any longer.

"I am gorgeous," you blurt out, looking at your reflection. Perhaps, you mean it this time. You're almost there—so close, you can taste the sweetness of your orgasm on your tongue.

Tom hums, twitching inside you—his fingers stroking directly over your clit now. "Come for me, darling. Make a mess on my cock."

As though on command, you do. Your climax rolls over you in violent waves, having you shaking, trembling as he holds you close, watching your eyes roll to the back of your head in pleasure.

Tom follows soon after—thrusting deep once or twice more, using the feeling of your pulsing walls to empty himself inside your warmth, so deep he knows you'll feel it the remainder of the night.

You both take your time catching your breath. Coming down from whatever heights you ascended to—and then, you cannot help but laugh at the fucking irony of it all. He places one last kiss on your shoulder before he gently withdraws, both of you wincing, and after fixing himself, lends you a hand to help you up and put on your dress again.

Your legs are shaky when you try to stand, and he holds you steady—his hand slipping between your legs once more, fingers stuffing his release back inside your sore walls when he feels it dripping from you.

The touch doesn't deter you. You lean into it if anything, moaning.

"Now, go back to the ball and find a suitable, respectable man to dance with— while my cum makes a mess between your thighs."

Too many words at once, which only make sense once the door shuts behind him, and you are alone with your thoughts.

Still standing in front of that stupid mirror.

You look more of a mess than at any previous point this night—though somehow, you are at peace with it. Fixing your hair, you put on a smile.

The same one you wore when you first tried on the dress all these months ago.

You feel better. Much better.

BONUS ENDING

"You know, these stairs just didn't stop moving! It took me thirty minutes to come back! I cannot believe it. And then the portrait did not accept my password—it always does. Someone must've cursed them, there is no other way."

Your friend has been rambling on for approximately twenty minutes, and you, in the meanwhile, have been nodding along, trying the sweets at the snack bar. Your gaze occasionally drifts to Tom's, who returns it with a subtle smirk while listening to what Malfoy has to say to him.

He did that. To buy more time.

You finally respond, loud enough for Tom to hear. "Yes, I agree. Must've been someone incredibly stupid."

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: writing this fic was really personal, and honestly one of the most self indulgent things I have written so far, and that makes this fic very special to me. I wanted Tom to be a bit softer with us after hearing we're having troubles with confidence, and I think he did a good job proving we are beautiful. remember ladies, Tommy loves all of us equally, no matter what we look like <3

𑁤 main taglist:

@glowingatdawn @whimpurrin @cb97s-babyygirl @cexoria @yuunarii-arii @kzylvr @eleventhboi @melodymoo2 @venomous0 @dreaming-of-epiphanies @simplyastra @revesephemeres @piayaluvsya

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oneshots | ᴅᴀᴅ'ꜱ ʙꜱꜰ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𓆩♡𓆪 RIDE IT, ANGEL.

ʚ ɞ SUMMARY: being a brat and teasing him all night long gets you nowhere with your dad's best friend, Tom Riddle—except on top of him. ;)

ʚ ɞ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. he loves watching you ride him. age gap (not specified, around twice reader's age) slight brat taming, nipple play, lots of petnames, kisses, unprotected p in v, he sips champagne during it, reader has a mind of their own and Tom is patient (sometimes), he's obsessed, praise, creampie

ʚ ɞ AUTHOR'S NOTE: daddy come home I miss you

wordcount: 2,4k

Most affection between you two is destined to stay hidden, to be left at brushes of his hands over your waist as he walks past, or perhaps the gentlest of squeezes on your hips when your father is busy speaking to clients.

But never openly. Not in public, at least.

What you have to wait for are rare moments where him smuggling you away from the spotlight goes unnoticed—when your father is caught up in business talks that, for once, don't involve Tom, and he manages to locate a free bedroom somewhere on the upper floors. Alternatively, a broom closet, if there really is no other option and you've been teasing him all night.

Tonight's ball hasn't been any different—he's been eyeing you from afar, gently swaying the champagne in his hand. One part of him focused on the latest success of your father—which warranted this huge festivity, apparently—the other solely following you around the venue.

This isn't an affectionate friendship, one you'd have since childhood. The mere goal of it are the connections it offers Tom. Of course he approached the topic a little differently—however, money is power, and if someone has money, it is your father. The thought to infiltrate his closer circle came naturally, and without too much effort on Tom's side, given his well-practiced charm.

At first, you were merely an unexpected bonus to the long evenings he spent discussing politics and business on a table with 20 men, sometimes more. Though not too long after—perhaps four to five meetings into this business deal, as he likes referring to it—when you snuck him to your room for the first time, Tom came to the conclusion he'd perhaps stick around for a while longer than he originally intended.

Now, given you are at a well-visited and crowded ball tonight, he doesn't expect to exchange much more than a mere greeting today. However, as so often, your careful hints over the course of the evening tell him otherwise.

You are wearing the necklace he left under your covers a few months ago. Steal glances at him all the whilst you are talking to men your age. Smirk at him over their shoulder when they ask for a dance and you accept—it's what your father wants for you, after all. To find your match.

A respectable, young gentleman from a wealthy family.

You think these requirements are quite easy to fulfil with the man you've been eyeing all night, whose eyes are locked onto yours as you dance with anyone who dares to ask you.

Except for the fact that, perhaps, he isn't young.

・・・

You are sitting on the bed, one leg slung over the other, sipping away at the half-empty glass of champagne you brought with yourself in the rush of the moment. You've been waiting for it all night—for Tom to move away from your father, who hasn't left him an inch of personal space since he joined the ball a few hours ago. And when he did, finally, you immediately rushed upstairs, waiting for him to follow after you. He did so without attracting attention, gracefully ascending the staircase while greeting other guests who occasionally started a conversation with him.

After another fifteen minutes of waiting, the door finally opens to reveal the man you've been itching to touch all evening. His eyes are on yours the instant the lock puts a barrier between you two and the real world outside, and you can't help the smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

You can't deny he looks like he was sculpted by the Gods themselves. The suit he's wearing is from a familiar tailor shop, arguably one of the finest and most luxurious stores in London—and oh, have they done their work well. It's a dark grey fabric, fitting him closest to perfection you've had the honour of seeing in your long history of attending balls.

"You wish for me to punish you for your behaviour, don't you?" Tom grumbles, tugging off his suit jacket and tossing it somewhere to the corner of the room, stalking towards you as a predator does with their prey.

"Hmm," you pretend to think, watching him undress, your eyes slowly descending his body, drinking him in. "I do not quite recall a moment that would warrant a punishment, Mr. Riddle."

"Don't," he mutters, lifting your chin with his index finger, making you look at him. His eyes are dark as they stare down at yours, radiating caution, and yet sparkle with desire. "Don't act innocent now, sweetheart. Not when both you and I know what we are here for."

You smile, deciding to test his patience, as always. Licking over your bottom lip, you lower your voice when you speak up again. "Enlighten me then, sir, what are we here for exactly?"

Tom swallows tightly at the sound of your innocent voice and your big doe eyes looking up at him, batting your eyelashes. The things you do to him. Fuck.

He leans down then, his hot, steady breaths brushing past your ear, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he answers your question.

"You, darling, are here to have your sweet little pussy ruined. And I, I am here to grant you your wish."

You can't help but giggle at the filth spilling over his lips, settling the glass of champagne on the nightstand before you pull back slightly and crash your lips onto his.

"You'd be— oh—" you start, though interrupted by one of his warm hands slipping under your dress and wandering up your inner thighs. "Correct."

His hand doesn't stop there, pushing the lace of your panties to the side, dragging his index and middle finger along your slit, humming softly when he feels the slick wetness soaking his skin.

"Mmm," he mumbles, crouching down in front of you on the bed, nudging your thighs apart before he slips two long, thick fingers into your dripping cunt. "I assumed so, angel. Is this all for me? Been thinking about me all evening, haven't you? Poor thing."

You have been, yes. And in fact, you should stop teasing him if you want to get what you've been craving for weeks, now that your father has been travelling Europe and not hosted a meeting in more than a month.

But, as so often, your mouth works quicker than your brain, and instead of just agreeing with him, making him move those two digits he's shoved knuckle deep inside you but kept completely still until now, you shake your head.

"Silly old man," you joke half-heartedly, leaning backwards until your shoulders meet the cold wall behind you. "Rosier's cousin and I have had quite the… enjoyable interaction, to put it simply."

Tom merely stares at you for a long moment before he sighs, slips his fingers from your aching pussy, and straightens himself, wiping his hand on the bare skin of your legs. You whine at the loss of contact, ready to apologise and plead with him to continue with whatever he was attempting to do—without success.

"I see how it is. In that case, brat, I'll leave and find him for you, shall I?"

"No no no," you repeat hurriedly, sitting back up and wrapping your hand around his wrist. "I didn't mean to! It's for you and for you only, it's been you I've been wanting all night. For weeks. Don't leave now—please."

As if considering your words, he stops in his tracks—a sly smile playing on his lips. He turns to watch you for a moment, then, when he's seen enough of your anxious, pleading eyes, he gently tugs you towards him. "Get up for me, pretty girl."

Not daring to drag this out any longer, you do as he says—standing before him as he gestures for you to turn around so that he can open the zipper of your dress. The expensive fabric smoothly slips down your body, pooling around your ankles when you assist him with his own clothes, kissing him deeply as you undo the buttons of his suit vest.

Tom guides you backwards in the direction of the bed—but when you reach it, he switches your positions and lowers himself onto the soft mattress instead, sitting with his back to the headboard.

He says nothing for a moment, just enjoys the sight of you in front of him, his eyes mapping your naked body as though it were the first time seeing you like this. Then, he beckons you onto his lap with a gesture of his hand. "This is it. Your punishment. You do the work while I watch."

"You can't possibly be serious," you complain, pouting at him—without use, as you come to realise when he grabs your wrist and pulls you onto his lap.

He brushes kisses down your neck, his rock-hard erection resting heavy against your inner thigh—so close and yet way too far to give you what you want. "Old man can't move fast enough to keep up with your needs, sweetheart. You'll have to make do."

You whine, rocking your hips forwards slightly and pressing your thighs together in an attempt to make him rethink his decision. "But— it was only a joke! You aren't even that old."

Tom's hand holds you steady, then leisurely glides up the length of your ribcage to cup one of your breasts in his palm—testing its weight, thumb and index finger pinching gently at your stiffening nipple. His other hand adjusts your position slightly—just so his cock is nestled between his body and your pussy, brushing against your slick folds.

"Go ahead. Move, pretty girl."

You murmur a string of curses directed at him in defiance, lifting your hips just slightly as you wrap your hand around his swollen length and guide his flushed, leaking tip towards your entrance.

Then, you sink down.

Both of you gasp in unison.

This angle is… different. Feels different than the positions you have done up until now. Somehow, because your pelvises are so close to each other, he feels even deeper than what you are used to, and the friction has your mind go numb with the sparks of pleasure threatening to consume you.

"God, I—" you pant, slowly setting a rhythm—grinding your hips forwards and back rather than moving up and down, and you think you may actually reach heaven without having to succumb to death first.

"I know, darling. Don't you stop. Keep going, just like that." If you're obsessed, Tom is absolutely consumed by you on top of him. His brown eyes—now darker, unguarded—are fixed on you. On the way you move, the way your tits bounce with your every move, on your parted lips, which have the sweetest sounds spill over them.

He hasn't realised just how much he's missed you.

Tom takes a sip of the champagne you left abandoned on the nightstand, his second hand moving to your thighs, kneading softly. He lets it slip further upwards, grazing his knuckles over your lower tummy before his thumb finds your neglected, throbbing clit and he begins rubbing those majestic circles over it—the way he has learned you love it.

"So tight, sweetie. Stop clenching, fuck—" he groans, hips rutting up into yours, his brown curls falling messily over his forehead.

You lean down to kiss him, your lips crashing against each other for a hungry kiss that has you both panting once you part.

If there were people walking by outside, they would hear you. You are sure of it—but you have never cared less about being caught with a man double your age. With one of your father's best friends.

Gods, he himself could be knocking at the door, and you wouldn't spare it any mind.

You couldn't.

Every last nerve ending is entirely consumed by the pleasure coursing through you, by his cock nestled so deep inside you, you feel him in your stomach, and his hands roaming over your naked, smooth skin.

"I— Tom, please," you whimper, dipping your head forwards to rest it in the crook of his neck, your muscles screaming in protest with every renewed thrust—yet you keep moving, even if more slowly so.

"I got you, darling. Come for me. I can feel how close you are, squeezing me so tightly. Let go, pretty girl."

And so you do. When your pace falters and he takes over, hips pounding up against yours fervently, he somehow manages to aim his every thrust just right while telling you how you're doing for him. The knot deep in your stomach snaps at once, leaving you moaning his name and gasping for air as he helps you through your high, keeping your trembling body pressed snugly to his.

Tom follows right after, groaning deeply as he spills himself inside your pulsing hole, his thrusts slowing soon after. You two stay like this for a minute or two, chests heaving with the need for oxygen.

Like the gentleman he is, Tom allows you to rest for a little longer, collecting his clothes from where they are scattered on the floor, dressing himself. You watch each other, but none of you says a word. Too sacred is this moment of peace where it's just the two of you in a room, with no one to steal you away from the other's presence.

You wish you could stay like this for longer, even if you are aware your father has perhaps already started looking for you.

Nobody lets their diamond stay missing for too long, after all—even if the thief is reluctant to hand it back.

Tom hands you your dress and helps you stand, steadying you on your shaky legs. With a hand splayed between your shoulder blades he tucks you into his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Now go and enjoy your evening. I'll be there until you leave, keeping a watch over you. From afar."

Before you get to say anything in return, he's checking whether there is anyone walking the corridor and slips out of the door.

Not without glancing back one more time, though—giving you a wink, which you know translates to "until next time, darling."

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

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[greylittlebird-deactivated20250]

I don’t understand why people who cannot accept any moral grayness or complexity decide to join fandoms for the most emotionally complex stories and then try to shame everyone there who actually is able to understand the material.

[delavegaaaaa]

“You can’t fix him” I don’t wanna fix him! I wanna FUCK him! I’m a pervert not a psychologist!

[moonstruckme]

Hi angel!! I had an idea but no worries if it doesn’t spark inspiration for you :) I love anything you write!!

But I was thinking about a fic where the reader has to go out of town for a business trip or to visit family or something and James is soooo pouty and clingy about it because he’s going to miss her. I love sweet Jamie and you write him so perfectly!!

Thank you sm my love <3

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 544 words

James knows in his brain that he doesn't have to be with you all of the time, but good luck telling that to his heart.

You've neglected packing until the last minute, so your flat is lamplit and darker than it probably ought to be the night before your early morning flight. You move from closet to drawers to suitcase with a pensive pinch to your mouth, the lamplight preserving you in soft, warm amber. Which is a particular sort of cruelty, because it makes you look especially romantic and only makes James' heart all the more twitchy about letting you out of his sight.

"I can't believe you're doing this in front of me," he says.

You turn with a few pairs of balled-up socks, delivering them to the suitcase sitting open next to James on the bed. In the corner of your mouth is something that could be a smile with some coaxing. "You wanted to be in here."

"I want to enjoy my last night with you, not watch you prepare to leave me."

"When do you think I should pack, then?"

"Never." James makes a face, but you only roll your eyes and circle back to the dresser. "But if you must, in secret after I'm asleep."

You make an amused scoffing sound. It turns into a laugh when a ball of socks sails across the room to land in the drawer in front of you again. There's the smile James was waiting for.

"You're unbelievable," you chide, picking the socks up to return them to your suitcase. "If I only get a couple hours of sleep because you made me stay up all night packing, I'm going to be so annoyed with you."

"You could sleep in," James suggests, then grins at your droll look. In truth, he has had whims of taking something from your suitcase that you can't go without and hiding it away so you're forced to stay, or turning off your alarm in the middle of the night so you'll miss your flight, but really he's only teasing you. It has the dual benefits of entertaining you both and conveying the degree to which James will genuinely miss you.

He sighs, flopping around on the bed until he's lying on his stomach watching you with big eyes. "What am I even supposed to do while you're gone?"

James thinks you probably roll your eyes again, only where he can't see. The next time you come back to drop more socks into the suitcase you stop to comb a hand through his hair. "Don't you have plans with Sirius tomorrow?" you ask.

"S'not the same. I'm going to come home to a cold bed."

"I bet he'll stay over if you ask."

"But"—well, that's probably true, actually—"I'll be thinking about how far away you are."

You press your lips together, a mixture of fond and amused. "We'll be okay, James."

He props his chin on a hand, looking poutily into your suitcase. "How many pairs of socks do you need, anyway? Will I ever see you again?"

"I might be overpacking," you admit. "It's only a weekend."

"Ugh. Only?" James throws himself back down with his head in his arms. "That's two whole nights."

[consultingskeletondetective]

Too close to the sun

You work at a nursing home in Manchester. It's a quiet job, but you enjoy it, even if you're just an administrator. One day, one of your residents gets a visit from a 6"2, masked, military man who bulldozes his way into your life.

Simon Riley isn't exactly what you'd call boyfriend material.

masterlist ❤️ ao3

tags: angst, fluff, referenced/implied sa (not graphic), violence, past trauma, elderly character in a care home, explicit sexual content, bdsm elements, female reader, reader has a deceased father, readers step dad is a pervert, Simon's brother is a dick, military inaccuracies, cod lore inaccuracies, dark fic

part 3/3, word count: 13.8k

part 1

part 2

You woke up in a haze of heat, your face mushed into Simon’s ribcage. His arm was curled around your shoulder and holding you tight against him, even in sleep.

You tilted your head, resting against his bicep as you watched him. He was sleeping on his back, facing the ceiling, his chest rising and falling gently. Your eyes tracked down his body, over the faded tattoo sleeve, the large burn on his side, and the white, thin skin of his old scars over hard muscle. You traced one of them with the tip of your finger, feeling the contrasting textures of his skin.

“Tickles.” He said simply, his deep, rumbling voice making you jump slightly.

“Sorry.” You took your hand away and rested it across his stomach.

“Banned.” He grumbled, still not opening his eyes. His hand stroked up and down your back.

“What’s banned?” You asked.

“That word.” His eyes opened and he turned his head to look at you, his brown eyes sleepy and soft. “ ‘Sorry’. You say it too often. You got nothing to be sorry for.”

“Oh, I see.” You turned a little more into him, until your chests and faces were only inches apart. “One night together and you’re already telling me what to do?”

His hand curled possessively around your back, you could tell he was smirking under his mask.

“Feisty little thing.” He murmured. “Arguing with me already?”

“You love it.”

“Mmm,” He drew you closer against him. “Strong, beautiful woman putting me through my paces.” He stroked your hair out of your forehead. “What else could a man want?”

You blushed and pushed your face against his pectoral muscle.

“Now that,” his fingers found your chin, tilting your head up, admiring your blush. “I hope that never changes.”

That made it sound like he was going to stay, which you knew wasn’t true. You didn’t want to think about that, so you changed the subject, stroking your hands all over his body, feeling the ridges of his scars, the swell of his muscles, the soft squish of burly fat. He purred under the treatment.

Finally, your palm stroked over the lump in his black boxers.

“You’ve got morning wood.” You giggled.

“Waking up with a hot girl will do that.” He growled playfully, pulling you flush against him and grinding his erection against your thigh. “You put it there.”

“I should take care of it, then.”

Simon’s eyes darkened, his hand splaying between your shoulder blades. You could see the war going on in his eyes. He was trying to be careful with you while fighting the urge to push you down on his cock.

“I won’t break, you know. “ You breathed, pressing soft kisses to his neck. “I can take it, sir.”

The word was his undoing. He growled, sliding his hand up you back and curling around the back of your neck in the way that set your blood on fire. You groaned as he put pressure on your neck and you nearly folded in on yourself with how fast you went down, pressing your face against his clothed cock.

“Fucking hell.” He groaned above you, the fingers on the back of your neck tensing. “You gonna suck it or not?” He grunted.

You bit back a moan as you closed your mouth around the outline of his head.  He moaned, fingers tightening again as he yanked you up a few inches. You thought you were going to cum just from the fire it sent through your veins. You’d spent so long fantasizing about his fucking hands and now they were manhandling you just as you’d dreamed of. You mewled.

Simon had only moved you out of the way to shove his boxers down. Not all the way, there was no time for that, just until his heavy cock sprung free. He was so hard, his length was thick and red with blood, his tip glistening with pre-come. You’d never fucked anyone as wet as him.

“Easy, girl.” He growled as his cock twitched right in your face, misinterpreting your needy little noise. “Want it that bad?” His voice was rough, thick with need.

“Yes.” You whined. Everything was so hot: his voice, his grip, his huge fucking cock, everything.  Your thighs were damp and you rubbed them together as you licked the tip of his cock. He still had your cum dried on him from last night. It was filthy, debauched, and your cunt pulsed as you sucked his head into your mouth. You revelled in the size of him, the shape, the taste, committing every detail to your memory.

“Fuck.” The word was drawn out, his voice wrecked, as his hand left your neck and tangled in your hair. He held you down on his cock. “Fucking hot little mouth on you, girl.”

Simon was so surprisingly vocal during sex and it made you ache. You moaned, vibrating his cock with the sound, and his thighs twitched in response.

“That’s it, sweetheart, just like that. Swallow it down. Be a good girl.”

Your head span as you sunk down further, taking more of his cock into your already overstuffed mouth. You made an unfeminine gagging noise and Simon nearly fucking purred, his hand in your hair tightening. You hollowed your cheeks and slurped on his cock, bobbing your head up and down on as much of his shaft as you could. You didn’t even know if he was trying to hold you down or if his hand was just so fucking heavy that he was doing it without even realising.

It wasn’t long before Simon was moaning above you, a string of near-constant rumbling grunts.

“God, fuck, that’s it, sweetheart. Suck that cock.” He was growling, the wet squelch of your mouth was getting louder and louder. There was a mess of spittle whipped up by your enthusiastic bobs making a ring of white around the base of his cock that you met with your lips on every downward thrust.

His hips thrust up in tiny little uncontrolled jerks and his cockhead dipped into your throat. You gagged, hard, and he pulled you off of him with a harsh yank of his hand in your hair. Pain shot down your neck but you were too preoccupied with the fat, throbbing dick pulsing in front of your lips. You expected to see dollops of white drizzling from his engorged slit, but you didn’t. He hadn’t cum.

He was breathing heavily as he released your hair and you flopped down on the bed, watching his abdominal muscles roll with each breath, sweat gathering between them, it was mesmerising.

“Shit.” He was still panting as his hand found your knee and gripped, the thick veins on his hand standing out as his strong fingers dug into your flesh. You moaned and rubbed your thighs together, seeking friction.

He caught you out of the corner of his eye, his eyebrow raising as he watched you try and stimulate yourself.

“You liked that?” You could tell he was smirking.

“So much.” You tugged on his hand on your knee and guided it between your legs and you shivered when you felt his fingertips brushing through your soaked folds.

“Fuck, baby, you’re dripping.”

His fingertip found your clit, toying with it softly, the nub yielding against his strong finger. Your face flushed and your eyebrows knitted together in pleasure.

Simon’s other hand found the base of his cock, his thumb and forefinger curling around the ring of spit you’d left there. His cock still looked angry, and heavy, like it would explode from a strong breeze.

“What’s got you so worked up?” He was definitely smirking now, his fingers teasing along your wet slit, still puffy from use from the previous night. “Sucking my dick? Or is it something else?” His fingertip dipped into your cunt and you clenched around it, trying to suck him deeper. You covered your eyes in embarrassment.

“Don’t hide your face.” It was a gentle order, accompanied by a sharp spank directly to your clit. You yelped, your hands flying to grip his wrist. Your cunt was so warm, pulsing with excitement, arousal and pleasure.

“That’s better.” His hand left his cock and framed your face. “Now,” his other hand curled around your thigh. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s going through that pretty head of yours?”

“Simon!” You whined petulantly.

He chuckled.

“You think I didn’t notice how much you stare at my hands?”

“Oh my god.” You pushed your head against his thigh and he laughed again, louder this time. He was right. It was the first thing that had attracted you to him, his hands, those black skeleton gloves, the contrast of them against his bare, muscular arms. You’d dreamt about him pinning you down with those strong hands, exactly as he was doing now. Your pupils were blown wide, your chest rising and falling.

“Maybe once or twice.”

He was looking down on you like a lion with a gazelle in its teeth. Then he pounced.

He tugged your oversized top over your head and threw it to the floor without another word, his eyes roaming over your bare body before he moved you like you weighed nothing.

He sat you between his spread legs, your back against his front, his cock pressed up against the small of your back. He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your neck, curling his whole, huge body around yours. Your head tipped back against his shoulder.

“Simon.” You moaned.

He stroked along your shoulders, your elbows, tickling down your sides, before finally squeezing your breasts and stroking your nipples. He fucked his cock against the cleft of your arse at that. Your Simon really was a tits man. He played with your breasts for a few long, luxurious moments, breathing hotly at your neck, before his hands split up. One came up, and curled around your throat. You felt the pressure of his presence but nothing more, nothing to hurt or cause discomfort, just his palm against your windpipe and his knuckles grazing under your chin.

His other hand travelled down your belly, covering your mound, the pads of his fingers rubbing against your slick cunt, spreading your mess around, swirling it over your clit, massaging your slit.

“Oh, fuck.” You moaned, your hands gripping his forearm as he slipped two of his fingers into your wet pussy. You groaned, but the noise was muffled by the hand around your throat. He pulled his fingers out as quickly as he’d slipped them in, stretching you tight then leaving you wide open, over and over until your head was lolling against his hand, then he sunk his fingers deep inside you, palm against your pelvic bone, and started to fuck you. It was hard and quick, his fingers merciless against your spongey sweet spot.

“Oh, fuck.” You repeated, your voice slurred, your words jarred as your whole body shook under the force of being fingered so roughly. The sounds of squelching and wetness filled the air and your moans got more and more high pitched as pressure built up inside you. You writhed against the hand around your throat.

“Look at it,” Simon whispered roughly against the juncture of your neck. “Watch my hand fucking you.”

Delirious, you looked down and groaned. Simon’s two fingers were flying in and out of your pussy, your pink little hole swollen and blown wide around them. His fingers were coated in your slick, streaks of white and clear liquid dribbling out of you with more and more force. He ground his fingers against your g-spot and you slurred.

“That’s it, baby.” He encouraged roughly. “I can feel you getting tight on me.”

“It’s so much.” You gasped out, your fingers digging into his arm, but not half as hard as his were digging into your front wall, like he was trying to find something in there. It was relentless, his fingers were so much harder than his cock, the bone was unforgiving as he curled and rubbed faster and faster.

“Oh, oh, oh!” You lifted your legs up, spreading them wide like you were preparing to give birth as he nailed your cunt harder and faster than you’d ever taken it. It was the most intense pleasure you’d ever experienced in your life, your mind blanking out as you saw spots of white in your vision, convulsing in nothing short of ecstasy.

“There it is, baby, let it happen. Squirt for me.”

You didn’t even have half a second to be surprised before your hips arched up and you sprayed clear fluid from your aching cunt. Simon pulled his fingers from you and rubbed your clit as you exploded. You didn’t know if you came again, or if it was just the same orgasm lasting forever, but his fingers on your clit made everything feel more intense and you nearly screamed as your wet pussy pulsed on nothing, contracting so hard that it was making your stomach hurt.

“Fuck, baby, fucking squirt for me, look at that mess.” Simon was babbling gruffly, his voice hoarse and thick with desire.

You barely felt him rearrange himself. His hand released your throat and your head fell back against his shoulder like he’d pulled your spine out. He was lifting your hips, too, pulling you off of the bed and sitting you in his lap, the backs of your thighs resting on the thick, tensed muscles of his. His arm wrapped around your front and began stroking his cock that was poking up between your legs.

It looked as big and menacing as he did, and you realised, with a blush, that he was stroking himself with the same hand he’d been fingering you with, soaking himself with your cum and your squirt.

You felt the sharp stab of teeth sinking into your shoulder and you whined, your whole body jolting, like he’d given you a shot of adrenaline.

“Stay with me, sweetheart.” He growled, his tongue lathering over his teeth marks. “We’re not done here.”

“Huh?”

You felt the blunt tip of his cock pressing against your cunt and you groaned.

“Shit, fuck, Simon!” You gasped out as his meaty length sunk into your sensitive pussy. You writhed against him, your thighs twitching. “It’s so much, I’m so sensitive…”

“I thought you could take it, little girl.” He teased, letting gravity do the work to impale you on his cock, distracting you with his mouth making a mess of your neck. His hands were gripping your tits again, his wet fingers sliding over your nipples.

You were overwhelmed, your cunt sinking down all the way on his thick shaft until you could feel his full balls against your thighs. You thought of that analogy, of men fucking like they’d just come out of prison. What was the soldier equivalent of that? A man with the stamina of an S.A.S Lieutenant finally getting to take his frustrations out on the sweet little thing that had haunted his thoughts for the last few months?

“Good girl.” He groaned into your ear as he bottomed out. “Swallowing all of it, fuck.”

He flicked your wet nipples and you gasped, clenching on his cock. His chest rumbled behind you and he did it again, massaging the wet peaks of your sensitive tits with his hard, wet fingers as he slowly rolled his hips, thrusting up deeply into you. This angle made everything tight. You could probably press down on your stomach and feel his cock there. You could feel every inch of it inside you, dragging so so fucking slowly. Your eyes slid closed and your head tipped back, searching for him.

His lips crashed against yours, your mouths sliding against each other’s. He slipped his tongue into your mouth as his thumbs and forefingers pinched your nipples gently and his cock slid in and out of your sopping pussy with loud slaps. Everything was wet and slippery and you could hardly breathe.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, sweetheart.” He murmured into your neck, letting your head tip against his shoulder. You could see the blurry outline of his face through the haze of your fucked out eyes. “Because your sweet little cunt cums so quickly for me.” He chuckled breathily, darkly. “We’re going to keep it nice and slow.” He punctuated his words with a slow drag of his cock inside you, making you whine. “Because…” his hand left one of your tits and fell between your legs, massaging your clit and your nipple with wet, sure strokes, until you were gasping and falling apart on him, clenching hard and tight. He chuckled and nipped on your earlobe. “Close, baby?”

“Yeah.” The word was breathless, your forehead pinched together. The pleasure everywhere was building so much you felt like you were teetering on a knife edge. Warmth was gathering tight and coiled in your cunt, your core, and – “Simon, you’re going to make me cum.”

“Cum, sweetheart, cum for me.” He growled. His hips tipped back and you fell more firmly against his chest. He started to fuck you harder, pounding into you as his fingers flew over your clit. You wailed as orgasms exploded from your clit and your g-spot simultaneously, blending together and burning up your whole body.

You moaned and writhed, cumming so powerfully that your body was seizing up, trembling in the safety of his arms. If it were anyone else, you might have felt scared being so vulnerable, but not with Simon, he was your safety, and you writhed sweetly for him. Your hands were flying, trying to grip every part of him you could reach. You pushed your back harder against his chest, trying so hard to crawl inside him.

“Good girl,” he was praising, “look at that pretty cumming pussy.” He fucked you for a few more hard thrusts before he slammed his hips against yours and filled your sopping pussy with his release. He panted against the back of your neck with an animalistic, masculine tremor in his pleasured moans.

You both panted heavily with each other. Simon’s arms wound around your belly and he rested his forehead against the back of your neck. His cock slipped out of you as it softened, and you moaned pitifully. Your cunt was so sensitive, so spent, that you could barely handle the trickle of his cum as gravity did its job.

“I think it’s shower time.” Simon said against your back.

“You go first.” You said. “I’ll go after.”

“You don’t want to join me?” He actually had the audacity to sound petulant.

“You’re not fucking me again, you horny prick.” You batted at his arms, and he laughed as he kissed down your spine.

“I think you’ve done me in for the minute, love.”

You collapsed forward onto your front, no energy left in your bones. It was half to rest and half strategic, to give Simon a chance to cover his face without it being obvious.

You heard him climb off of the bed.

“I’m going to take a shower.” He said, his hand stroking down the back of your leg.

“I’ll make coffee.” You rolled onto your side. He was still naked, his cock soft and wet, his black surgical mask covering the bottom half of his face and his blond hair mussed. He barely made another sound before you cut him off. “Yeah, I know. Tea for you.” You smiled at him.

“Thank you, love.” He almost sounded bashful before he padded to the bathroom. You heard the shower go and you found your long top across the room. Your cunt pulsed as you moved and you just couldn’t stop smiling in your post-orgasmic haze.

You put the kettle on and let it boil as you raided your fridge. You found eggs but not much else. You cracked the eggs into a bowl, mixing them together with salt and cheese and tomatoes. You poured the omelette mix into a pan and began frying, the scent wafting into the air was warm and pleasant.

Your front door opened and you froze, pulling the pan off of the heat and looking through the kitchen door.

“Just me, love.” Your mum called out. You could hear her putting her keys on the side, probably stopping by the door to take off her scarf and her coat.

Shit. Fuck. That’s right, you’d agreed to go to the garden centre with her to pick out some new plants for her garden, and then lunch. You’d told her swing by yours in the morning. Then Johnny had invited you to the barracks for Simon’s celebration and you’d forgotten all about it.

You heard the shower turn off, and then your mum came into the kitchen, holding her arms out for a hug.

“Smells nice. Oh, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Simon walked into the kitchen. His hair was damp and he was wearing nothing but the mask on his face and the pink towel slung low on his sharp hip bones, that he would have found in your airing cupboard. Every inch of his muscled, scarred, tattooed top half was on display.

He froze when he saw your mother standing there, looking uncharacteristically surprised.

Your mum’s mouth fell open as she stared at Simon before she finally composed herself.

“Hello again.” She said, she was surprised but not upset, flushing a little at the sight of him. “You’re the man from the party.”

“Uh.” He gripped the towel around his waist extremely tightly. “Yeah. Simon Riley. Sorry again for…interrupting.”

Your mum turned to look at you, she was fully smirking now, and you honestly wouldn’t have minded hurling yourself out of the nearest window.

…

The three of you sat around your too small kitchen table, drinking hot drinks and eating omelettes.

Simon, who only had his military uniform with him, had dried off and changed into his trousers and button shirt, as if trying to make the look as casual as he possibly could. You’d pulled on some pj bottoms but otherwise had not altered your appearance. You still hadn’t made it to the shower yet, and here you were, your mum sat beside you, with Simon’s cum trying to seep out of your pussy.

It was painfully obvious to even the stupidest person alive what you and Simon had been doing before your mum had shown up. Luckily for you, she was tactful enough not to bring it up, but apparently also not tactful enough to not start grilling the poor boy as her new prospective son in law.

“How long have you been in active service?” She was asking, as Simon looked entirely too interested in his mug.

“Sixteen years.” Simon answered without hesitation.

“When are you planning on retiring?”

“No time soon, ma’am.” He said, avoiding your gaze. You wished you didn’t know the implication of such a reply, that he expected to be killed in action long before he even had to think about it.

You could feel the nervousness coming off of Simon, probably because he was wondering how far this questioning would go, and how soon it would get to his mask and why he wore it.

“When’s your next deployment?” She asked instead.

“Mum,” you entreated, “would you stop with the interrogation?”

“I’m just asking. You don’t mind, do you, Simon?”

Simon wasn’t looking at you and your stomach twisted. You opened your mouth to apologise for all of it until you noticed the dark, almost guilty, look in his eyes.

You’d only seen that look once before, outside of the care home in the rain, when he’d told you that he was leaving.

“I’m due out tonight.” You knew he was going to say it before he did, but it hurt just as badly to hear it out loud. A big part of you wanted to look away, but you couldn’t look away from him for even a second, because now, it might have been one of the last times you’d ever see him.

You walked him to the door soon after. He was quiet as he opened the door and crossed the threshold, standing half-in, half-out of your flat; half-in, half-out of your life. The way it always was.

“When will I see you again?” You felt empty as you said it, leaning against the door and trying to affect some sort of nonchalance that wasn’t reaching your eyes.

“I don’t know. I’d like to make it back by the 12th, it’s mum’s birthday and I promised…” He trailed off, his brown eyes looking you up and down. “I’m sorry, love. I should have said something sooner. I just didn’t want to think about it, not until I had to.”

“I understand.” You did understand. You weren’t angry with him for keeping quiet about his deployment. You were grateful that your last night together had been unmarred with anything. You’d have it in your memories forever.

“Can I…” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “No, forget it.”

“No, tell me.”

“Can I take your picture with me?”

Oh. You felt like a war widow, who’s husband kept a picture of her in his helmet to look at when he was in the trenches. It was a request borne out of genuine affection and it made your eyes mist up.

“Of course you can.” You wiped your eyes. “Can I have one of you?” Something to remember you by.

“I’m not worth photographing.” He grunted, and you understood that to be a no.

You nodded. It was the first time it really occurred to you that if Simon never came back, you’d have nothing of him. No address, no picture. Just a phone number that wouldn’t work anymore. It would be like he’d never existed at all, like a ghost.

You scrolled on your phone and found a selfie you’d taken the night before, in your pink dress that he’d loved so much. You didn’t want to take a picture right now, and not even because you looked a state, but because it would show the sadness in your eyes, and you didn’t want him to remember you like that. You sent him the picture, and he smiled down at his phone.

“Thanks.” He said, a little mutedly.

“You’re welcome.” It was all you could think to say.

Simon tucked his phone back into his pocket and then stilled. He pulled out the sleek, black case his bravery medal was safely encased in, and held it out to you.

“I can’t take that.” You were already shaking your head. “You got that because you did something heroic.”

“I got it because I did something stupid.” He grunted. “Because I’ve had this irritating woman taking over my brain for the last six months. The least you can do is keep it safe for me, give me an excuse to come back.”

You were done for. You were so in love with him and there was nothing you could do to keep him there with you. You should have been smart and ended it immediately to protect yourself from the eventual and inevitable heartbreak, instead, you took the black case, reached up on your tip toes and kissed his temple. Skin on skin.

“Don’t you dare miss me.” He rumbled.

“No, sir.”

“Little minx.” He looked at you, then he turned on his heel and left. You watched him get into his cab, and then you watched him drive away, and then you stood in the middle of the doorway and let the tears drip down your face.

“It’s alright, my love.” Your mum took your hand in hers and leant into your side.

“Why him, mum?” You were sobbing harder now, breaking down in the presence of the only person who would ever really understand. “Why did it have to be him?”

“It’s the uniform.” Your mum joked, in a beautifully British way, as she stroked down your back to comfort you. “It’s like catnip.”

…

The next few days passed uneventfully.

Every time you went into work, or went to visit Mrs. Riley, you were terrified you’d see Johnny or Kyle there, because they were there to bring bad news. What if Simon got distracted thinking about you again and got shot somewhere he couldn’t heal from? What if he died, and it would be all your fault?

You thought about those military wives that had cornered you at the party. They’d been snooty but they’d also seemed happy and relaxed. You wondered how they did it. You didn’t know if you would be able to cope being married to Simon. At least now, you had an excuse to hide behind, that you weren’t actually dating therefore it would hurt less if he never came back to you, even though you knew it would. If you were actually together, then you’d have to admit to yourself that it was a very real possibility that your boyfriend or your partner or your husband wouldn’t be coming home. You might have dissolved in stress.

You wondered if Johnny or Kyle had girlfriends, or boyfriends, and how they did it. Could you talk to them? But then, what was the point? You and Simon weren’t together, at the very best you were friends with benefits, and friends with benefits didn’t get to be upset if they never saw each other again.

“That paper offend you?” Nicole laughed, walking past you in the kitchen.

You blinked down at the file in your hand that were very nearly ripping apart.

“No, sorry. I’m distracted.” You replied, putting the paper down on the table you were sitting at.

“Mhmm.” She took an apple out of the fridge and took a bite out of it, sitting down on one of the sofas. “And might that have anything to do with action man being gone again?”

“It isn’t like that. I mean, it wasn’t.” You sighed. “It’s just a bit of fun, right?”

“You look like you’re having a whale of a time.”

You laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound.

“It’s kind of hard to have the ‘what are we’ chat when he’s getting deployed every five minutes.”

“You think he’d ask you on a date, settle down? He doesn’t seem the type.”

You were already shaking your head.

“I know, I know. There’s no future in it for either of us. I can’t cope with him leaving, he’ll never put anything over his job –“

“He can’t show his face in public.”

You wanted to bristle at that, but she was right. Simon still hadn’t taken his mask off around you yet, which meant that he still didn’t trust you, not completely.

“So, dump him.” Nicole said pragmatically. “Move on.”

“I can’t dump him,” you pointed out, “we aren’t together.”

“Well, number one, yes you are, and number two, of course you can, look how easy it is. Didn’t your mum just divorce that short twat?”

“Okay, fine,” you couldn’t help a burst of manic laughter. “I don’t want to. I know he does this dangerous job, and he’s so big and scary, but he’s not like that, he’s sweet, and he’s funny. He makes me feel so happy, so safe, like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

“Holy shit.” Nicole’s eyes lit up. “You’re in love with him.”

“Fuck my life.” You buried your head in your hands.

“Aw, that’s so cute.” Nicole was laughing. “you can quit this dump and be a military wife.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I don’t think we’re quite there yet; can you imagine what Julia would say?”

“You wouldn’t get hit on by gross old men anymore.” Nicole pointed out. “Not with Mrs. Riley’s boy glaring at them like that.”

“I wish you’d just talk to him next time he comes in or something, he’s just a normal bloke. He’s not mean, he’s not dangerous.”

“Well, I mean, he is dangerous.” Nicole said, looking a little concerned. “I mean, what? He goes off, kills a bunch of people, then comes back here and acts like nothing’s happened. You’ll never like, fully be safe with him. Not when he’s worse than whatever he’s protecting you from.”

Hearing such a serious comment come from someone who was so generally unserious shook you harder than if you’d heard it from someone like Julia, or your mum.

You fiddled with the sleeve of your shirt. You suddenly felt awful, and alone. You just couldn’t imagine Simon hurting anyone that didn’t have it coming, you couldn’t imagine him posing any kind of threat to you. What he did, he did in the interest of national security, just like your father.

You immediately imagined having children with Simon, and then you imagined them growing up without a father.

It started to hurt your head, so you shoved the feelings down to the pit of your stomach where you could ignore them. There was no point imagining a future with someone you might never see again, there was even less point imagining a future with someone who didn’t want a future with you.

…

You sat on your sofa with a glass of white wine in your hand, sipping slowly and staring at the television. Something was playing but you weren’t really taking it in. You weren’t depressed, you were distracted. The mental toll of the last few months really weighed down on you in quiet moments like these that you couldn’t fill with your work or your family or friends.

For the first time in a long time, you really wanted to talk to your dad. It wasn’t that you didn’t always want to talk to him, but right now, you felt like he could give you some answers you were desperately seeking. He would be able to tell you how military men thought, if they were capable of having anything outside of the army. He could tell you if he wanted this life for you.

Half of your wine bottle was gone, and you were halfway through a really atrocious reality tv show, when your phone vibrated on the coffee table.

You grabbed it quickly, wondering who would be calling you at this time of night. You sat up on the sofa when you saw Simon’s name on your phone screen.

Surprised, you answered it immediately, putting it on speakerphone.

“Simon?”

There was a beat of silence, then: “Hi, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered in relief, excitement, happiness and fear all at the same time.

“Hi.” You replied, a little dumbly.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” He sounded tired.

“No, no, just watching TV.”

“What’s on?”

“Uh.” You pressed the guide button on your remote. “Love Island.”

A chuckle came from the phone. “Fucking hell, love.”

“Are you okay?” You leant forward, towards the phone, like you could physically get closer to him that way. “Are you home?”

“No, not yet.”

“Are you safe?”

“For now. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.” I miss you. “Nothing to report.”

“No news is good news, right?”

You smiled softly, even though he couldn’t see you. He’d never contacted you via phone before, especially not when he was on duty. You wondered what was different now, but you knew the answer. It was because you were both closer now than you’d ever been, and Simon was seeking comfort from you in a way he’d never sought comfort from you before.

“I got a new plant at the garden centre the other day.”

“What kind of plant?”

“Lavender. It smells amazing.”

“Old lady.”

“Maybe work is rubbing off on me.”

He laughed.

“You sound tired.”

“I am tired. Sleep is a luxury right now.”

You tilted your head. “So, why are you talking to me instead of sleeping?”

“You know why.”

You bit your lip, readjusting yourself on the sofa.

“So, how many times have you wanked over that picture?”

“Too many to count.” It was a dry, sarcastic response. “I’m worried my dick might fall off.”

“I hope not. I’ve got plans for it when you get back.”

“Oh, you have? What might those plans be?”

You smirked, sipping your wine for liquid courage before bringing out the big guns, almost quite literally.

“I was just thinking how small my wet tits would look with your big cock fucking between them.”

You heard nothing but his hard breathing for a minute.

“You little fucking minx.” He hissed.

You bit your lip.

“Oh? I thought you’d like the idea? They’d bounce so pretty around your cock, my nipples would be so hard and sensitive…”

“Fucks sake.” You heard the rustle of fabric. “You’ve got a dirty mouth.”

This was so much easier when you couldn’t see him, and you were thrilled to imagine his reactions to your wild little fantasies.

“Sorry, sir. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“You’re making my zip uncomfortable.”

You giggled.

“I’m more than willing to submit myself for disciplinary action, sir.”

“Dirty little girl.” It was growled. You could hear rustling, then grunting. “I should put you over my knee for being so insolent, smack your arse until it’s red raw.”

Your cunt clenched at his threat, imagining just that – the hard spanks his huge hands would dish out, how your cunt would spit slick in desperate need.

“Fuck.” You moaned softly.

“Did that make you wet?”

“Yes, sir.” You groaned.

“Fucking hell,” he grunted, voice thick with arousal, “play with that pussy f’me, sweetheart. Put the phone there, I want to hear it.”

You were red, mortified, you’d never heard anything quite so filthy in your life.

You put the phone next to you on the sofa. You could still hear Simon’s quiet grunts and imagining what he was doing only made the experience more intense for you. You slipped off your bottoms and spread your legs. You made sure the phone was right between your thighs as you rubbed your slick over your labia. You were so wet, even you could hear it.

“Fuck, baby, that’s it.” Simon groaned. “Play with that pussy. Tell me.”

“I’m so wet, sir.” You bit your lip, gathering your slick directly from the source and swirling it around your clit. The nub twitched under your fingertips.

“You wanna play with that clit f’me?”

“Yes, sir.” You whimpered, spreading your folds and exposing your clit. You pressed down right on the sensitive head, usually hidden under your hood, flicking your finger back and forth over it. You imagined Simon’s finger, Simon’s tongue. You groaned.

“God, fuck, baby, wish I was there with you.”

“Please.” You gasped. You had to stop flicking the head of your clit, the sensation was too intense. You moved to the tip, massaging it with the pads of your fore and middle finger. The soft, wet nub kept slipping between them and you sighed.

“The things I would do to that pretty little clit.” He growled, talking you through it as you played with yourself for him. “I’d tickle that spot, right under your hood, right where you can’t take it…” You whimpered. “Then I’d rub it, nice and wet and hard.” You immediately started massaging your pulsing clit harder, closing your eyes, imagining it was him. “Take it between two fingers, overwhelm you with pleasure.”

“Fuck, sir, I’m close.” Your fingers were grinding your clit, your thighs twitching. “Please.”

“Cum with me, love, nice and hard.” He was panting, and you threw your head back as your clit twitched and pulsed under your fingers. You heard Simon’s groan as you imagined him splattering all over his gloved hand, his combat uniform, and you twitched with renewed need.

“Feeling better, love?” He finally murmured, sounding soft and calm.

You laughed breathlessly, reaching blindly for the phone and laying it across your chest.

“Not as good as I’d feel with you here with me.”

“Soon, love.” He assured you.

“Mmm.” Your eyes fluttered closed. “Gotta make it back for your mum’s birthday, sweet little Simon.”

He barked a half-growl, half-laugh.

“When I get back, I’ll show you just how sweet I can be.”

Your laughs intermingled, and you felt like you were sinking into the sofa.

“Simon…” You murmured.

“Yes, love?”

“I miss you.”

There was a heavily pregnant pause.

“I miss you, too, love.”

Your lips twitched, but you were too tired to form a whole smile.

“Can we talk for a little bit longer?”

“I’d like that.”

“Me too.”

You switched the tv off, turned out the lights and tucked yourself into bed with the phone right next to you on the pillow, letting your eyes ease closed.

“I saw dolphins from the helicopter.”

“Wow, that must have been beautiful.”

“It was beautiful.”

"How many were there?"

"At least ten..."

…

The 12th came around quickly but you hadn’t heard any word that Simon was back in the country or that he would even make it in time. You tried not to let that worry you. It hadn’t meant that anything had happened, it just meant that Simon hadn’t been able to stick to his preferred timeline.  An occupational hazard, you imagined.

The staff at the care home had decorated the recreational room with balloons and they’d chipped in on a cake and jelly and pop. Mrs Riley had cried when you and the other staff and residents had sung happy birthday to her.

“Oh, my darlings, how kind of you,” she’d cooed, “look at this cake! It’s absolutely beautiful.”

“Let me cut you a slice, Mrs. Riley.” You picked up a plate and began cutting into the sponge.

“Oh, I suppose I can be a little bit naughty and have some cake.” She smiled bashfully.

“I’ll keep you company and have some, too.” You smiled, handing her the plate with a generous slice of cake and cream and jam.

“Thank you, darling. And how are you, anyway? How’s your mum?”

“Yeah, I’m all good, thank you.” You cut yourself a slice. “Mum’s okay. She’s been a bit quiet.”

“Has the divorce gone through yet?”

“Not yet. It takes so bloody long.”

“It’s all this flipping paperwork,” Mrs. Riley lamented, tucking into her cake. “Still, more power to her. I wish I’d had the courage to divorce my husband. I didn’t want the boys to lose their dad, you see.”

You thought about Simon again, god knows where, maybe getting shot at again. You winced to yourself.

“Still, life goes on.” Mrs Riley said, then her eyes lit up. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my son? He’s meant to be coming today.”

You felt awful, you didn’t know how to tell her that Simon wasn’t coming.

“You know, I’m not too sure he’s going to make it.” You winced.

“Really?” Mrs. Riley looked concerned. “He said he was on his way an hour ago.”

You frowned, trying not to feel a pang of hurt in your chest that Simon hadn’t even text you that he was home safe. It wasn’t insanely surprising, but after everything, it just felt a little out of character for him to disregard you like that.

All of your thoughts of hurt evaporated into nothing when Tommy Riley walked into the recreational room.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as he bent down and cuddled his mother. Your mind immediately began to cycle through what you’d heard that day in the corridor. Simon had said he supervised every visit Tommy had. You didn’t know why, you also didn’t know if that was a legal requirement or just an arrangement between the two of them. Simon clearly distrusted his brother deeply but had also gone to extensive lengths to ensure his mother never found that out.

You hadn’t forgotten the way he’d leered at you, the clammy feeling of his hand when he’d shaken yours. You’d sensed danger on him. It was the type of uncomfortable feeling you’d felt being in the kitchen with your stepfather or walking down the street at night with a lone man keeping pace with you. It was that gut feeling that women had for men they knew meant them harm, like a natural defence mechanism.

“Hello again, little miss.” He gave you a sharky grin, straightening up and coming over to you. “Remember me?”

You backed off a step. He was unshaven, his eyes slightly bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept in days. You didn’t like the way he was looking at you.

“Yes, of course, Mr Riley, how are you?” You said levelly.

He laughed at your question. “Well, that’s all very formal, isn’t it?” He glanced down at his mum. “No little Simon today?”

“He’s away for work.” Mrs Riley said, “you know how important his work is, darling.”

“Oh, I know, alright.” Tommy fixed you with a stare. “In the middle east somewhere? Bombing towns and killing kids?”

“Thomas!” His mother admonished.

You tried not to look like his words were affecting you at all. It was very hard. You set your jaw. Someone bent down next to Mrs Riley, talking to her, and getting her attention elsewhere.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, keeping your voice down. “I thought you and Simon had an…arrangement?”

“Nosy little slut, aren’t you?” His eyes narrowed. “After a military pension when my brother kicks the bucket in the sand somewhere?”

You controlled your breathing and left the recreational room. You pulled out your phone in the corridor, ready to contact Simon immediately, but then you stopped yourself. Simon was still deployed, what would informing him reasonably do, except worry him? What if he went out into a dangerous situation worried and, worse, distracted. No, you had to look after this one on your own. There were a lot of people in the care home today, all you had to do was hold it together for an hour or so, and everyone would go home and be safe. You could look out for Simon for a change.

You put your phone away and went back into the recreational room.

Barely two hours later and Mrs Riley was taking a nap in her room, full of tea and cake. Tommy Riley had left, along with any other visitors, the staff had returned to their usual tasks, and your shift came to an end. Tommy had been normal, courteous even, if a bit leering. Maybe Simon had given him permission to visit while he’d been deployed, given that it was their mother’s birthday. You supposed it hardly mattered now. Everything was fine.

You said your goodbyes to your colleagues, clocked out and walked outside. It was sunny and warm. You slipped your coat off and slung it over your arm and decided to take a detour through the trees by the car park, enjoying the heat and the calm of nature surrounding you.

Tommy Riley was loitering against a tree. When he saw you, he pushed off the bark and blocked your path.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He grinned toothily.

You stopped walking and every hair on your body stood up. You knew immediately that this was wrong, that you needed to get away from here and back to safety. The care home was barely a hundred yards behind you. You could make a run for it, but would you reach it before he got his hands on you? He was as tall as his brother.

“What do you want?” You asked guardedly, holding your coat in front of yourself like it could offer you any protection.

“Look at you, you’re trembling, but it’s so sunny out here. You can’t be cold.” He stalked forward, twisting his hands together, towering over you. You took a step back. “Where are you going, gorgeous?” He tilted his head. “I just wanted a quick word with you, about my brother.”

This was bad. This was very bad. Something in the back of your mind told you to scream, but even that wouldn’t be enough. There was no one around to hear it, at least no one who would get to you quickly enough.

“You’d be better off talking to him; I don’t know him very well.” A lie. Sort of.

“I saw the way he looked at you.” Tommy reached forward, gripping your upper arm painfully tightly. “No surprises, pretty little thing like you. He had a crush on this girl in our school once.” He smirked. “Didn’t after I was done with her, of course.”

“Let me go!” You tried to yank your arm back, but he yanked you forward. You stumbled and hit his chest hard. He gripped your chin with his other hand and forced you to look at him. His breath stank of booze. You tried to struggle, pounding against his chest with your free hand, your coat getting lost in the grass beneath you, but you couldn’t get free. “Someone help me, please!”

“Now, what, should I do with you?” He released your chin to stroke a frayed hair out of your face. You pursed your lips together in defiance and fear. “Hit you? Fuck you? What would really fuck with him more?”

A big, black, blur shot out from the trees and slammed into Tommy, sending him to the ground. It hauled Tommy up by his jacket, lifting him clean off of the grass.

You recognised Simon, and you didn’t, all at the same time. He was wearing heavy boots, cargo trousers, a black jacket with a tactical vest strapped over it, black, skeletal print gloves, and a black balaclava that covered his whole head. This one didn’t have eyeholes, instead it had the front plate of a skull sewn over the face, completely obscuring Simon from you. This…this was Ghost.

“What the fuck?” Tommy barely had time to curse at the terrifying spectre accosting him before Ghost released his jacket with one hand, reared his fist back and punched him square across the jaw. Blood and teeth sprayed everywhere.

You screamed, and Tommy screamed too, as Ghost did nothing short of beat the shit out of him. He punched him so hard and so many times that Tommy’s face reduced to a bloody pulp. Ghost hauled up his twitching form with his superior strength just to punch him down again. When Tommy went down like a sack of potatoes, Ghost gripped him by his shaggy hair and sent his knee into his nose, purifying it into bloody paste. Tommy collapsed onto his back and didn’t get back up again. You thought it was over. You were wrong.

Ghost knelt over his brother’s body, picked him up and wrapped both of his gloved hands around his throat. Tommy gurgled, spitting blood from his ruined mouth, and batted weakly at Ghost’s arms. Ghost didn’t relent an inch, you heard something crack under his hands, and you knew he was going to kill him.

“That’s enough!” You screamed, launching forward and pulling Ghost’s arm futilely. It felt like grabbing a lion. Ghost jerked away from you and you backed off immediately, hitting a tree and stilling. He was looking at you, his eyes pinpricks lost in the skull mask, which was splattered with blood. He didn’t look like he recognised you for a moment, but then his dilated pupils shrunk down, showing that brown to you. He looked…scared. 

“Simon,” your voice broke, “it’s okay. I’m safe. I promise.”

He didn’t respond to you, and you stepped forward on instinct.

“Stay back!” He barked, and you backed away immediately, hitting the tree again. You were shivering all over. Your heart hadn’t slowed down at all.

Tommy was lying still on the grass, in a puddle of his own blood, you couldn’t even tell if he was alive or dead. You didn’t know what to do, how to calm down, how to process what you’d just seen.

Simon was still crouched over his brother. You couldn’t tell if he felt remorseful, or happy, or angry, or vindicated – that skull mask obscured everything from you, everything you’d seen or known before. From this distance, you couldn’t even tell if the bone was fake or real.

You whipped around, expecting to see a crowd gathered, maybe even the shrill shriek of sirens, but you didn’t. It was quiet, and empty, until a singular black land rover with tinted windows pulled slowly into the car park.

You turned back around, nearly spluttering at Simon to run, but he was getting to his feet. You couldn’t see any weapons on him, but you supposed that was the point of the tactical vest. He looked like he’d come directly from active combat.

“Simon.” Your eyes were glistening with tears.

“It’s alright, love.” He assured you, his voice low. “It’s over.”

You heard the doors of the land rover opening and closing and turned to see the two figures that were walking towards the pair of you. You recognised the man, the bearded captain from the party. The woman was blonde, with her hair tied neatly back. You wondered how on earth it was meant to be over.

“She’s no part of this.” Ghost barked gruffly, addressing the two newcomers, but talking about you.

The Captain looked at you, then hummed, then grunted: “go back inside.” His voice was as commanding, and almost as deep, as Simon’s.

You jolted, watching the three of them standing around what could well have been a corpse, before you turned and scurried back to the care home. Your heart was hammering so hard in your chest you had no idea how the people inside were meant to take one look at you and not immediately know what had happened.

,,,

The next few hours passed in a blur.

Police cars turned up, along with an ambulance. From what you could see from peeking out of the window, Simon and his friends were talking to the police, while Tommy Riley was being loaded into the back of an ambulance and then driven away. Then the police left, and then the land rover, and all you could do was stare into your coffee as the night got dark around you.

When everything seemed sufficiently dead and quiet, you left the care home. There was a chill in the night air. You had no idea what had happened to your coat.

Simon Riley was leaning against his black car, his arms crossed. Nothing about his appearance had changed, even down to the blood splattered over him.

You got the feeling he’d been waiting for you to come out. You wondered how long, then you realised you didn’t really care.

You approached him in silence. You didn’t know what to say. What to think.

“What happened to the police?” You finally decided on. Your voice was very small.

“They’re gone.” He told you, voice gruff, emotionless. “Your name wasn’t mentioned. No one will bother you about this.” He held his hand out, and you noticed he was holding your coat. It was covered in grass stains.

“Why?” You asked, your eyes wide and tired, you took the coat back gingerly.

He shrugged. “I know people.”

You looked down at the concrete. “Is he dead?” Your voice was thick.

“No, but he won’t bother you again.”

“How do you know that?”

“You leave him to me.”

You were still staring at the ground. You didn’t want to ask anymore questions. You felt uneasy enough as it was. Nothing was going into your head right now. You were sure that in the morning you’d want to know every little detail, but right now, you just wanted to go home.

Simon wasn’t saying anything else, he wasn’t attempting to explain himself or comfort you, he was just looking at you with a guarded expression in his eyes, like he was expecting you to explode and was mentally preparing himself for the fallout.

“Were you trying to kill him?” You asked quietly.

You saw his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. “No.” He said. He sounded sure. “I know what it takes to kill a man. That was just a beating his sorry arse deserved.”

“Why did you do it?” You asked genuinely.

He blinked and stood straighter, like the question had offended him. You just didn’t have it in you to hear about whatever evil things Tommy had done to his ex-wife or Simon’s ex-girlfriend, not when he’d come so close to doing something to you.

“He threatened you.” Simon’s voice was hard as flint, absolutely unforgiving. “I saw his fucking hands on you. No one,” his eyes were flaming, furious, “touches you.”

“Simon?” Your voice was tiny, disbelieving.

“Be in no doubt, love, I will do anything to protect you. Do you understand? I’m sorry you saw that, and I’m sorry it scared you, but that’s all I’m apologising for. I would kill him to keep you safe. I’m not a good guy, I’m a bad guy who fucks up bad guys. That’s as complicated as I get. I can’t give you anything you want from me, but I promise, you’ll always be safe.”

“You mean that, don’t you?” You almost whispered.

“I do.” He assured you, eyes narrowing like he couldn’t read your response, he uncrossed his arms and nodded to the car, stepping away from it. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“No.” You said. Simon stilled, then stared at you, then he looked at the ground.

“I understand.” He said gruffly. “At least let me call you a cab?”

“I want you to take me to your place.”

He stared at you, unblinking. “Mine?”

“Yours.” You said. Your voice was still so blank you were impossible to read. He was as still as a statue, expecting full rejection after everything he’d done, everything he’d said. Hearing that you still wanted anything to do with him after that had left him nothing short of speechless. “I want to see something of your life, anything.”

“Fine.” He said after a moment. His car beeped and flashed as he unlocked it. “Get in.”

You got in the passenger’s seat and nearly jumped out of your skin when a loud bark and a wagging tail nearly took your head clean off.

“Oh my god!” You exclaimed in shock.

“Down.” Simon said sternly. The German Shepherd excitedly bouncing around in his backseat sat obediently, but his ears were pricked up and his tail was thumping against the leather upholstery.

“Ignore him.” Simon put his seatbelt on. “He was asleep up until a minute ago.”

“You have a dog?” You asked.

Simon grunted his yes, reached back and scratched the German Shepherd between his ears. He licked at Simon’s wrist.

“His name’s Riley. Say hello, Riley.”

Riley barked softly at you, and you couldn’t help but smile as you reached back and carded your fingers through the soft fur on his chest.

“He’s very well behaved.”

“He should be, he’s been out with me enough times.”

Simon pulled out of the car park and started driving in a direction you’d never been in before. You were too distracted by stroking Riley and receiving the odd appreciative lick in return to think about what had happened earlier in too much detail.

Simon, still apparently baffled by your behaviour, didn’t say anything else.

“Why did you give your dog your surname?” You asked.

Simon actually shrugged at the road. “Needed to give it to someone.”

You understood that. No wife, no children. No expectation to have either. You wondered if he still felt the same now.

Simon pulled into a driveway not too long after that. It was a modest, semi-detached house with a simple garden out front that didn’t look like it had much upkeep.

Simon opened the front door and you fully expected Riley to charge in immediately, like every other dog you’d ever met, but he sat obediently on the front path as Simon held the door open for you.

“Ladies first.” He said. “Might be a bit dusty.”

“Haven’t you been home yet?” You asked.

“Nah.” He whistled and Riley trotted in after you, then Simon entered last and closed and locked the front door. “I was in the middle of the debrief when that woman phoned me. I didn’t even have time to change. Look at me.” He gestured redundantly to his tactical vest as he rolled his neck from side to side, you heard his bones cracking.

“What woman?” You frowned.

“That Julia McGowan.” He reeled off the name of your line manager. “Told her to give me a bell if Tommy ever turned up without me. Thank fuck I’d gotten back this morning. I didn’t say anything in case I didn’t get out of base in time to make it there today.”

You were glad that Julia had honoured Simon’s request, even when it was clear she didn’t much like him. If she hadn’t told him and Simon hadn’t have made it to the care home in time…well, you shuddered to think.

Simon led you through his kitchen and to the living room. It was bigger than your flat, but it was simple. There were appliances and books but no pictures or keepsakes. He’d been right about the dust, as well.

“Sit,” he said gruffly, inclining his head to the couch. “I’ve got to feed the bottomless pit quickly. Are you hungry?”

You shook your head, belly still full of victoria sponge and knots.

“How about a drink?” He asked. “I need a whisky the size of my head.”

You chuckled softly. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“I don’t think I have anything girly; I might have some beer though. Hang tight.”

He didn’t give you a chance to respond before he disappeared out of the room, as silent as ever. It was actually incredibly impressive given the size of him.

That didn’t last long, however, as you heard him banging around in the kitchen and talking quietly when Riley barked, like they were having a conversation. Of course, Simon was off duty now.

It was easy to think that as soon as he was out of your sights, Simon shut himself away in a little case until the military needed him again. Seeing him in his house, feeding his dog, pouring himself a drink, generally living his life, made you feel more at ease about pretty much everything. He was a real person, rather than just a figment of your imagination, he was a man, not a machine.

A man who had just put his brother in the hospital a few hours ago.

Simon came back into the living room shortly after. He’d shed his tactical vest somewhere along the way, along with his jacket and gloves, wearing only his combat trousers, t shirt and the mask with the stitched skull bone. He passed you a can of lager, the same brand you’d ordered at the party, you noted, and a glass. You thanked him and poured your drink out as he settled in the armchair opposite the sofa, whisky glass in hand. You watched the amber bubbles in your drink float to the top before taking a long gulp. It was ice cold, and glorious after the day you’d had.

You watched Simon lift his balaclava to just under his nose to sip his drink. You saw his swollen knuckles and the flesh on them ground down to red mush.

Neither of you really knew what to say to each other. There was only one thing to say.

“I’m sorry.” Simon said.

“Thank you.” You said.

He looked at you with hard eyes and you tilted your head.

“What are you sorry for?” You asked.

Simon laughed darkly at his glass and took another sip, shaking his head to himself, as if internally chastising you for being so wilfully obstinate.

“He should never have gotten that close to you.” He explained. Somehow you hadn’t expected his mind to still be on Tommy and what had happened. “This is what happens to people who get to close to me, they get hurt, that’s why it’s better off that I stay away.”

You had to admit that Tommy’s attack had been motivated by your closeness to Simon, even if you didn’t want it to be true. You knew it, and Simon knew it, and to pretend otherwise would just be making a fool out of yourself.

“He said he was doing it to fuck with you.” You shuddered to think what would have happened to you if Simon had gotten to you even five minutes later. It was like your body and your mind were both trying to make you relive and process exactly what had happened, and could have happened, to you. You’d been threatened with violence, sexual and otherwise, and you should have been in pieces, but you weren’t. There was this wall in front of you, in your wind, that was protecting you from that harm and that pain and keeping you safe even from the cruelty of your own imagination. It was a big wall, a broad wall, and it had a skull for a face.

Whatever reaction Simon was going to give you was interrupted by Riley trotting into the living room. He sat next to Simon’s chair and put his head in Simon’s lap. Simon scratched behind his ears.

“He takes after my old man.” Simon said, looking at his pet. “Alcoholic, druggie, wife-beating pieces of shit. Tommy hates my guts because he hated me, and because mum likes me more, and because the only reason he wasn’t back inside was because…” he stopped himself, “well, maybe that’s on a more need to know basis, but he’s done some heinous shit, let’s leave it at that.” He took another long slug from his drink until the glass was almost empty, he was still scratching Riley. He seemed a bit defeated and you kind of hated it, seeing him like this. “He never should have gotten anywhere near you. I fucked up.”

“I shouldn’t have eavesdropped in that corridor,” you said guiltily, “this never would have happened.”

Simon was shaking his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I gave him such a bollocking after you left to leave you alone.” He twisted his now empty glass in his hand. “That was when I knew.” His voice was quiet. “In that corridor, when he touched you and I wanted to snap his neck.”

“Knew what?”

His eyes found yours, finally, brown and deep and intense.

“That I had feelings for you. I should have left you alone after that, for your own safety, but I couldn’t stay away. I’m a weak man.”

“Oh.” You didn’t know what to say, unused to and unexpecting of such an open declaration.

“I didn’t want you to ever see that side of me that you saw today.” He sounded a bit more frustrated now. Riley made a low noise and started licking Simon’s clothed knee. His body language was cagey, his eyes blank. “I never wanted to lose you like this. But I’m not a danger to you; I’ll leave you alone.”

His demeanour suddenly made sense to you, he was saying goodbye, and your chest constricted more violently than the whole time in the trees with him and his brother.

“You’re breaking up with me?” Your eyes were suddenly overflowing with tears. Simon’s eyes widened in surprise at your reaction.

“Look, I won’t pretend it didn’t freak me out but…you saved me. Again. From…god, from god knows what. You have holes in your knuckles, and favours with scary people, all to protect me. I…” you were panicking, your voice rising a little. “You can’t do this, you can’t leave, you can’t leave me. You can’t leave me.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Simon stood up and put his glass down on the coffee table. Riley curled up on the floor in front of the television and watched as Simon crossed the room and sat next to you, putting his arm around your shoulder and pulling you against him, rubbing your upper arm to try and calm you. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart, I’m right here. I was just giving you an out if you wanted it.”

“I don’t want an out. I want you. All I want is you.”

“You’ve got me, darlin’, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.” His voice was gravelly and rough in your ear, he stank of sweat and blood, and the heat radiating off of him was so hot it was like sitting next to an active volcano. You never wanted to move.

You started to calm slowly, your breathing evening out in his arms. He kept murmuring to you and stroking your arm. You put your hands on his thigh and just gripped him, keeping him close to you.

“Can I be honest with you?” You murmured. “Even if you might hate me?”

“I always want you to be honest with me, love,” he rubbed your arm comfortingly. “And I’ll never hate you. Can’t.”

“Nothing about you has ever bothered me. I’ve never wanted you to be anything else. Do you know how many men in my life have protected me and wanted me safe, because it’s not a lot…” You tried to stop fresh tears from falling. “When you finally meet someone who sees your discomfort as a bad thing and not a trophy for themselves…” You sniffed.

“Baby…”

“Having you defend me, protect me, care about me, it’s changed my life, you make me feel so safe, so happy. I kind of love that you’d beat the crap out of someone for me, which I know is twisted.”

“It’s fucking twisted,” Simon’s voice was a growl, his grip on you tighter. “Keep talking like that and I’m going to have to fuck some sense into you.”

You blinked your tears away and turned your head to see him looking down on you.

“You don’t think I’m weird?”

“I think you’re fucking insane. No one is ever going to hurt you again; I’ll kill them before they try.”

You believed him, you’d even seen it action yourself now. The lengths he was willing to go to for you should have scared you, but they didn’t. It did confuse you, though.

“Why me?” You asked.

“Why you what?”

“Why do you like me?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Kind of.”

Simon sighed, then his other hand was stroking your hair out of your face before his bare fingers were brushing your cheek.

“You’re kind.”

You snorted, and Simon laughed quietly.

“You’re also annoying, but that’s a different story.”

“I’m not some altruist because the job I fell into is in healthcare. I don’t even do anything, not like Nicole or Joe.”

“I’m not talking about your job.” Simon said. “I’m talking about you. You know, the late sign-ins when I’m running late, texting me in the hospital, picking my fucking jacket off the floor when I only have one arm…you’re talking about how many people watch out for you, how many people do you think are kind to me?”

You chewed your lip, thinking of your colleagues, of every waitress who’d scowled, the bitchy women at the party, Tommy, his father…

“Not many.”

He chuckled, still stroking your cheek slowly.

“You’re so kind you don’t even realise you’re doing it. I mean, yeah, you’re funny and beautiful and all that, but all that gets cancelled out by how much of a pain in my arse you are.”

“Shut up.” You buried your face in his chest.

“Look at me.”

You peaked up at him, he was looking down on you through that skull, his brown eyes soft.

“Simon?” You asked.

“Yes, love?”

“Are you my boyfriend?”

Simon chuckled, but there was an edge to it. His hand splayed possessively over the small of your back.

“Yeah, love.” He replied. “I’m your boyfriend.”

Neither of your walls were shattered with hammers, and no lightning struck them down, they were just gently eroded by the sea of kindness that remained in all broken people.

“I need to shower.” Simon said, pulling you up with him, your front against his. “And this time, I really think you should join me.”

You purred and wrapped your arms around his neck. He gripped your hips.

“How are you meant to shower with a skull on your face, Ghost?” You asked.

“I guess I’ll just have to take it off.” His eyes were blazing.

Your heart rate elevated.

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, sir.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes never leaving your eyes, and shook his head slowly.

“Okay, Simon.” You whispered, tears in your eyes.

He hummed, chest rumbling, and his eyes slid closed.

…

The pair of you stood in the bathroom. The shower was turned on, flicking you both absently with warm water as you slowly undressed, until you were naked, and Simon was naked except one thing.

He reached up and pulled the balaclava off of his head, throwing it down with the rest of his clothes, and then he looked at you.

He was a square jawed, brown eyed, pale skinned, handsome man. The scar through his top lip dragged all the way up past nostril. It pulled his lip up a little, giving you a the barest flash of canine beneath. It was an old scar, and jagged, and looked like it had been administered with a significant amount of cruelty.

You reached up on your tip toes and pressed your lips to it, he groaned quietly. His arms wound around you and suddenly you were kissing properly, the wet, passionate slide of lips on lips. You felt his tongue in your mouth, and you moaned.

You both stepped into the tub, and the shower sprayed over you. It was warm, and you admired the droplets dribbling down his chest, over each muscle. He was doing the same thing, his eyes glued to your chest. His hands followed, squeezing your boobs.

You looked up at him, and his hungry eyes found yours. In a second, you were spun on your feet, and Simon’s large body was pushing you up against the glass shower screen. You gasped, watching Simon’s hand brace against the glass next to your head.

“Press your tits against the glass for me, love,” he panted in your ear, his voice sounding wrecked. “Fuck yeah, good girl. Gonna take good care of this cunt.” He spanked your arse, hard, and you yelped as heat streaked straight to your core. He grabbed a handful of the same cheek he’d just spanked, and you felt his fingers slipping and sliding against your entrance. They sunk inside you, and you whined, your head falling back against his shoulder as he nailed you into the glass, your whole body squeaking against it.

“God, fuck, I can hear them rubbing against that glass,” he groaned, “does it feel good on your nipples?”

“Yes.” You whined helplessly. Your nipples and your clit were sliding against the glass, held there by his body, his fingers hard against your sweet spot.

You wailed as you came, hard and without warning, a spray of fluid hitting the glass and sliding down it alongside the shower water.

“Squirting against the glass, sweetheart?” You felt his teeth biting into the back of your neck and you groaned, overwhelmed with sensation.

“Can’t…can’t help it.” You tried to gasp out.

You felt him laughing against your ear.

“Oh I know, baby, I know you can’t. It just feels so good, doesn’t it?” He punctuated his cooed words with a hard thrust of his fingers and your feet lifted off of the tub floor as you came again.

“Fuck, Simon!” You cried out.

“Yeah, scream my name, love.” He growled, you heard water splashing as he stroked his cock, and then his fingers were gone and the blunt head of his cock was being pushed inside you.

Your head hit the glass as he stretched you around him, but you barely had a moment to adjust as he covered your hand with one of his, the other gripping your hip as he fucked you, hard, fast, unforgiving, making the glass shake dangerously.

Your toes curled, and you came around his cock with a tight, wet clench.

“This fucking cunt,” he panted, not even slowing for a second, fucking you through your orgasm and making your eyes roll back. “Cums so fast for me.”

“Simon...” You slurred, your body felt like it was on fire, electric in all your veins radiating out from your cunt, his cock pounding into you so unforgivingly hard and fast you couldn’t think straight.

“Yeah, baby?” He panted.

You answered him with another orgasm, your cunt clenching so tightly on him he did slow a little this time, adjusting his deep thrusts with grinds of his cock against your cumming walls, his hips tight to yours, no inch of space between you both.

“You’re a fucking machine.” You slurred, head tipping back to his shoulder.

“Fuck yeah I am.” He captured your lips in a searing kiss, still grinding his cock inside you, milking your weeping pussy for all it was worth. “Military stamina, I could go for hours, get lost in this wet little fucking pussy.”

You moaned into his mouth. “Christ, Simon.”

“Ready for another one, sweetheart?” He grinned against your lips.

“Another one?” You gasped.

His hands fell to your hips again and gripped as he fucked you into the glass, you screeched out and came on his cock, warmth pooling inside you, making you weak.

“God fuck, can’t stop fucking cumming.” You wailed.

He chuckled darkly and snapped his hips, again and again, until your white cum was staining his cock.

He pressed his front tight to your back, groaning as he slammed his hips against your hips, before he pulled out completely. Your legs wobbled, and he turned you, pressing your back to the glass. He kissed you and you kissed him back. Your hands found his ribs.

When he finally pulled away, you looked down and saw his cock was still angry and hard.

“Why don’t I…” You trailed your fingertips up his chest. “Make good on my promise, and let you cum all over these?” You cupped your own wet breasts, squeezing them.

Simon groaned and gripped your hips.

“Tempting.” He growled, lifting you easily, you wrapped your legs around his waist. “But this pussy is mine.”

He sank back inside you, and you gripped his shoulders as he fucked you hard, bouncing you on his cock, your back against the glass.

Your mouth was open, moaning incoherently as his cock throbbed hard and heavy against your sweet spot, your sensitive walls sucking him in.

“Fuck,” he buried his face in your neck, “I’m so fucking close.”

“Look at me, Simon.” You begged breathlessly.

He did, pressing your foreheads together, his brown eyes on yours as you both came together. He filled your cunt with his seed while you clamped down on him and kept him there, panting against each other’s mouths in pure, shared pleasure.

After a few long moments, Simon lent forward and kissed you. It was sweet, and soft, and you whimpered into it, your hands locking around his neck and keeping him close.

He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, and stared into your soul.

“You know what you’re doing with someone like me?” He asked you plainly.

You smiled, your fingers finding the back of his neck and massaging softly. You watched his eyelids flutter.

“Well, I was thinking about starting with telling him that he’s really not as bad as he seems to think he is.” You said softly. “And then I’d tell him that he’ll never hurt me, and that he doesn’t have to be scared anymore.”

He buried his head in your neck, and you let your eyes slide closed as you massaged the back of his neck. The warm water sprayed over you both.

…

Simon’s bed was large.

You supposed it needed to be, with the size of him. You sat down on the edge of it and nearly sunk right through to the floor.

“Oh my god, this is so soft.”

Simon was smirking at you as he pulled on some pj bottoms and nothing else, you loved his smile, and you knew you’d never get bored of it.

He tossed you a shirt that looked normal sized in his hands, but came down to your mid-thighs when you pulled it on.

“I spend too much time in sleeping bags on rocks.” He explained, pulling the duvet back and getting into bed. He groaned himself. “My back is going to be fucked by the time I’m 40.”

“No, it’s not.” You scooted up next to him under the covers. “It’s a big, strong, sexy back.”

“You sure scratched the hell out of it earlier.”

“Sorry.” You didn’t sound, or look, sorry at all.

Simon purred as he laid down on his side. You mimicked him, and then you were facing each other.

You just couldn’t stop staring at him, it felt like coming home, finally looking at the person you’d been waiting for.

“You’re so fucking odd.” Simon grumbled, killing the mood expertly.

“Why am I odd?” You asked, your forehead creasing.

Simon’s brown eyes were warm as he watched you, tracking your face just as ardently as you were tracking his.

“Most people see a scarred freak and run in the other direction, but not you, little miss death wish. I bet you rooted for the monster in Frankenstein.”

“He isn’t a monster.”

“Case in point.” He chuckled.

But you meant it, and you knew he knew that you weren’t talking exclusively about gothic literature.

You stroked along his jaw, his lips, with your fingertips. His eyelids fluttered imperceptibly.

“Simon, you’re not a monster.”

He groaned, and you felt his hands grip your hips under the covers and pull you close to him, where it was warm and safe.

“I’m okay with what I am.” He told you, and it turned out you’d been wrong in the beginning; his eyes were still as intense even without the mask. You were lost in them, and you hoped you were never found. “Because I will always be bigger and scarier than anyone who tries to hurt you.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, but he never stopped looking at you – he never had since you’d met.

“I love you.” You whispered. It fixed something inside you to have him hear it, even though you knew he’d never say it back.

“I love you, too.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you both laid there with each other quietly. None of the demons in either of your heads could bother you here.

Simon was complicated and troubled and out of his mind, but he was yours, and he loved you. You couldn’t see anything monstrous in that.

the end

[consultingskeletondetective]

Too close to the sun

You work at a nursing home in Manchester. It’s a quiet job, but you enjoy it, even if you’re just an administrator. One day, one of your residents gets a visit from a 6”2, masked, military man who bulldozes his way into your life.

Simon Riley isn't exactly what you'd call boyfriend material.

masterlist ❤️ ao3

tags: angst, fluff, referenced/implied sa (not graphic), violence, past trauma, elderly character in a care home, explicit sexual content, bdsm elements, female reader, reader has a deceased father, readers step dad is a pervert, Simon's brother is a dick, military inaccuracies, cod lore inaccuracies, dark fic

part 1/3, word count: 10.6k

part 2

part 3

“Don’t stare. That’s Mrs. Riley’s son. He won’t appreciate it.”

Your mouth was open as he walked through the entrance doors and into the reception area of the care home.

He was over 6 foot, the top of his head nearly brushing the lintel as he entered. He was as broad as he was tall, wearing tan cargo trousers, boots laced tight and uniform, and a black crewcut t shirt that showed every muscle on his torso. His biceps were large, easily the size of your head, and his left arm had a full sleeve of black tattoos. He was also wearing a black cap, with the peak facing forward, and a black surgical mask, the type you hadn’t seen on a civilian since the pandemic days. The cap was pulled low over his eyes, so you could barely make out an inch of his face.

“That’s her son?” You asked, turning to your line manager, Julia, who seemed far more interested in her chart than the militant, mysterious man who had just walked into reception. “The ‘sweet boy who looks after me ever so well’?” You quoted Mrs. Riley directly, from the conversation you’d had with her just this morning.

Mrs. Riley had moved into the care home you worked at as an administrator less than a week ago. She had no end-of-life ailments, she was just a sweet old lady who needed more care around the house than could be provided by her children. She was quiet, but also kind, and she spoke non-stop of her son, her sweet Simon, who would be visiting her any day now. You’d expected a kindly, baby-faced young man, not the hard muscled hulk of a man who was clenching his fists and surveying the reception area like he expected assassins to jump out from behind the magazine racks.

“He might be sweet.” Nicole, a young care assistant, leant over the reception desk to join in on your conversation, her eyes glued to your new arrival. “He’s hot, that’s for sure.”

“So sweet he put his mum in a care home.” Julia reminded you both, with raised eyebrows.

“He’s military.” You said. “Must be away a lot, right? Maybe there was no other choice. He’s paying for it all, apparently.”

You blinked when both of the girls stared at you.

“What?” You asked.

“How do you know he’s in the military?”

“Oh.” You blushed a little. “His bootlaces. My dad served in Afghanistan before he died.”

“No wonder you’re still single if you’re looking at his laces.”

“Nicole! You can’t say – Oh shit, he’s coming over.”

“Haha, bye!”

Julia and Nicole suddenly disappeared from the reception desk and you fought off the urge to curse them as you saw that the scary looking man was indeed walking over to you. He stopped in front of the desk, looming over it, and you. You peered up at him looking down on you, eyes shadowed under the cap and above the mask. They were brown, and hooded in a sort of resigned boredom. You felt like you were standing at the bottom of a mountain and looking up at the peak.

“Are you still allowing visitors, ma’am? I’m later than I was expecting to be.”

His accent was gruff, cockney, low and muffled incrementally by the mask he wore. It wasn’t out of place to wear a mask in a care home, and it was easy to believe that he was just being cautious, but everything from his attire to his guarded, boxy stance and the cagey look in his eyes told you he did not want to be looked at.

“Oh.” You were caught off guard by such a polite question from someone who looked like they could snap you like a dry twig – who looked like they did snap people like dry twigs on a regular basis.

You glanced at the clock. 3.40pm.

“There’s still 20 minutes left.” You opened the sign in book and pushed it across the desk with a pen. “Could you sign in here, please?”

He took the pen and you noticed that he was wearing gloves. Black gloves with skeletal hands printed on them, mimicking where the bones would be under his flesh.

He wrote his name down in the next available box. Simon Riley. Your eyes travelled over his arms while he did. They were thick with muscle, his tattoo sleeve was made up of skulls and guns, his biceps were vascular. The sound of the book being pushed back across the desk made you blink and look up. He was staring at you, his brown eyes hard as flint, and clearly unimpressed that he’d caught you staring.

“Uh, thanks.” You blushed, looking down at the book. He’d written 3.41pm as the sign in time and left the sign out time blank. Feeling guilty, you wrote 4pm down in the sign out box.

“There. You signed out at 4pm. You can stay as long as you like.”

His eyes wavered.

“Thanks.” It was a short, gruff remark and you knew that you weren’t forgiven for your misstep, but you could also tell that he hadn’t been expecting the generous action.

He walked from the desk without another word and through the second set of doors to the resident’s rooms like he’d been there before. Every single person in the reception stared at him until he disappeared and he didn’t acknowledge any of them. Maybe they were too short for him to see.

The next time you saw him was a little after 5pm. The reception was largely empty now, but even so, he was hard to miss – tall and built and intimidating. You glanced up on instinct and were surprised to find his eyes on you. He didn’t drop the eye contact, giving you a curt nod before he left through the double doors.

You blushed furiously, a result of that burning gaze.

…

He came back two days later.

You hadn’t expected it at all, bent down behind the reception desk to retrieve a file for Nicole, before straightening up and nearly jumping out of your skin when you saw the imposing figure of Simon Riley standing in front of the desk, unnaturally still like a statue. He was wearing jeans this time, and a black hoodie that was zipped up all the way, the hood pulled up over his head. He was still wearing the same black surgical mask and black skeletal gloves. You could see a tuft of blond hair peaking out from under his hood. The sight of his forehead gave you more of an indication of his age. He looked younger than you’d initially suspected. He looked different from the last time you’d seen him, too, if only for the fact that he was chuckling quietly.

“Scare you?” He asked rhetorically. The timbre of his voice struck you all over again. Gravelly. Deep. Like he’d been punched in the throat and never recovered.

“Yeah, sorry.” You shook your head, trying to not blush again and probably failing spectacularly. “Didn’t even hear you.”

He chuckled again, but this time to himself, like he was enjoying a quiet joke that you weren’t in on.

“Visiting mum?” You asked, putting Nicole’s file to the side and reaching for the sign in book.

“No, I’m here for the jelly.”

“It’s good jelly, understandable.” You joked, picking up on his sarcastic remark.

His eyes narrowed at your response, not in a nasty way, but rather like he was sizing you up.

He wrote his name down in the book and pushed it back to you.

“What do I call you?” He asked, inclining his head down to the book as you closed it and put it away.

It felt like you told him your name under duress. Did he even realise how intimidating his eyes were? How intense? Maybe they weren’t, maybe it was just particularly striking because you couldn’t see the rest of his face. You burned with the question of why he wore the mask. He was a big guy, and very attractive in a terrifying sort of way. You supposed his size and his razor straight confidence spoke to your cavewoman instincts, but then his guarded attitude and attire spoke to your gut instincts, and neither one of them could figure out what was more important.

You couldn’t imagine he was ugly, though, his eyes were too nice for him to be ugly.

He nodded in acknowledgment of your name before he took off for the resident’s rooms. You were so distracted by him that you nearly jumped again when the next person asked for your help, and you could even see them this time.

The third time you saw Simon Riley was outside of the entrance, on your way inside.

You were running late to your shift – your stupid bus hadn’t turned up and forced you to use a later service – clutching your bag, your coat and your water bottle and succeeding in tripping over your own feet in your haste to get inside.

“Easy.” It was a gruff voice in your ear and a firm hand gripping your upper arm and keeping you still as your water bottle tumbled out of your grip, rolled across the concrete ground and hit the brick wall of the building.

you recognised that coarse accent immediately and looked up to see Simon peering down at you curiously. He wasn’t wearing his hoodie this time, probably with it being a relatively warm day in drizzly Manchester. His shirt was crewcut, simple, black, and his surgical mask and cap were covering most of his face and head, the hand gripping your arm was gloved. Those damn skeletal gloves. Your eyes tracked the ink staining his skin as you looked at his tattoo sleeve, and it was only under the natural light that you really noticed the scars littering his flesh. Some of them were puckered marks and others were long, thin lines, pale white and pink and red, depending on how old and how big and how deep they were.

He released your arm and you blinked. He was unwaveringly still. You hoped he hadn’t noticed you staring at the scars on his arm, but you doubted that you’d gotten away with it. He seemed to notice everything, even now, his eyes were tracking your every movement.

This was the first time you’d been next to Simon without a desk between you and it made him so much bigger now. He was broad, he was eclipsing the sun in the sky behind him as he towered over you. You could smell him now. Soap. Deodorant. Something tangy you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Thank you.” You said. He grunted and looked away from you and it was like the spell was over and your brain could finally focus on something else other than endless brown pools.

You spotted your water bottle by the wall and began to rearrange your bag and your coat to give yourself a free hand. You heard boots on concrete and watched as Simon walked a few steps and picked your bottle up. It looked tiny in his hand. He didn’t hand it back to you, instead he walked to the entrance doors and stood in front of them, letting his weight trigger the sensors that opened them.

“After you.” He said, inclining his head inside, his eyes still focused on you, like you were the only thing in the world.

“Oh, thank you.” You hurried forward, pink-cheeked, and he watched you pass him and trailed behind you.

Julia stared at you as you approached the desk, so did a few others, but Simon was only looking at you as he held his hand out. You took your bottle back.

“Thank you.” You said again, not even realising that you were repeating yourself. You just couldn’t relax around him. He was too big; his gaze was too intense. His aura was off, somehow. Different to anyone you’d ever met before. It was something that made him…dangerous? You weren’t sure. Not safe. That was more accurate.

“Got the book?” He asked gruffly.

Julia passed it to you, and you tried not to look flustered as you opened it. Simon wrote his name and the time in, left the pen on the desk, nodded at you, and then disappeared through the doors and down the hall. Simon Riley was enemy number one to lingering, apparently.

“He gives me the creeps.” Julia said, inciting a murmur of agreement from your surrounding colleagues.

You walked around the desk silently. You hung up your coat and put your bag down under your chair.

“Why does he cover his face?” Someone murmured.

“Probably dental, knowing this country.” A man replied.

“Or he’s on the run from the police.” A particularly salacious suggestion. “Can you imagine?”

“Why would he be on the run from the police?”

“Fucking size of him. Looks like he’d attack anyone who got too close.”

“He’s got cruel eyes. Only part of him you can see.”

“Should we even be leaving him alone with Mrs. Riley?”

You put your water bottle down on the desk far harder than necessary. Everyone stopped talking and stared at you. You were staring at the bottle, where the metal had scuffed where it had rolled across the concrete.

“Alright, love?” Julia asked kindly. “I was worried about you when you didn’t clock in.”

“Yeah.” You said blankly. “Sorry. Bus was late.”

…

The paramedics swarmed in down the corridor and you got yourself out of the way, watching a little helplessly as Nicole hurried past you and followed them.

You went back to the reception desk, still trying to look through the doors and down the corridor like it might give you any answers.

“What’s happened?” Julia asked, coming out of the back office.

“Mrs. Riley fell.” You explained. “She got out of bed to use the bathroom and tumbled.”

“Is she okay?” Julia looked concerned.

“I don’t know.” You admitted. “I hope so.”

It was a little over an hour later when Nicole came to the desk, the paramedics filing out behind her and leaving the care home.

“Is everything okay?” You asked.

Nicole nodded before she spoke.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Nothing is broken, thank god. The paramedics looked at her heart and her blood pressure, and they don’t think she needs to go to the hospital, we just have to monitor her for the next twelve hours to make sure.”

You nodded, relieved it wasn’t more serious. She was a tough girl, Mrs. Riley, it must have run in the family.

“We should call-“

“Already have.” Nicole interjected. “He’s on his way.”

“Right, good.”

“Listen, I’ve got to check on the other residents. Sally phoned in sick and Joe got called to another home last minute. I don’t suppose you could sit with her for a little bit? I know it’s not your job, but…”

“It’s fine.” You assured her immediately. “Go, I’ll sit in as long as I need to.”

She gave you a grateful smile before leaving the reception. You headed through the doors and to Mrs. Riley’s room, knocking gently.

“Mrs. Riley?” You called softly, opening the door and closing it gently behind you. “I heard you had a little fall.”

Mrs. Riley looked fine to you, if a little drawn out and tired. She was in her 70’s, her blonde hair greyed, and she smiled when she saw you.

“Oh, hello, my darling. Yes, it’s all a big fuss over nothing.”

“It wasn’t a fuss, they were keeping you safe.” You smiled as you perched on a chair beside her bed. Her skin crinkled around her brown eyes as she laughed.

“Don’t tell me they’ve asked you to babysit me, darling. You’ve got important work to do.”

“I certainly have.” You agreed. “I’ve got to spend time with you. I thought I could sneak in here and we could watch a few episodes of All Creatures Great and Small."

Mrs. Riley’s eyes lit up at the mention of her favourite show. You sat with her for the best part of an hour while Mrs. Riley ate strawberry jelly from her food tray and you were both discussing what good marriage material Siegfried would make when the door opened and Simon stormed in. He was wearing a black hoodie, but he looked soaked through. You weren’t surprised, with the rain lashing down on the windows.

His eyes looked wild, concerned, before narrowing into slits as he walked straight past you and knelt down by the bed.

“Oh, my sweet Simon.” Mrs. Riley cooed, taking his face in her hands and pulling his hood down. He had short, blond hair. You looked away immediately, feeling as though you weren’t allowed to see. “You didn’t need to come all the way here.”

“Of course I did.” Simon’s voice cracked and your head whipped to them both, surprised by it. He was holding his mother’s wrists where she was holding his cheeks. His eyes were wide and open when he looked at her. “You scared me.”

“Silly boy.” She wiped rainwater from his eyes with her thumbs. “Sweet boy. Everything is fine.”

His eyes fluttered closed and your expression softened. It was like watching an entirely different person. That strange feeling that you’d gotten before, of danger and apprehension, it all melted away when you saw him like this, knelt and seeking comfort, a boy with his mum.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” He sounded infinitely more relaxed, his eyes still closed. “I was…”

“It’s okay. I know you’re busy. Your work is important.” She said. “I’ve been looked after.”

Mrs. Riley smiled at you, and Simon opened his eyes and looked at you, too. You swallowed, shuffling from one foot to the other. Simon’s burning gaze was one thing, but this open expression made you feel uncomfortable. Not because you didn’t like it, but because you knew you were intruding on something intimate and private and not meant for you.

“I’ll leave you to it.” You said quickly. “I’ll just be at the desk if you need anything.”

Simon turned his attention back to his mother and you shut the door and went back to the reception desk. You could hear your colleagues murmuring and you had a pretty good idea what they were talking about.

“Don’t any of you have any work to do?” You snapped. You earned yourself a few glares, and a few more surprised looks, but they slunk off and left you alone regardless.

The rain got heavier and heavier as the evening went on, so did the wind, until it felt like the building was swaying from side to side. When you clocked out, it was a little after midnight, and you were exhausted. You hated this late shift, the only one you did a week, because it was a little bit too close to the last bus of the night for your liking.

You collected your stuff and grimaced at the lashing rain as you pulled your coat hood up and walked outside. You were soaked within minutes, and halfway across the car park when you pulled your phone out, shielded it from the rain with your hand and pulled up your travel app. You groaned loudly.

“What’s wrong?”

You whirled around in the middle of the carpark. Simon was stood there, half-illuminated by a streetlight casting an orange glow down on the vicinity. If you thought he looked intimidating normally, in the rain at midnight was a different story.

“I didn’t know you were still here.” You said. He’d crept up on you again.

“Mum finally went to sleep.” He said, spitting rainwater from his surgical mask with every movement of his lips. “She made me watch a show about a goat. Or a vicar. I couldn’t figure it out.”

You laughed, losing the fight with the wind and letting your coat hood blow down, soaking your hair to your scalp.

“Why are you standing in the rain?” He asked you.

“My last bus got cancelled.” You said. “Severe weather alert.”

He might have grunted; it might have been the wind. “I’ll give you a lift.”

You blinked in surprise. He didn’t seem to be joking. Maybe you should have been more apprehensive of such an offer, maybe you might have been before, but after seeing him with his mother, you knew you didn’t have anything to fear.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“It’s pissing down.” He grunted, fishing his car keys from his pocket. Lights flashed on something big and black a few spaces down from where you were standing. “Get in.”

You didn’t argue any further. You opened the passenger door and climbed in. It was dry inside the car and you shuddered from the chill of the rain as Simon got into the driver’s side. The screen on the dash came to life, connecting to his phone as he put his seatbelt on. You could have sworn the word Ghost flashed up on the screen before he reached across and thumbed a plastic button with his gloved finger. You made a little noise of surprise and appreciation as warm air started to fill the car. You were soaked to the bone, your clothes sticking uncomfortably to you. You peeled your coat off and stuck your hands out in front of the warm jets of air.

“Thank you.” You said.

“You say that a lot.” Simon made no move to remove his wet hoodie or wet mask. He did peel a sodden glove off of one hand with the other one and brought it up to the screen, calling up a sat nav with his bare fingertips. His hand was normal. A man’s hand. He had long fingers and scars on his knuckles from years of flesh splitting with every punch thrown.

“Where am I going?” He asked, inclining his head to you.

You rattled off your address without even thinking about it, forgetting for a moment that this man was a complete stranger, and not just a stranger, but a stranger you were fairly sure was a soldier, which meant he’d probably killed people before.

Simon drove out of the car park and you watched the little pulsing light on his sat nav as it pointed in the direction of your flat with more intensity than you’d meant to. You didn’t know what else to do with your face.

“I’m not kidnapping you.” He said gruffly, as if reading your mind. “There are easier ways to do it than this.”

“Like what?” You asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“Chloroform, plastic bag, good old-fashioned choking. No need to waste time on sweet talking.” He glanced over to you.

You shivered, and not because you were scared.

“This is sweet talking?” You laughed.

“It worked on you.” He quipped.

You shook your head with a resigned laugh, rubbing your forehead and scowling at how wet your face was. You must have looked a state.

“Should I be worried you know so much about kidnapping?”

He chuckled, eyes back on the road ahead. “You’ve got a good sense of humour for a drowned rat.” He flicked on the indicator and turned down another road. The headlights illuminated the roads in front of you. “I’ve met my match.”

“Crack a lot of jokes, do you?”

“Sometimes, when duty calls.”

You looked over at him. He was concentrating on the road, his one gloved hand and his one bare hand gliding over the steering wheel.

“You’re in the army?” You ventured.

His eyes snapped to you, and you looked at the road ahead, your cheeks burning.

“How’d you figure that out?” He asked.

You shrugged, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “Dad was. You seem the type.”

He was silent for a long moment, and then: “I’m a Lieutenant.”

You nodded at the road, pleased that your intuition had been correct.

The conversation lapsed into silence after that, with neither of you really knowing what to say.

“Thanks,” Simon said finally. “For looking after mum.”

“Oh.” You fiddled with your fingers. “No problem. She’s lovely.”

It went quiet again, and soon after, Simon busied himself with slowing down to a crawl on your street, looking for your flat number. You opened your mouth to say that anywhere here was fine, but it only took him a moment to identify the building and pull up on the side of the road, right next to the front door.

“Safe and sound.” He said, looking at you. As soon as the car stopped moving, the rain began lashing even louder against the metal frame. It served to offset the comparative silence inside.

You gathered your sopping wet coat in your hands and thought about apologising for getting his passenger seat wet, but just the thought of the derisive look he’d give you stopped you. “Thanks, Simon.”

“Hmm.” He made a low noise, like he wasn’t expecting to hear his name. “Phone.” He said.

“What?” You asked.

“Your phone, give it to me.”

You passed your phone over with a bemused look on your face, wondering briefly if he was going to check it for bugs or something, but instead he just tapped the screen a few times and passed it back to you.

“My number.” He explained. “In case you get stranded again.”

You felt like it was a bizarre thank you gesture for sitting in with his mother, like some mafia-esque loyalty, and you were so confused by it that you forgot to realise that Simon had just given you his number.

“T-“

“Don’t say it.”

You pursed your lips, fighting off a smile.

Simon was looking you up and down, and you thought he was going to tell you something, before he apparently decided against it, looking back at the dashboard instead.

“Go on, get inside before you catch a cold.”

You hoped he’d never heard the way the people at the nursing home spoke about him. You also had no idea why that thought popped into your head at this moment.

“Yes, sir.” You smirked at him, opening the car door and hoping out. “Getting inside, sir.”

Simon shook his head, and then he laughed. “You’re a fucking nightmare, girl.” He said, and it might have been the first time you’d heard such warmth in his voice.

You gave him a stupid smile before you shut the door. You watched him drive away before you let yourself into your flat. You wanted to grimace at the wet clothes clinging to you, or scowl at how tired you were, but you didn’t.

You just smiled.

…

The days passed, and you didn’t see Simon again.

He didn’t come into the care home at all and you briefly wondered if he was actively avoiding your shift schedule, maybe regretting giving you his number, until Nicole lamented that she hadn’t seen the hot army man in a few days.

You supposed it was a little odd, he didn’t usually leave it this long between his visits, but then you didn’t really know him at all and this could have been completely normal behaviour. You didn’t look up every time the entrance doors opened, you certainly didn’t scan the car park every time you walked across it, and you definitely didn’t check his contact in your phone to see if he’d messaged you and the notification hadn’t popped up. What you did admit to doing was appreciate that you were acting like a schoolgirl, and that it needed to stop.

Luckily, the perfect distraction was right on the horizon. It was your mother’s 60th birthday party at the weekend and she’d invited you and other family and friends to a garden party at your childhood home. The forecast was for sun.

You went to the shops after work, buying her an expensive perfume she favoured, and a box of her favourite chocolates. You picked a card that was purple, with a teddy bear on the front holding a love heart that said, ‘I love you, mum!’ on it in gold print. You thought about all of the older women at the care home that spoke incessantly of their children who you’d never seen visit, and your chest constricted a little. You loved your mum, she was the only parent you had left, and you were only just realising how much you were neglecting your precious time together.

Saturday came around quickly. It was indeed as sunny outside as the forecast had predicted and you put on a cute sundress with yellow flowers and a little bit of makeup before you made your way to your childhood home. It wasn’t far from where you lived now.

You said hello to your mum and gave her her gifts. She hugged you before you went into the garden. There was a gazebo up over a table full of ice buckets, prosecco and finger food. A fair few of your relatives were already ploughing through the prosecco, judging by the raucous laughter you could hear.

“Hey there, gorgeous.” Your stepdad flung his arm around your shoulder and pulled you against his side.

“Oh, hi Clive.” You said, trying to hide your uncomfortable wince as he stroked his thumb over your bare upper arm. Your mum had married Clive a few years ago. You were happy for her, that she wasn’t alone anymore and she had someone to look after her, but you’d never exactly gotten on. He’d always lingered around you, and you didn’t like it.

Finally, he released you and you side-stepped away, nearly jumping when your mum offered you a glass of chilled prosecco, which you took and sipped quickly.

It didn’t take long for a gaggle of aunts and cousins to surround you, asking you questions about work and probing questions about your personal life because, of course, being unmarried and childless at your age was the hot topic of discussion at any event.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Your auntie asked you, and everyone in the immediate vicinity stared at you like your answer would hold the secrets of the universe.

“No, no, not at the minute.”

“There must be someone you like. Are there any nice men at that care home you work at?”

You blushed. “None under the age of 70.”

The tirade of questions began again, about how you couldn’t wait around forever to get married and how the biological clock was ticking, and Clive putting his hand on your shoulder made you jump.

“Come on, why don’t you help me check on the chicken, sweetheart?” He gave you a toothy smile and a knowing wink.

“Yeah, okay.” Goosepimples erupted on your flesh but then he dropped your shoulder and the pair of you went into the kitchen. You sipped your drink as he opened the oven and checked on the chicken roasting inside. It smelt pretty good, actually.

“Thank you for saving me.” You rolled your eyes at the absurdity of it.

“It’s okay.” He grinned. “Those vultures should know better. You’ll find someone when the time is right, there’s no point rushing it.” He lent against the counter, crossing his arms, and looked you up and down. You suddenly regretted the yellow sundress you were wearing, wishing instead for trousers and a hoodie. “You’ve grown up into a beautiful young woman, you won’t have any trouble finding a man.”

“Thanks.” You forced a smile, trying to relax. You were sure he didn’t realise how creepy he actually came across, especially when he was married to your mother. Some people were just overly friendly, right?

“Just being honest, sweetheart. You’ll attract any man looking like that.” He smirked, toothy and wide. “And not for nothing, but your tits look great in that dress.”

It was either like the planet slowing down to a stop or having ice cold water thrown on top of you, you couldn’t quite tell. Your stepdad was still grinning that lechery grin at you, chuckling at his joke. You weren’t laughing.

“Come on, let’s go back outside before anyone wonders what we’re up to.” He waggled his eyebrows at you. You started to walk outside of the kitchen like an automaton, like your feet were made of lead. You felt him walking behind you, and then you felt his hand trailing down your back. You nearly snapped the neck of your prosecco glass.

He left you alone in the garden, finding a group of your uncles to talk to, and you just stood there for a moment, wondering what the fuck you were supposed to do. Did you tell your mum? Were you overreacting? Would she be mad at you for ruining her birthday?

Your heart was thumping in your chest. You felt like you were going to be sick. After an age, you made a decision. You had to get out of there or your prosecco was going to make a reappearance. You needed to go home and then find the biggest jumper you owned and cover up forever.

“Mum.” You said. Both your mum and Clive looked up at you. He was draped over her. His eyes tracked down your chest. You held your glass strategically.

“Yes, love?” She beamed at you. You felt like the world’s biggest arsehole. Why couldn’t you just let it go?

“Um, I’m really sorry but I’m going to have to go, my last bus leaves in half an hour.” A total lie, they were running every half hour until midnight, but you couldn’t think of any other way of leaving without inevitably having to explain why.

“Oh, love.” Your mum’s face dropped.

“It’s alright.” Clive said, hugging your mum closer to his side. “I’ll drop you back whenever you want, you can stay as long as you like.”

“Oh, that’s kind.” Your mum’s face brightened up. “Isn’t that kind, sweetheart? You can stay for food. I don’t see you enough as it is.”

“Yeah, sounds great.” You forced a smile. There was no way of getting out of this now, and now you had to sit in a car with him, to where you lived, to where you lived alone.

You hovered by the drinks table, necking prosecco’s and wondering what the hell you were meant to do.

You were sure Clive would never try anything, but you sure as hell didn’t want to put it to chance. How were you meant to escape? How were you meant to convince that prick to leave you alone? You weren’t scary or intimidating.

You got your phone out and blamed it entirely on the alcohol when you pulled up Simon’s number. You stared at it for a long time. Did you really want to do this? Would he even come? Why did you want him to? You hadn’t seen him in nearly two weeks, what if he’d forgotten all about you.

He’d given you this number in case you got stranded again. He wanted you to contact him if you needed help.

The image of Simon’s brown eyes flashed across your mind, that burning look he always gave you. You were sure he’d hurt people, but not you, he’d look after you.

You dialed before you could talk yourself out of it, knowing that he wouldn’t answer.

He answered on the second ring.

“Hello?” That coarse accent. The greeting was barked.

“Simon.” You whispered into the receiver. “It’s me.”

There was a beat of silence, just a beat.

“What’s happened?”

“Can you come and get me please?” You really blamed the alcohol, you knew you’d start crying if he said no.

“Where are you?”

You were surprised, relieved, excited. You rattled off your mum’s address quickly.

“I’m on the way. Are you safe?”

It struck you as an odd question, a prepared question.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine.”

“Don’t move.”

The line went dead but you didn’t put your phone down for a moment. You knew Simon never lingered, but was his haste because of that, or because of how quickly he was grabbing his car keys and heading out? His only hesitancy was to make sure you weren’t in so much danger he had time to reach you. You bit your lip and tried not to cry in front of everyone.

You had no idea where Simon was coming from, nor any idea when he’d get to you, so you composed yourself in the bathroom, grabbed another glass of prosecco – your fifth? – and made conversation with one of your cousins. She’d just had a baby, so you didn’t have to do any of the talking.

The party, getting louder and louder with more alcohol consumed, suddenly hushed to whispers and you turned to look.

The crowd parted like the red sea as Simon walked across the garden purposefully. His gloved fists were clenched, he was wearing khaki cargo trousers, black boots polished to a gleam and a dark top hiked up over his wide forearms, showing off a hint of muscle and ink beneath. He wasn’t wearing a mask, or a cap or a hood, instead he had a balaclava pulled over his face, with a skeletal jaw printed over the front of his mouth. His eyes were the only part of his face that was visible, blackened with war paint, narrowed and furious. He’d never looked more menacing than he did in that moment.

Every member of your family fell silent and shrank back, but you didn’t, the relief you felt was almost palpable.

He stopped in front of you, his eyes raking over you, taking in your dress and your drink, and you imagined he had a few questions about why you’d dragged him here.

“Are you ready to go?” He asked, although his voice left no room for argument.

You nodded immediately, putting your drink down. “Yes, please.”

“Love, who is this?” Your mum asked, giving you a puzzled look, and then giving Simon a horrified one.

Simon didn’t react, he didn’t move, he didn’t stop glaring and he didn’t release his fists.

“A friend, mum.” You said, the prosecco helped the words come easier to your mouth. “He offered to pick me up.”

“Wait, hold on a minute,” Clive moved in front of you, between you and Simon, puffing his chest out. “You’re not going anywhere with this man. He looks dangerous.”

Everyone was staring at you, erupting into whispers, some of them were even pointing. Not exactly the sneaky exit you’d been planning.

Simon’s eyes moved from you to your stepdad, narrowing as they did, like he had a sixth sense for picking up on exactly what the danger was. A sense, or years of experience.

“Sorry to drag her away,” Simon turned to your mother, relaxing his voice a little. “It’s a work thing, I’m afraid, it’s important.”

“Yeah, sorry mum, I’ve got to run.”

Your mum nodded, even though she looked confused and concerned. Clive shook his head, prodding Simon right in the chest.

“Listen here, mate, you can’t come onto my property and accost my daughter. I’ll call…”

Simon looked down slowly, lowering his shoulders to really peer right into Clive’s face, emphasizing the height difference between them.

“Try me, old man.” He growled. “I’ve put better men in the ground for less.”

It wasn’t even his threat that twisted your stomach, it was the growl in his voice. He was speaking a language your pussy understood and responded to with a clench.

Clive’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Your mum looked startled. You gave her a hug.

“It’s fine, mum, I promise. He’s a friend. From work.”

Your mum nodded a little plainly, stroking your back as she hugged you. “Okay, my love, thank you for coming. I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah, I’ll call you. Love you. Happy birthday.”

You gave Clive a blank look as you passed him, heading back into the house. You didn’t hear Simon follow you, but you knew he was, looming over you like a shadow.

When you got into his car, you watched in silence as he got into the driver’s side. He didn’t speak to you, he just peeled away from the house far quicker than you were expecting, throwing you around in the seat. The prosecco sloshed unhappily in your belly.

You peeked at him. He was glaring at the road ahead. He looked so furious that you half-expected him to throw you from the car while it was still moving.

“Thank you for coming.” You said, your voice small.

“What happened?” He barked, as if your remark had broken whatever was stopping him from talking.

You pursed your lips, suddenly embarrassed, and trying to find the words to explain yourself, to ask his forgiveness for dragging him there, for your overreaction and for wasting his time.

“It’s okay.” He assured you, his voice forcibly softer. It broke the tension like a hammer on granite. “You’re safe now.”

Your eyes welled up and he glanced over at you. His brown eyes weren’t angry, they were concerned. It knocked the air out of your lungs.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Here.” He clicked a button somewhere on the steering wheel and his dash screen started playing something quietly.

“I love Sleep Token.” You sniffed.

You heard him chuckle. You wanted to ask him so many questions, but you figured you owed him a few answers first.

“It was my stepdad.” You said quietly, chewing on your lip.

“The shrimp?”

A laugh erupted from you. Hearing that, and seeing how much bigger Simon was compared to him, made him look a lot less scary in your eyes. It relaxed you.

“You don’t have to explain arsehole dads to me.” He grunted, then ironically: “What did he do?”

“He, uh…”

Simon glanced at you again, noticing the way that you were hesitating. “Yeah?” He encouraged gently.

You didn’t know if he was actively choosing to be gentle with you, or if he wanted to be, but regardless, it made you feel safe with him.

You wiped your nose with the back of your hand. “He’s just a creep. He said something gross and…I don’t know, I didn’t feel safe.”

“What did he say?”

Your eyes hit the foot well. “He said my tits look good in this dress.”

Simon’s gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“You shouldn’t have told me where he lives.” He said, his voice dangerously low.

“Why not?” You asked.

“Because I’ll kill him.”

It sent a shiver down your spine, because you knew he meant it. You weren’t even thinking about what an insane thing that was to say, you were thinking about someone going to those lengths to defend your honour. Your cheeks burned.

Simon pulled up on the side of the road outside of your flat – without putting your address in the sat nav, you noticed – and you didn’t know what to say.

It was silent, and awkward, for a few moments, until: “You look lovely.” Simon said, still looking extraordinarily pissed off. “Don’t let an arsehole make you feel bad for that.”

You blushed even harder, looking down at your dress. “Thank you.”

“Go on, get inside. Sleep that drink off.”

“You can come in, if you like.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Just for a bit.” You entreated. “He knows where I live and…” It wasn’t a complete lie. You were worried about Clive driving over in a fit of rage, but mostly you didn’t want to watch Simon drive away from you, not again, not yet.

“Fine, for a little bit.” He acquiesced, his tone suggesting he hated the idea.

You felt a little embarrassed opening the door to your flat, praying it was relatively clean and you didn’t have any errant pairs of underwear lying around. Simon trailed in behind you, standing in the hallway and looking very out of place, not sure what to do with his big body. It made you smile.

“Tea?” You offered.

“Yeah,” he relaxed a bit. “Thanks.”

“Sugar?” You asked, showing him to the kitchen.

“No,” he huffed, like it was funny. “I’m sweet enough.”

…

Simon rolled his balaclava under his nose to drink his tea, giving you your first view of his mouth. He was clean shaven, his lips looked soft, his teeth straight. You could see the beginnings of a scar on his top lip, denting it, pulling it up slightly, but the black fabric hid the rest of it from view.

You were curled up on the other end of the sofa, a pair of pj bottoms on under your sundress.

You focused on your own tea.

“Never seen the balaclava before.” You mused out loud.

There was a beat of silence.

“Wasn’t expecting to see civilians today.” He didn’t say anything else on the topic. Right. Army. Lieutenant. That explained his militant attire. You suddenly realised you might have pulled him from work.

“Oh my god, were you at a base or something? I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s fine. I landed about an hour before you called. I was just doing paperwork before I went home myself.”

“Landed?” You asked, eyebrows raised. “Like a deployment?”

“Yeah, 10-day stretch.” He explained. He didn’t question your knowledge on the military; he remembered what you’d said about your father. “Fucking knackered to tell you the truth.” Your face betrayed that your brain was working overtime, and he chuckled and took pity on you. “I’m in the S.A.S.”

“Oh!” You suddenly understood so many things, and even less at the same time. So, Simon was scary – scary, then. “It might be pointless of me to ask where you’ve been, then.”

“Maybe a little.”

He hadn’t been avoiding you, then, he’d been god knows where doing god knows what. You wondered how many people he’d killed on his mission, how many people had tried to kill him, how many times he’d nearly died. You didn’t like the knot that thought created in your stomach.

“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” You said. “And don’t just say no. It’s the least I can do to thank you for today. You got me out of a tight spot.”

Simon actually looked a little relieved that he didn’t have to drive anymore today. “Thank you.” He said quietly. “Your mum didn’t look too happy to see me.”

You snorted. “You’re a single man with a working penis. I bet she was fucking thrilled.”

Simon’s head snapped to you and you froze.

“Oh, no. I just… before you came, they were saying about…me being single and…forget I said it. You might not be single. You might not have a…”

Simon smirked and you fell silent, not sure what to say.

“I’m single.” He assured you. “And it works just fine.”

You barely managed to stop blushing when you gave Simon blankets and closed your bedroom door. You put on a clean pj top and crawled into bed, but your heart was hammering as you stared up at the ceiling.

Simon was right on the other side of the wall, probably taking off his mask to sleep, maybe even slipping his cargo trousers off.

You rolled over and wrapped the duvet around yourself, trying to clear your mind and sleep.

Both were impossible.

…

You had about a thousand missed calls from your mum and from Clive, but you didn’t answer them, not yet. You were far too happy with your life at the moment, and you really had no idea why. Your relationship with your stepdad was irreparably damaged, at least from where you were standing, and your entire family had seen you walk off with a masked brute, after vehemently denying having a boyfriend. And the masked brute in question was a semi-acquaintance from your place of work who seemed to feel so sorry for you that he’d started basically babysitting you.

You didn’t care about any of that. Simon had come and saved you, perhaps in a very loose sense of the word, but he still had. He’d spent ten days abroad doing classified and almost certainly highly dangerous work and instead of going home and resting, he’d come to your aid with no questions asked. Well, one question. Are you safe?

Simon had left before you’d woken up the next morning, leaving your blankets and pillows folded up on the sofa far neater than you’d ever managed. Those military corners. You didn’t mind that he'd left. He’d just gotten back from deployment. The idea that you’d given him a place to rest, just for a few hours, made you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

The truth was that you liked him, more than you should have done. He might have been closed off and mysterious, but he made you feel warm and safe whenever you were around him, like no one could hurt you, like no one would ever hurt you again.

You found yourself daydreaming about him wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you tight, how warm and safe he’d feel, how you’d burrow in him and never come out again.

The excitement in your gut was nearly overwhelming when you clocked in. You put all your stuff away and stared at the entrance doors. You could have vibrated to the moon with how anxious and excited you were to see him again.

Nicole lent on the desk with her elbows and smirked at you. “Your boyfriend is here.”

“He isn’t my…” You lowered your voice, trying not to gather the attention of anyone around you. You imagined Simon hearing her say that, and the look he would give you. He wouldn’t be embarrassed or pleased, he’d probably be pissed off, or at best, crack some sort of dry joke about it. The cold, closed off soldier was a flirt, even if he did try to hide it. “Is he?”

“Yeah, he’s in with his mum. He brought someone along, this time.”

“Really?” You wondered who someone like Simon would bring to visit his ailing mother. Your brain immediately went to a wife, but then you remembered him saying that he was single the other night. You chewed your lip. Ex-wife, perhaps? Your stomach churned with jealousy.

In any case, you didn’t bother him in his visiting time. Instead you focused on getting your own work done: signing people in, filing paperwork, getting various requisitions signed and sent off, all that thrilling stuff, while keeping half an eye on the clock for the end of visiting time, which was dragging ever nearer.

You wondered exactly what you’d say to him when you saw him. Would you talk about the other night? Would he want to acknowledge that he’d spent the night on your couch, would he want to know what happened with your family?

You turned a corner in the corridor, heading to the kitchen for some much needed coffee, but stopped immediately by the corner when you saw Simon’s back, broad and covered with his hoodie, his hood pulled up, and talking gruffly to a man lent against the opposite wall. This must have been the friend he’d brought along. He looked older than Simon did, with dark, slightly shaggy hair, stubble on his jaw, dressed in jeans and a jacket and slumping against the wall. The two of them had similar features and similar builds, and yet looked like two entirely contrasting individuals.

“It’s a good place.” Simon was saying defensively, keeping his voice intentionally low. “The people are nice. She likes it here.”

“You put our mother in a fucking home, you wanker.”

You saw Simon’s gloved fists clench.

“What choice did I have? I could get called out at any minute and be gone for days. I might not come back.”

“She could have lived with me, arsehole.”

“No, she couldn’t.” Simon growled.

“Why not?” His brother’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

“You’re a drunk, sorry, piece of shit.” Simon stalked forward, towering over his brother. You could only see the back of his hoodie, but you could imagine how terrifying his usually so lovely brown eyes must have looked. “You’d be in prison if your ex-wife wasn’t too fucking scared to talk to the police.”

“I can visit my own mum whenever I like.”

“Once a month, under my supervision, that’s the deal, and that’s only because I don’t want her to know anything. She’s been through enough without knowing you’re just like him.”

Simon’s brother looked away from him, and saw you stood there, half hidden around the corner.

“Hi.” He called out. “Sorry, love, didn’t see you there. Ignore us.”

Simon’s back straightened and he turned. The minute he saw you, his eyes hardened to flint. You were half-expecting to see the skull balaclava again, but the surgical mask was back. The narrowed, furious glare he was giving you made you feel like the other day at the party and on your couch hadn’t even happened.

“Sorry,” you fiddled with your jumper sleeve. You’d heard a lot of things that you weren’t supposed to have heard, and Simon knew you’d heard them. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I was just heading to, uh…”

The shaggy haired man stepped aside, clearing a path for you in the corridor.

“Tommy Riley.” He introduced himself, holding out his hand. “This scary arsehole is my brother, Simon.”

You walked forward uneasily, you could feel Simon’s eyes still boring into you, and shook Tommy’s hand. Simon glared at the contact, like it was offensive for him to see it. His fists were tightly clenched.

“We already know each other.” He barked possessively.

“Oh, you do?” Tommy raised his eyebrows and then he grinned. It was toothy and cruel; it reminded you of Clive. “You sure mum is the only reason you’re hanging around here so much?”

The situation was so uncomfortable you didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh nervously or run away. Tommy was looking at you like you were a piece of meat, what did Simon just say about his ex-wife? Simon was giving you goosebumps, and not in a good way. You felt like he was going to lash out and knock his brother out any second. He hadn’t seemed so angry up until not, not until you’d showed up.

“I didn’t mean…” You tried.

“You should go.” Simon wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at Tommy, as if daring him to move or speak, but he was talking to you. His order was barked, like a lieutenant to his soldiers.

“Yeah, of course.” You squeaked. Your wavering eyes looked at him, waiting for him to tell you he’d come and find you later, or even just give you a nod goodbye as he was custom to do, but he didn’t look at you, he didn’t say anything, and you just turned around and left.

You didn’t go to the kitchen, because that would mean you would have had to walk back down this corridor again and coffee was now the last thing on your mind. You went back to the desk, sat down in your seat and stared blankly at your paperwork, trying to process everything you’d just heard.

It was hard to think of anything except the way that Simon had dismissed you, like you’d never exchanged more than two words with each other.

He wasn’t meant to hurt you.

You weren’t very productive for the rest of your shift, but you did do as much as you possibly could do in the back office, so you didn’t have to see Tommy again when he eventually left, and so you didn’t have to see Simon dismiss you again like you didn’t even exist.

…

Your mum looked like she’d been crying.

You looked at her worriedly as she wrapped her hands around her coffee and took a sip. The coffee shop you were in was relatively quiet, but you wished for some privacy. You didn’t think you could go to her house at the moment though, not after the garden party on her birthday. You still hadn’t spoken to either of them about it, and honestly, you didn’t plan to, either.

“What’s happened?” You asked softly.

“Clive moved out.” She sniffed. “We had a row after the party. He got drunk after you left and kept hitting on your aunts and your cousins, he made a lot of people very uncomfortable.”

“Oh.” You felt guilty for not saying anything at the time. Maybe if you had, you might have saved your young cousins some pain, but then you could never know if you’d have even been believed or not. “I’m sorry, mum.”

“It’s okay.” She gave you an unconvincing smile. “I told him to. I said I needed some time to think. Things haven’t been great between us for a while.”

“You never told me.” You frowned.

She shrugged and you didn’t press her. You knew she felt weird about dating other men when your dad never came back from Afghanistan, like you’d be upset with her for moving on, or something. You weren’t at all, you just wished she hadn’t picked such a creep to move on with.

“I support you,” you reached over and took her hand. “You’re strong, and beautiful, and you can do so much better.”

“Thank you,” she sniffed again, but she smiled this time.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated, lost in your own thoughts for a moment. “I’ve been so caught up with myself lately, I…I’ll make more time for you.”

“You don’t have to do that, love. I know you’re busy.”

“I want to. All I do all day is see people cherish the time they’ve got with their family. Why don’t we go out for dinner on Saturday night, just us? Might be a bit too early to go on the pull but it might cheer you up.”

Your mum chuckled and then her eyes lit up like you’d just reminded her of something.

“So, who was that man?”

“Oh, god.” You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

“He was the biggest man I’ve ever seen! Clive was going on and on about what a weirdo he was and I was like, you’ve clearly never seen a soldier before…”

You put your hands down and saw your mum babbling on. “He’s from work.” You finally explained. “Seriously. His mum is one of the residents. He’s been visiting her.”

“Ah.”

You didn’t want to talk about this, but it was distracting your mum from her pain so you bit your tongue.

“Are you seeing each other?”

You remembered the day in the corridor. Simon’s argument with his brother, the way he’d gotten so angry when he’d seen you standing there, the way he’d told you to go away, and how you hadn’t seen him since. Your stomach tightened painfully.

“No. It’s not like that.”

“He was so hot.” Your mum whispered across the table to you. “Did you see his biceps?” She mimicked the size of them with her hands, and you went bright red, hiding in your hands again.

“Mum!” You groaned.

…

You left the care home at the end of your shift. The sun was low in the sky, it was dusk, the air was chilly and autumnal.

He was just standing there, beside the cluster of trees next to the car park, looking like a statue and watching you.

You walked over to him, unsure what to expect, cuddling yourself from the cold as you stopped in front of him. You half-expected him to tell you to get in his car, but he didn’t, he didn’t say anything. His arms were crossed, his hood was up, and he was watching you with critical eyes. He was wearing his skull-print balaclava today, which you knew meant that he hadn’t planned on coming.

“Hi.” You said lamely.

“I shouldn’t have come.” Simon responded immediately, confirming your thoughts.

“Why did you?” You asked.

“I wanted to see you.”

You didn’t know what to say, not after the day in the corridor, which he didn’t look like he was planning on talking about.

“Why?” You asked again, a little guardedly.

His eyes wavered, like he was doubting his decision.

“I leave tonight.” He said instead, sounding robotic. “Could be weeks.”

You could only imagine what deployment in the S.A.S entailed, which meant you knew what he was really saying. I might never come back. I might never see you again.

“Oh.” You felt your eyes collecting moisture. You didn’t know why. Maybe something about your dad, maybe because you liked Simon more than you should. Maybe because, even if he didn’t feel anything for you, which he most probably didn’t, you still didn’t want him to go.

“Don’t miss me.” His eyes hardened in their usual defiant, cold stare. “We can’t be anything.”

“I know that.” Still, your chest tightened. Still, you had to wipe your eyes to stop them from betraying you.

A gentle patter hit the concrete under you both, drizzle soaking your clothes to your body. The rain became a wall between you.

“I have to go.” He said, his coarse voice carrying over to you.

“Okay.” You said stupidly. The rain dripping down your face probably disguised your tears.

Simon stepped forward, closing the space between you and reaching up, swiping a gloved finger across your cheek.

“None of that.” He said softly.

You were too close to each other. Your hands found his chest and just rested there, pressing your face against his sternum.

You felt fingers under your chin, and then you were looking up at his slackened brown eyes. You kissed eachother through the fabric of his mask. It was coarse, and wet, and your hand left his chest and pushed under the black fabric until you felt his carotid artery pulsing under your fingertips.

Simon growled quietly and yanked the mask the rest of the way up, resting the bunched up black fabric on the bridge of his nose, just as he’d done the other night sitting on your couch.

Your hand touched his jaw, and the skin-on-skin contact felt electric. His brows furrowed in need and he pushed his head against your hand, like a big cat, and then his lips were on yours.

Simon made a noise low in his throat while you whimpered, his hands gripped your hips and pulled you against his front as his lips moved against yours insistently. It was raining harder now, but neither of you seemed to care.

He pulled back far too soon, his mouth parted slightly, his wavering eyes watching you.

You trembled against him, your head fogged, your body sluggish and unresponsive.

“I don’t…” You murmured pathetically. You couldn’t even finish your sentence. I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to leave me. “I can’t…”

Simon looked worried, and careful, but not regretful. Neither were you, even though you were still crying, and even if it would make everything hurt that much worse in the end.

He pulled you closer to him, until you could feel the fabric of his mask and the softness of his skin again.

“Close your eyes.” He breathed against your cheek.

Your eyes slid shut. You felt his hands move from your hips. You felt the cool air against your front when he moved back.

When you opened your eyes again, he was gone.

[httpxyeager]

—Simon 'Ghost' Riley

synopsis: You move to the countryside looking for peace, space, and a life that finally feels like your own. Instead, you find routine, watchful silence, and a neighbor who's always there before you ask.

Wc: 15.8k

CW: fem!reader, artist!reader, butcher!simon, lowkey stalker!simon if you rily squint, kinda mean!simon ( he calls you stupid but in a sexy way), slight slow burn, mention of blood, praise, rough sex, fem! masturbation, mention of breeding, unprotected sex, choking, throat-fucking, spit play, spanking, cunnilingus, analingus, brief mention phlegm, brief aftercare.

a/n: this is a reupload bc the og got labeled and i refuse to be silenced so if you read this already no you didn’t🫵🏼. Jk ily<3

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

── .✦ The devil's in the details

A life that felt like your own.

It's all you've wanted for as long as you can remember.

Growing up meant learning the rules of the real world far too early—waking up every morning just to drag yourself to a grueling job, putting up with nagging customers and insufferable bosses who never seemed to respect boundaries.

Work. Pay the bills. Tend to responsibilities.

It disturbed your soul in a way you couldn't explain to anyone else—this idea that life was just endurance, not living.

Yet you always looked ahead. You never confined yourself to the standard everyone else seemed content with—and that refusal was why you were never taken as seriously as you wanted to be.

You learned early that dreaming meant working harder than everyone else.

I wanna make things with my hands!!

You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.

What a cutie.

Wait till she grows up.

As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.

As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything else—into baking, painting, shaping.

Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.

Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make them—to exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.

It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved people—you loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.

And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.

You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.

Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behind—a small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.

Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.

But you didn't hesitate.

You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.

Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch the—paint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.

The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.

And yet, all you can see is possibility.

For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.

"Excuse me?"

You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.

He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."

"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."

Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.

"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"

A sound cuts him off.

An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.

Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.

For a split second, you don't register what you're seeing—only that something too big has stepped into the light.

Then your stomach drops.

The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.

He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.

To top it off, he had a skull—patterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.

The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.

Your shoulders tense on instinct.

It was straight out of a horror movie.

"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"

"Oh—yeah." The man beside you clears his throat.

"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."

Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.

A woman alone in the woods.

Right.

You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.

His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.

Halfway there, he slows and glances over.

Just a look - brief, assessing—the kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.

Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.

Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.

"Don't mind him. He's a private bloke—won't be any bother."

You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back in—though the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.

His view of you was completely different.

All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.

Too small for this place.

You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attention—yet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.

He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.

Could see you almost too clearly.

The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.

And now occupied.

His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You wake up before the sun does.

The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.

The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.

But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.

You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.

You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggings—easy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.

Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.

You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.

Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.

"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"

You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.

"Four."

You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.

You're stalling. You know you are.

Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.

A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.

You freeze.

Right behind you—way too close—is a dog. If you could actually call it that.

He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.

He's massive—thick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.

And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.

Your heart jumps straight into your throat.

You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.

"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."

"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."

The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.

You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.

The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.

"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.

"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.

The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.

It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.

The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.

"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.

Bunny?

"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.

He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."

"Sorry about him," he adds.

"He likes to wander."

"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.

"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."

His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."

"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."

"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.

"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.

You blink. "Yeah. I was just—"

"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.

"I'll take you."

You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have to—"

"Already going," he replies simply.

You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at once—raw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.

Large freezers are secured in the back.

The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.

cute, you think.

"Simon,"' he introduces himself.

“Y/n."

The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.

You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.

Private bloke

Not private enough clearly.

Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.

Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like this—clean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.

"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.

"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Just— thinking."

"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"

Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.

"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,

He hums in understanding.

The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.

"This good?" he asks.

You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.

"I'll be back," he states.

You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.

You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The day goes by quicker than you expect.

One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlessly— sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.

"Lovely," some say as they walk past.

It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.

At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.

By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.

The mural sits before you—unfinished, but already alive.

You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.

Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.

"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.

"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."

"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."

You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.

As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.

"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.

You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"

She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.

You follow her gaze.

A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himself—somehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.

"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.

That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.

"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.

"What about him?"

"Oh—nothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.

We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."

"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.

She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.

"Not much to him, really," she says finally.

"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."

"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.

"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.

Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.

"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."

You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.

Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."

Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."

You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"

She clicks her tongue.

"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."

"And people?"

She doesn't answer right away.

"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.

"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."

You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.

"Oh," you say softly.

Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.

"Just... take care, love."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.

"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"

You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."

"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.

"More curious than anything."

She hums, unconvinced but listening.

"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."

"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.

"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."

Her eyes soften at that, just a little.

"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.

You pause, then shrug.

"Not really. New place. New sounds."

You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."

She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."

"Mom—"

"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."

"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeah—but not in a scary way."

There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."

Her gaze sharpens immediately.

"About?"

"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."

"That doesn't make you uneasy?"

You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.

She doesn't look convinced.

"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back

"A ride?" she repeats.

You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.

"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, truly”

She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."

"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."

She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.

"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."

You nod.

"I will."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You're not sure when it became a routine.

At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.

Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.

You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.

"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.

You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.

You did it again the next morning.

And the one after that.

Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.

Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.

"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.

You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.

By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.

Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.

And maybe it did—except some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.

No freezers. No crates. Nothing.

You noticed it once.

Twice.

Then you stopped looking.

It was true what everyone said about him—he was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.

He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.

On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.

But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.

It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.

Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"

You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare you—it made the softness feel deliberate.

It was.... pleasant.

Comforting even.

Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.

"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.

"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.

They nod toward the window.

Outside, the red truck waits.

"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.

the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.

"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.

"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.

"Don't know what you mean," he hums.

You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."

He glances over for half a second. "Different?"

"Mmhm." You nod.

He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.

"Have you eaten?"

You click your tongue.

"No."

The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.

This wasn't part of the routine.

You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.

"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"

You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.

You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.

It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.

He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.

And you do.

When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.

You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.

Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.

"Stay," he says—low and firm by the door.

"Simon—he doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.

Shadow listens anyway.

Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.

Not just heat—the kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.

Yours doesn't try to hide you.

There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.

It smells like you.

Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.

His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.

The kitchen's small. He isn't.

He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.

You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.

This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.

The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.

You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.

"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.

"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"

"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.

He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.

You lean back against the counter, watching.

The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.

It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.

You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.

"That smells amazing," you beam.

He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.

He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.

You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.

He stares at you—openly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.

"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.

You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."

It slips out softer than you mean it.

For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.

"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.

"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.

"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."

You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.

Between the shop and... everything else."

"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."

That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,

"Don't like going into town much."

You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."

You meant it as a joke-only half truth.

He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.

The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.

Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about it—grass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.

The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.

You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.

You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.

Every area except one.

You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.

The closer you got, the clearer it became.

Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.

The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.

You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.

For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.

Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.

You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.

"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.

All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.

"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."

Today, though?

Today, you wanted that angle.

Simon be damned.

You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.

You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.

You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.

You looked like a lost bunny.

The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.

He paused what he was doing and just stared.

You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.

Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.

Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.

Then you showed up.

He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmth—your laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.

And yet.

You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.

He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.

By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.

Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.

You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.

He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.

"Can I help you."

You startled—not badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.

You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.

Your pulse jumped—he could see it—but you held his gaze anyway.

"Just….. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."

He exhaled through his nose.

"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."

He meant it.

Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.

"I didn't walk in, though, did I."

Silence settled between you —thick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.

He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.

He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.

He stayed like that—half-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.

The contrast caught you off guard.

He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.

Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.

Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.

This—this—was the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yes—but framed by something gentle. Something alive.

The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.

"Now?"

"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.

Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.

"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.

"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.

"Fine,” he said. "I'll do it."

You stopped short and turned back to him.

"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"

He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.

You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.

The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift out—wood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.

He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.

You looked at him properly then.

The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.

You noticed things you hadn't before.

The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.

He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.

You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.

Brutal. Masculine.

Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.

"You alright, bunny?" he asked.

You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.

"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.

"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.

As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.

You were about to apologize when he spoke.

"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."

You blinked-then laughed again.

"Can I?" you asked again.

This time, he stayed still.

You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.

The contrast—him and the delicate bloom resting there—felt almost cinematic.

"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.

"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.

"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.

He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.

"Because you look like one."

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head—but you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.

You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.

Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.

"You got a boyfriend?"

Your hand stilled mid-line.

"Why the sudden question?"

"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."

You laughed at that.

"No," you said. "I don't."

He hummed in acknowledgement.

Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.

"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"

"Mmm. Couple years."

You click your tongue.

"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."

He shrugged.

"You can allow whatever you want."

You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The sounds around you settle into something easy— the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.

He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.

"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"

You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.

"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."

"People included?"

"Especially people," you admit.

He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like this—not in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.

"You any good?" he asks.

You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."

"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."

You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.

You go back to drawing.

Time slips by without either of you noticing.

The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.

Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.

"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.

"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."

You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.

"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.

The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.

You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.

"I think that's enough," you say softly.

Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.

You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.

"Here."

He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.

That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.

Then, quietly, "You see a lot."

"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.

He nods once.

"Thank you," he says.

The words hang steady.

"Of course!" You smile softly.

The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."

"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.

"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.

"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.

Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.

His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.

A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.

The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.

You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small things—a loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.

Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.

Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.

A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.

He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coats—or leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.

"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.

You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.

"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"

you reply plainly—ignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.

He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's close—close enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.

His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.

"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.

You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.

"I can handle a little cold," you tease.

You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.

Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.

It's one of those nights.

The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.

You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.

But moments like this don't let you.

They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.

It makes your cunt ache.

Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.

You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.

You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.

The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.

Fuck.

Your left hand drifts down without thinking—first over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.

Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.

You picture his hands on you—large, rough—teasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.

You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.

You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.

His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.

Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.

Your thighs squeeze together.

You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.

Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.

A moan slips free.

"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.

Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?

Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.

The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.

"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourself—naked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.

"Si-"

Boom.

The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.

You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.

"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.

Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.

"Y/N!"

The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.

You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.

You don't stop to think—just move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.

The power's out.

When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.

"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"

“I—yeah” you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power just…went out."

"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."

"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"

"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.

This place isn't insulated well enough for it."

You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentials—your charger, a hoodie, shoes—moving through your space with unsettling familiarity.

"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."

"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."

You don't argue after that.

The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.

Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.

When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.

You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.

He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.

The warmth hits you immediately.

The house smells like him—burnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.

And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.

It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing there—framed, dusted, given a place—feels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.

"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."

"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."

The words hit harder than they should.

Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."

"I would never," he says, without hesitation.

Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.

"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.

You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.

Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.

"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"

He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"

"Keep it around for storms." He adds

You blink. "Of course you do."

He almost smiles.

The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.

"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."

He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."

You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."

"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.

You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this before—like this is normal.

"You're quiet," he says after a while.

"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"

He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.

"No," he says. "Just noticing."

You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.

"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.

And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.

"Tea's good for you,"

The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.

The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.

"You're shaking," he says softly.

"I'm not," you lie automatically.

He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.

"Come here," he murmurs.

It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.

You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.

This is new for the both of you.

Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.

His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.

You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "I— I need a second."

He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.

You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.

The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.

You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.

"You don't have to run," he says gently.

You glance over your shoulder—and that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.

You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.

The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.

He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.

Your hand comes up on instinct—flat against his chest.

He stops immediately.

"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.

His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.

"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."

A beat passes.

Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.

"It's not," he says.

His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.

You don't.

The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.

His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.

You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.

"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you again—rougher now.

Hungrier.

As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomach—until it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.

"Fuck, bunny—you're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.

He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.

You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.

"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.

"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.

"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.

His expression doesn't change.

"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.

"Oh my….. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.

Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.

"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."

Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.

You can't imagine what you must look like right now.

You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourself—messy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.

The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.

"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.

His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.

Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.

He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skin—soft words, grounding words—until your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.

"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.

Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.

"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.

"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."

His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.

No pictures. Exactly what you expected.

He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.

"Like what you see?" he teases.

"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.

His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.

The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.

Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on you—his warmth. You need it.

"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."

Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.

His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.

Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.

You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.

"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.

He inhales deeply.

You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.

His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.

"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.

"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.

"Need you."

Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.

"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."

You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.

True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bites—taking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.

Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.

"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.

"Please."

He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.

You instinctively try to close your legs, face burning— but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.

"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.

"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.

He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.

His tongue slips out, presses flat against you—covering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.

The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.

You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth—warm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.

He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.

He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rush—just works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.

Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.

You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.

He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.

One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.

"Oh my god, Simon—"

They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.

Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.

"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."

It hits you in waves—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.

The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.

He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.

"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.

"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.

Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.

It's huge.

So thick it barely holds itself upright.

Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-

Would this even fit inside you?

But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.

Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your still—sensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.

The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.

You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.

"You think you can take it, bunny?"

Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.

"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.

Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.

He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precum—then taps it there. Hard.

"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.

"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."

For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.

"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediately—too full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.

No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.

"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.

His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.

Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.

"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.

Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.

He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and out—whines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.

Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.

"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."

You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.

He looks nothing like you feel.

He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.

Then warmth—unexpected.

You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.

"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.

You almost wish you hadn't.

It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywher—high, deep, overwhelming.

He hasn't looked away once.

"Almost in, baby," he tells you.

Then he stops. All the way in.

You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this full—like there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.

Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.

Letting the shock fade.

"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.

You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.

When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.

Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.

He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.

You're growing desperate. All the pent—up tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.

You want him. So bad.

"You can be rougher-ah,"

"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."

His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.

"I do!" you say breathless.

You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.

And you don't want him to.

"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.

His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward again—harder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.

"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.

Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.

Something flips inside him.

He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.

All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.

Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.

You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.

"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."

The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.

With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.

"Simiiimon-ah—ah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.

"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' good一fuck.”

He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.

You don't hear him.

You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.

The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.

"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.

"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."

You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.

He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.

"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"

"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasure—coming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.

"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissed—out face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.

Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.

"You're-ah-being—mean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.

The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.

Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.

"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.

It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.

You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.

As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.

"Ah—" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.

"Bend over."

His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.

"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."

"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.

His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.

And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.

Music to his ears.

Fuel to his aching cock.

He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.

"Sii-"

His thrusts are messy—messier than before.

Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.

Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymore—can't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.

You're right there—so close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.

"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.

"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.

The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.

You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! — please.

He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.

He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.

From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.

"Please—want your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.

“Yeah, baby,” he mocks, voice pitched higher. “You want this fat cock in your tummy?”

His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.

"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.

It made Simons cock impossibly harder.

He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.

"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.

He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.

Then everything disappears.

Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock again—no warning, no buildup.

You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.

This last one knocks you out completely.

You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.

"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."

He doesn't give you time to recover.

He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.

"Make me cum, bunny."

"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.

"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."

His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.

And then his earlier words echo in your head.

M'gonna breed you.

You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.

You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's making—ragged moans as he loses control.

"Want it inside," you beg.

Simon's eye twitches.

His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.

His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.

It's sudden. Too sudden.

You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.

Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.

His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.

Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.

"Yeeeeah gimmie that—gurg, gurg—baby."

He grips the base—what you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.

You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.

You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.

Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.

"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.

"Fuuuck, bunny."

Before you can say anything, you feel it—sticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.

He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.

You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.

"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.

You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.

The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.

"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstand—a cloth, a shirt, whatever's closest—and gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.

Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.

"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.

You hum in response, too spent to form real words.

He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.

You melt into him easily.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"

His arm tightens just a little.

"Good."

You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.

He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.

"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.

You tilt your head, listening.

"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

© all content belongs to httpxyeager 2026. do not modify or repost.

character belongs to its respective owner.

[mirrormauve]

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simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 12.8k (oops)

Just because you were bonded, Ghost was all too aware, didn't mean you would stay together.

this is part 2 to faultlines in which Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.

cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, abandonment issues, loneliness, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, description of torture, canon typical violence, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection and communication, making out, two people being so weird and intense about each other

Simon was not familiar with comfort.

It was unsettling, to be sat among cushions and piles of blankets, soft white light from the lamp he’d flicked on for you hours ago. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise, a spill of dusky, deep purple lightening the horizon, like someone had overturned a paint can.  

His hands were curled into fists; his mask lay abandoned on the arm of your sofa. There was a basket of knitting to his left, a sweater sleeve unfurled over the side. Books lined several shelves, plants were gathered in the same terracotta pots as the ones in your office, in a neat fist beneath the window that overlooked the street. 

It looked and felt like a home. 

Simon couldn’t remember the last time he felt truly at home somewhere. He stayed on base when he could; his flat was little more than a bed and a kettle. 

He was watching the front door and listening to the domestic sounds of you puttering around the kitchen one room over. 

“Please,” you had said when he started to stand to follow you, fingers careful against his jaw, cradling his face as though he were something that deserved to be cradled. “You’re exhausted. Just stay here.” 

So he did. So he was. 

Patiently waiting for you to return, replaying the last few hours. Unwilling to admit it was with anxiety. 

Your presence was a tug behind his navel, an urging to relocate closer to you, a glowing point of light he needed to seek out, swallow. 

Simon wished things had gone differently. His own fucking fault for leaving things as they were, for thinking he could remain close to you, deal with the ancient pain in his chest because it was just another ache to add to the collection, with you never the wiser. 

It wasn’t fair to you. 

He had never particularly cared about fair before.

He wondered what it felt like to you. 

He couldn’t imagine you felt warmth. 

Ghost was a lot of things. Warm was not one of them. 

But he had spent the last several hours with you in his arms, your lips against his, tracing scar for scar, memorizing each of the marks you had given him somewhere in the chaos of his own.

Simon might not remember where every scar on his body originated, but he was going to know all of yours. He wanted to know where you laid on his skin, every mark he’d ever overlooked. He would have a perfect catalogue of knowledge. 

It was odd to be touched, and not exactly comfortable, not after so many years of covering his skin, insulating himself from any touch. 

Touch meant harm. 

It was a fact he’d learned very young, a lesson learned again and again, only compounded by life in the military where even friendly touch was tinged with roughness out of necessity. 

Your hands on his skin felt like being peeled apart, unzipped, insides poked at. He didn’t mind. 

Nothing could have made him pull away from you. 

Your fingers had traced the back of his neck, the soft, vulnerable space behind his ear. The touch was tentative. If he shifted even a little, you had retracted your hand. 

A floorboard creaked, he glanced up as you appeared in the doorway. 

“Simon?” 

You held out a hand. 

He stood and took it before his brain could catch up, all instinct. 

He had meant it, when he said you deserved better. But it was a commitment, a promise, too, when he said he was all you got. 

.

.

.

Captain John Price was standing in your office. 

You halted in the doorway with a cup of coffee, hot ceramic searing into your fingers. “Captain Price,” you said. “Good morning, sir.” 

“G’morning,” he answered with a nod. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” You asked, crossing the room to deposit your cup at the edge of your desk. “Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?” 

He shook his head, “Thank you. Take a seat.” 

It felt wrong to sit behind your desk, so you dropped into Simon’s usual seat, tugging the black and blue blanket you’d knitted for him months ago into your lap. Price took the opposite chair. It had so often gone unused, aside from the odd analyst debriefing a too long meeting, until Kyle and Johnny began frequenting your office too. 

Price didn’t say anything for a moment, brows lowered, mouth a considering line. You fidgeted beneath his piercing stare. 

“Ghost told you,” you guessed after a few beats of painful, weighted silence. 

He nodded after another long moment. “We knew,” he admitted, eyes finally flicking away as he adjusted in the chair. 

“I guessed as much.”

“But,” he continued, sitting forward. “Now you know.”

You felt, suddenly, as though you were about to receive a lecture or a reprimand. You swallowed thickly, and nodded, chewing your lower lip. “It’s not ideal,” you acknowledged. “I know how bad it is.” 

He was quiet again, watching you. You shifted, uncomfortable under his scrutiny, not sure what you were being evaluated for or how to pass muster. “He had to tell you,” Price said eventually, not unkindly, “It was only a matter of time.” 

The words had to landed perhaps harder than Price meant them to. It had only been a few days since you saw Simon’s face, since you bonded, and you still felt wrong about how it had happened. You weren’t sure if you ever wouldn’t feel wrong about how it happened. You shouldn’t have kissed him; you should have been able to let him go. 

The knowledge hung like an invisible weight around your neck, that you were not something Simon wanted, but an unwelcome inevitability. 

The memory of his touch, his extended presence in your apartment that weekend, made you feel a little ill on reflection. You should not have touched him, shouldn’t have kissed him, probably should not have seen his face at all. It all felt like a choice he wasn’t allowed to make. 

You weren’t quite sure where you and Simon stood now. Inextricably linked but to what end? What were you to him but something to manage?

I didn’t want to tell you. I never wanted you to know. 

Your belly clenched at the memory of the words, the heavy weight of the admission in his mouth. 

Maybe that was all soulmates ever were, an inescapable obligation and nothing more. Maybe the whole thing had been romanticized to the point of becoming something amorphous and unrecognizable. 

But when you thought of what he was to you—

Mine, you thought immediately and unhelpfully, possessively.

It stung like salt in a wound.  

He was anything but. 

The warm glow of the newly stitched bond in your chest was accompanied by a different ache, a more mundane one. A bleak cloud of heartache.  

The cruelty of it, the unfairness, smarted. You’d always assumed that discovery would mean an end to the lonely isolation you’d felt your whole life, not an evolution of it. There was still nowhere for you to go, no safe place for you to settle, no person that wanted and accepted you. 

You thought of the torment of the untethered bond. It had been excruciatingly painful, and you had only bore it for a few hours. And Simon had hidden it from you for months. His dedication to keeping you out, at a distance, spoke louder than any words could. 

It was akin to sitting next to a muzzled dog. He was chained to you. On a leash he could never escape. 

But you’d gladly keep your loneliness, if it meant he wasn’t in pain. You just wished you didn’t have to; you wished you belonged. 

Maybe he’d left the bond too long and it had corroded, shorn down into a jagged point. It could never cause anything but agony between you. 

You pinched your palm. “Yeah,” you agreed. “He had to.”

Price cleared his throat, sighed. “It’s not just Simon,” he said, “that has to worry about you now. You’re a vulnerability to all of us, to my team.” 

“I know,” you said again, because it had already occurred to you. That you now knew exceedingly dangerous information, how easy it would be for someone to make the leap of logic that you were important. 

“Better, for now, that it stays between us.” His eyes met yours, intense, serious and steady. 

Though you knew he was right, though you’d already had a similar conversation with Simon, it still hurt somehow, still felt like what you imagined having a knife stuck through your ribs must feel like. 

The discovery of a soulmate was supposed to be something that was celebrated. Announced to family and friends, parties thrown, congratulations given. 

It was also, by nature of the rarity, something to fixate on. It had led to pairs being featured in the news, followed by throngs of people convinced that their proximity to a bonded pair alone would aid their chances of finding their own. 

You did not want that, but it would be nice to tell your cross hall neighbor that had become a friend, or your sister. It would be nice to be able to tell anyone. The pride you should feel was replaced instead with something closer to shame. 

You would only ever be a liability. Something to manage, something to hide. Not just for Simon, but for his team as well. 

You were holding something so rare, something most people searched for their whole lives, and instead of letting it lie in the palm of your hand like the extraordinary sun soaked pearl it was, you had to close your fingers around it, relegate it to the dark cave of your fist. 

“I understand, sir. I haven’t told anyone. I won’t tell anyone.” 

Price relaxed a little then, leaning back in his chair. “Good.”

You fiddled with the blanket in your lap, calmer for the scent that lingered in the fibers and sloughed off it in waves from all the time it spent behind Simon’s shoulders, tea and tobacco, the faintest hint of summer grass lingering between. All those times you’d laid on it in the sun, inhaling his scent blooming in the air around you, soothed, flashed through your mind. 

Those summer months seemed a lifetime ago. A different you. A different Ghost. 

You glanced out the window. 

The world beyond the glass was gray with autumn drizzle; the bright red and orange fan of changing leaves raked at low hanging clouds. The air was chilly, and already threatening a cutting, winter iciness. With luck, you wouldn’t be stationed in England for much longer, and then none of you would have to worry about your inconvenient bond. 

“If the lads haven’t said yet,” Price began as he stood, one broad hand landing on your shoulder heavily, “Congratulations. Glad Simon finally pulled his head out of his arse. I was beginning to worry.” 

You glanced up in surprise, lips parted. The small smile on Price’s face faded. “Simon. . .” he started, then stopped. He contemplated his next words carefully before he continued. “Simon is more sensitive than he appears. You’ll take care of him.” 

The notion of Simon needing anyone for anything, should have been a laughable one, but coming from Price, it felt like the world tilting onto your shoulders. The 141 were a strange little family in their own right, one you were now an unfortunate interloper of. 

They looked out for each other, now you were being tasked with the same. 

Price wasn’t asking a question. 

You answered anyway. 

“Of course I will.” 

He squeezed your shoulder once and let his hand fall away. 

Ten minutes later, your coffee cold and abandoned at the corner of your desk, you were still sitting in Simon’s chair, picking at the blanket and anxiously worrying at your bottom lip.  

It had just started to bleed, the tang of copper dripping onto your tongue, when Johnny and Kyle appeared at your door, Simon looming large and imposing behind them with Price in tow. 

You stood, wondering if you’d been that lost in your thoughts that you hadn’t noticed the hall outside lurching into motion around an op, when you noticed the cake box in Johnny’s hands. 

You frowned, glancing from the sergeants’ open faces to the box in Soap’s hands.

“What’s going on?” 

“Think we wouldn’t congratulate the pair of ye, lass?” Johnny said. 

He slid the box onto your desk and opened his arms which you found yourself readily stepping into. 

Your throat closed, a heavy knot choking you suddenly. You didn’t look at Ghost over Johnny’s shoulder, couldn’t. “Oh, well—that’s not—you didn’t have to—” 

“It’s not nearly enough,” Kyle interrupted, “But it’s the best we can do. Considering.” 

You had to blink back tears as Soap released you and guided you forward to flip open the lid. The cake was lavender, like your headphones and blanket. Words were scrawled with dark icing, along with misshapen blobs you supposed were meant to be flowers. The words were an illegible heap but it didn’t matter what it said; it mattered they’d gotten it, even if it was bittersweet. 

Perhaps you were being afforded a little celebration after all. 

“Had to do the writin’ ourselves, yeah? It—”

“It’s perfect.” 

You felt small, safe. 

It was not a bad feeling, even if it was a false one.  

You still didn’t look at Simon, afraid to know how he felt about it as he stepped into the room after Price.

“Their idea,” he would tell you later, softly, when half the cake was gone and all but Simon had departed your office.  

You could only nod, and wonder if that meant he hadn’t wanted it acknowledged at all. 

You didn’t ask, the answer would probably shatter your feeble feelings. 

Soulmates, ultimately, were supposed to be the thing their pair needed most, be it romantic, platonic, familial, even adversarial, in rare instances. There was no guidebook on figuring out which, or what came after, or what you were supposed to be. 

For so long, you had held onto hope. A romantic, dramatic hope that you would find your soulmate and be granted that. Understanding. Feeling like there was one place you actually belonged. Someone who could see past the scars that kept everyone else at an arm’s length, that made them believe they could never fit into your life. 

Not even, really, you thought, were you hoping to find that feeling with your soulmate. You hadn’t been delusional enough to think you would ever really find them. 

You had just—wanted someone who saw you, looked past the scars and decided you could be home, anyway. The many failed dates you went on were proof enough of that, proof of your hope and longing. 

But maybe this was why fate had stuck you and Simon together—your ability to understand that what he needed most was to be left alone. And you were already so good at being alone. 

You could give him the security of someone who needed nothing from him, of letting the bond lie dormant and cold, maintain his anonymity and the walls he’d built so carefully around himself.  

A sentinel fate, a sword of his name. 

You could give him that peace. 

Your fate, it seemed, was as you’d once guessed. 

You were meant to be alone.  

.

.

.

Simon adjusted your hips with a sharp jerk and then pushed his palm between your shoulderblades until you tilted them into an angle he was satisfied with. 

“Eyes forward,” he grunted. 

But you were giggling again, glancing over your shoulder with bright eyes and a genuine smile. A rare sight recently.

Had been since—

“Am I holding it right?” 

He glanced at your grip on the blade in your hand, and nodded. You turned back toward the target—a thick plastic training dummy littered with stab wounds. You had made steady progress over the last few months. 

Simon liked training you, it settled some latent anxiety he’d never admit to, to know that you could hold your own, at least temporarily. Just long enough, as he always stressed to you, to escape danger, not face it. 

But you were proving yourself to be surprisingly adept at sparring. 

You were fast, and seemed to enjoy running. Cardio didn’t seem to burn you out. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone do as many jumping jacks in a row as he’d seen you do, seemingly just to do it. 

You took quickly to instruction, minor adjustments in form. 

You could wriggle out of ropes and zip ties. You could effectively parry, knew where the major arteries were and how to sever them. 

And, after a few failed attempts earlier in the week, you’d learned to compensate for the weight and balance of the blade, and seemed to be comfortable with throwing knives too. 

“Won’t have this much time to aim, bird,” he reprimanded when you only stood there, unmoving, your eyes sweeping over his face, brows knitted and serious. 

Your skin shimmered faintly with the dew of sweat. A faint gossamer sheen. He wanted to slide his fingers over the pulse in your throat, just to feel it kick. Maybe his teeth, too, to carve it out, hold the thread of your vein in his mouth. 

The soft murmur of your lips against his skin, babbling nonsense. 

The space between your shoulder blades was bare, the delicate lacing of a tattoo scrawled there. You didn’t share tattoos, that pain must not count as scars in the cosmic bind of the universe. 

The memory of that weekend together haunted him. How easily you’d fallen into each other, just to have it wiped away as soon as it was done. You bare legs in the kitchen, making tea, leaning against him as though it were natural, where you belonged. You stripped down to almost nothing, letting look at your scars as you carefully wiped the eyeblack from his skin, hands cradling his face. 

He was perhaps plagued by those moments when he wasn’t with you, the soft give of your body beneath his on your bed for two blissful nights, beneath him on the sparring mat, something of a distraction, something to sink his teeth into when sleep invariably would not find him. The memory of your safe touch. 

He still wasn’t used to being looked at so openly, directly, didn’t understand what you got out of it anyway. He couldn’t imagine what you saw, when you stared like you were trying desperately to preserve something as vital to you as air. He was right there, within reach and not moving away for once in his life. Not going anywhere. Never. 

This, bound to you, was where he belonged. 

But you seemed to keep skirting away. Pulling away from his hands, from him. 

He wasn’t built for this, relationships and emotions, for things that required a gentle touch and not the cold metal of a gun. 

Wasn’t good at it. He didn’t know if he had done something wrong, crossed some invisible line, and didn’t know how to ask either. 

Was this another thing he had to figure out how to earn? Was this just another thing he was destined to lose, had already?

The stiff concentration melted from your face, replaced with a smile, amusement he missed seeing the last few weeks sweeping over your face, softening your features. “But I have time now,” you said, before you suddenly pivoted and flung the knife, all in one fluid motion. Just as he’d taught you. 

The blade buried itself deep into the throat of the target. 

He raised a brow. “What were you aimin’ for, sweet’eart?” 

“The head,” you admitted, sounding surprised yourself. 

“Not bad, that.” 

“Thank you, LT,” you said sweetly. “Maybe one day I’ll be able to take you on.”  

He grunted, pressed another throwing knife into your hand and lifted your arm into position, cupped your elbow and drew it down a little. 

You were liquid gold in his arms, warm and trusting, allowing him to adjust the angles of your body without complaint. He could feel you breathing; not just the physical rise and fall of your lungs, though he could feel that too. Ghost could feel the tight, corded line of your soul stitched to his, the warm voracity of it like a glowing line of light, a thin strip of aurora borealis. This close to you, he could feel the softness of your breath, the delicate beat of your heart through it. 

He would probably never admit it to you, but Ghost missed the pain. He missed the watery, drowning ache in his lungs that meant you were on the other side of the glass, alive, waiting. The pain had been a constant reminder of your continued life. Being alive hurt, it only made sense, then, that the bond ached with your life. 

The warm glow it had transformed into was nice, but it was placating, an illusion that things would always be all right. The comfort and safety of it itched, made his fingers curl with the urge to peel up his skin, pinch the pain alive again with his own bloodied fingers just so he was sure you were there. 

You leaned back into his chest, the length of your spine laid against the bow of his body. Simon folded his fingers around yours, adjusted your grip on the handle, angled your wrist down a fraction. 

Your hand was small in his, the fragile bones of your wrist like a bird's hollow wing. He thumbed at your pulse, wished he had taken his gloves off. 

His nose brushed the shell of your ear, inhaling the sweet scent of your skin lavender and oak moss threaded with the animal salt of your skin. 

You shivered. 

“Not in this life or the next.” 

You laughed, a breathless catch in your throat. The vibrations of it again his chest like a half remembered song stuffed between his ribs. You turned your head and pushed your forehead against his jaw gently. He felt the shush of your breath against his throat. He wondered, not for the first time, why it couldn’t always be like this. Why had things felt like one stumbling block after another since you saw his face?

Wasn't it supposed to be easy? Wasn’t that the one thing soulmates were promised?  

He’s not particularly good at wanting things. Wanting meant asking for something he could lose, and he’d lost too much. 

But now he had you, he wouldn’t let go. 

The half completed residency paperwork in his, until now, underutilized office, was proof enough of that. It had been almost a year. You and Laswell had promised a year. A contingency, a plan for you to stay. 

You would stay. 

He wasn’t sure you would stay. 

Probably, he should talk to you about it. 

Simon wasn’t good at this.  

How hard could it be to ask his bloody soulmate to stay in the same country as him? 

Very, apparently. 

He’d rather almost anything else. 

He’d rather present you with the residence permit like a cat with a dead mouse, wordless and hopeful.

Unfortunately, there was a lot of red tape that required him and you to go through, not limited to slicing his skin open in a court to prove his scars showed up on you.  

All the fucking ones he’d already given you, wouldn’t count. 

Just because you were bonded, he was all too aware, didn't mean you would stay together. You could leave, die. Simon was the one to endure, he knew which of you would remain. 

The closer he got, the further you seemed to drift away, something tender and self actualizing in your gaze. But he’d had a year to come to terms with it. 

Maybe you just needed time to adjust to the idea of your soulmate being him. He wasn’t the kind of person anyone hoped for. 

“You wouldn’t let me win?” 

Simon didn’t want to imagine a world where you were on the opposing side of anything, where winning mattered. 

“Together this time, yeah?” He said instead, squeezing your wrist. 

“Not like I’ve got much of a choice.” 

“Want me to let go?” 

“No,” you answered quickly. “No.”  

“Aimin’ for the head again?” 

“The eye,” you clarified. 

He raised a brow. “Ambitious, that.” 

You nudged your temple against his cheek again, the flicker of your lashes through his balaclava like the delicate, furred wings of a moth. “I’m trying to be the best.” 

“Average might be a more achievable goal,” he said wryly. 

Your laugh echoed inside him again. “Affirmative,” you grumbled in a poor imitation of his accent. 

He squeezed your hip in slight reprimand. 

“But I think I can do it,” you continued in your own voice, leaning into his hand. “I just need practice.” 

“Mm.” He rubbed your wrist again, felt the steady flutter of your pulse against his fingers. “Just aim at something you can hit if you ever have to, yeah?”

Something you’d been over plenty, he still felt the need to repeat it. What do you imagine is going to happen to me? You’d asked once. A question with far too many answers. Bad things happened to people he cared for. 

“Promise,” you said easily. “I know where all the important arteries are, after all,” you murmur, teasing. 

He grunted, unimpressed. “Lot of good that’ll do if you’re aimin’ at the eyes.” 

You rolled your eyes and settled back into him, but you were laughing, reciting the names of said arteries under your breath. “All right, enough of tha’,” he muttered as he moved your arm through the motion once, before you swung hard and released the knife on the second pass. 

This time it was at the right height, but off center. It hurtled by the target’s ear and clattered to the floor. 

“You’ll be turning enemy combatants into regular Van Goghs,” he said. 

“Very funny,” you nipped, digging an elbow into his ribs, but you were giggling again. “It was close.” 

“Was. Nice work.” 

You made a soft, self-satisfied noise, something near a purr in your throat. “Thank you, Ghost.” 

He nodded as he released you and stepped away to retrieve the fallen blade. Cold seeped in as he did, a bone deep chill where you had been touching him. A thready, pulsing warning to stay near. 

Moving away from you was no longer painful, but not exactly comfortable either. It was nice to be within the warm bubble your soulmate provided. 

He felt it now, the retraction of that pulsing sweetness, like the petals of a flower furling closed. The bond was dynamic now, malleable and yielding, nothing like the taut, fragile, painful thing it had been for so long.  

Simon felt it stretch, loop slippery coils around him as the tension popped like stiff joints. 

When he turned, you were across the room, sitting on a weight bench as you pulled on a hoodie and kicked off your trainers. Not his hoodie, though he’d left one at your flat, thinking, maybe, you might want something of his, the way you had given him the blanket. 

Done for the evening, then. The tightening in his chest he felt now had nothing to do with the bond; he could admit that. 

You were no longer smiling, and the permanent stitch that had sown itself between your brows shortly after you bonded, had appeared yet again.  

He collected the knives, approached you slowly, out of your sight line, watching the slant of your scarred cheek, the downward tilt of your mouth. You had been worrying at your lower lip with your teeth recently, and the crease in the middle of the plush bottom curve of broken skin was wet with the tiniest well of blood. 

Simon remembered what it had felt like to touch that soft flesh, kiss you, lick into your mouth. It had felt like—he couldn’t say what it had felt like. He didn’t have the vocabulary, the understanding of the tangled mess of emotions in his chest, snarled and guarded as a nest of snakes. Unraveling it seemed unwise, a fool’s errand. 

All he knew was that it hadn’t happened, that he had been safe with you, whether he could name the emotions or not. He also knew that it had not happened again, and didn’t know why. 

And wanted it to happen again—for you to stick your hands beneath the edge of his mask or shirt or anywhere at all and ask can I? 

He wanted you, he thought numbly, stupidly, to hold his fucking hand. 

It was sort of like being a lovesick teenager, only Simon wasn’t sure he’d ever been that. It was all new.  

If he could feel the weight of your proximity, you were able to feel the heft of his. But you didn’t turn as he approached, head bowed over the laces of your shoes as you coiled them around your fingers and tucked them under the tongue. 

The space beneath your eyes was swollen, discolored with sleeplessness. There was a bruise beneath the edge of your hoodie collar, more on your forearms and the sides of your knees. Defensive marks, sparring marks. 

To see them brought him a kind of fucked up satisfaction. 

Simon pulled off his gloves, slipped his hand into place on the back of your neck. 

You flinched just a little, and then settled. 

The memory of you lying in the grass behind the barracks in the summer sun surfaces quickly. How badly he had wanted to reach down and touch you then, touch his own faint, paper thin scars on your skin, the side of your throat, the hook of your collarbone, all those shining little reminders.

Now he could, he did, and you still felt far away, like there would always be something holding you at a distance. As though you were behind unbreachable glass, seen, but not heard, not touched. 

What had Johnny called all that pain? 

Bond corrosion. Erosion. 

Maybe he’d let it go on for too long, really had damaged something vital, by denying it for so long. Maybe Ghost had inadvertently taken the one thing that was supposed to be a solace to you, and twisted it beyond repair. Maybe there was no comfort on your side, just a rusted lock that could never be pried opened again. 

You tilted into his palm. 

He hoped it was voluntary. 

“Ghost,” you said softly. 

“Bird,” he answered, drawing the word out lazily, letting his hand slide away. 

Your mouth twitched into a half smile. “Hey,” you caught his hand and tucked it instead between your palms. 

He sat next to you, pushed his shoulder against yours. You fell against his side slowly, almost reluctantly. You laced your fingers with his.  

Maybe you were just disappointed. Once the shock of finding your soulmate faded, once that restless, prodding first night together was over—he wondered if you felt cheated, let down. Maybe the distance was protective. 

Maybe he should just ask. 

You sat together quietly, fingers threaded. He waited, hoping that if he waited long enough you would look up and smile and talk to him. 

But the well of your incessant chatter over the last year seemed to have finally run dry. 

Not only were you quiet, it was like you were lost, unsteady. “All right?” 

When you met his eyes, your features softened. “You’re not a bad teacher.” 

“Reckon that’s a compliment, yeah?” 

You smiled, settled more firmly against his side. Yours was a warm, welcome weight. He’d not relished the thought of anyone’s touch in a very long time, maybe hadn’t ever. Kind touch was never something in high supply. But if you never let go, it’d probably be all right, that. 

“Yes,” you agreed. “Very generous with compliments.” 

Ghost wasn’t sure those words, in that order or otherwise, had ever been applied to him before. 

He palmed your cheek, tilted your face toward his, peering into your eyes like he was examining you for injury. “You hit your head?” 

“Like you wouldn’t have noticed.” 

“Mm.” 

“Simon,” you said, his name careful and curling in your mouth, safe there. Your fingers were at the edge of his sleeve, the soft pads of your fingers against his bare wrist, sliding over the scars on his palms, defensive wounds that his mind refused to remember earning. 

He nodded and you pushed his sleeve up. 

“I think I found another,” you said. “Can I show you?” 

Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body, but he was trying to become familiar with all of yours. You’d had trouble, though, deciding which actually belonged to you. Some of your scars were buried beneath his own, others were scoured so deeply on Ghost, that they appeared as though they could be yours on your skin. 

It was odd to be touched, and not exactly comfortable, not yet, but he held still and let you have your fill, because he wanted you to. His body wasn’t his in these moments, but belonging to you was all right.

Your fingers traced his forearm, sending skittering sparks of warmth along his skin, curled like shaved gold into his stomach. It was horrifying, really, the way you made him feel. Not like himself, too much like himself, or someone he should have been. 

The touch was curious, and cautious. 

“Here,” you pushed a finger into the middle of his forearm. The scar was barely visible on his skin, and buried beneath the black of tattoo ink. “I think I burned myself taking something out of the oven. It probably wouldn’t have scarred but I kept picking at it.” You held your arm alongside his. The mark on your arm was deeper, puckered where his was flat. But they matched. 

Your fingers wriggled inside his rolled sleeve and you traced a particularly deep gouge along the side of his bicep. 

Shrapnel, he thought, but you didn’t ask. 

He waited for you to ask. 

You both sat there cloaked in silence. 

He watched the side of your face, the way your mouth twisted to the side, the downward sweep of your lashes fluttering against your scarred cheek. 

“Anymore?” 

You shook your head and slid your hand up his chest instead, to the base of his throat. “Can—?”

The word hasn’t even left your mouth yet. Pathetic, he thinks, as he yanks the fabric over his head. He smelled of desperation, a deep need to be kept. 

You smiled, touched his cheek, his ear. Your fingers scraped over the close cropped sides of his head into the longer hair at the top. 

When your face tilted up, lashes fluttering closed, he met you halfway, tasted blood on your mouth. It was like coming home. Simon could feel his scar on your mouth, like you were echoes of each other, calling across something vast, receiving an answer anyway. 

His tongue slipped into your mouth as your hands fisted in his hoodie. You groaned quietly when he threaded an arm behind your back, pulled you into his chest. 

“Simon,” you mumbled, mouth traveling from his down his jaw and back, nails digging into his bicep. He’d never get tired of his name, known and coveted, in your voice. You made it sound real, almost sweet. 

He touched your jaw, your soft skin so different to his, the small of your back beneath your shirt. 

The knot in his chest seemed to unravel, flatten out like a dog showing its belly, deeply satisfied, asking to be picked—

You pulled back suddenly and sucked in a sharp, awful breath. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” you said. “I—“ 

Simon shook his head, cupped the back of your skull to bring your forehead to him. You breathed, eyes closed, for a long time. 

Eventually you blinked and met his eyes, searched until you found something that made your gaze close. A door shut in his face. 

“Well,” you said, retracting your touch slowly, fingertips drawing down his jaw. He told himself it was reluctance, even if he knew better. “It’s late. I should probably get going.” 

He wanted to hold you gently, but was afraid he might crush you instead. His unwieldy hands were not suited for this kind of work. 

“Mm. Walk you to your car.” 

Your smile flickered a little. “What if I said no?” 

Then he would follow you anyway. He would make sure you got there safely, anyway. He might not be built for care, but he was built for that. For teaching you violence, for making sure you were safe. 

“Then you go alone.” 

“Liar,” you said with a huff as you stood, bracing your hand on his shoulder. “I know your shadow now, Simon.” 

He just stood and held out a hand for your bag, tugging the mask back on with the other. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that declaration.  

You needed time, that was all, he thought again, for the disappointment to abate, for him to make himself useful to you. 

Eventually, he would see your flat again. He’d stand in your kitchen with a cup of tea and your smile would be real.  

Simon should know better, by now, than to hope for anything at all. 

.

.

.

The orders arrived one innocuous morning in November, passed to you by an administrative assistant on your way to your office, who smiled like the envelope was not essentially a live bomb. She was new to the base, her eyes bright and watchful. She had been in your office a fair few times, to pick your brain, she said. She wanted to work in intelligence some day, too, in more than a strictly secretarial role. 

You took it from her with great trepidation. 

“You alright?”

“Fine,” you smiled tightly as your stomach clenched. 

Her smile turned sympathetic. “Don’t want to leave?”

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly, flipping the envelope over in your hands. 

“Come now, I’d wager Ghost will be none too happy.” 

You furrowed your brows and glanced back up at her. 

Ghost was Ghost. You hadn’t realized any of the others noticed him in your office. They were a nosy, gossipy bunch, such were the ways of intel, and you were sure one of them would have mentioned it, even passively, at some point.  

“Don’t know what you mean.” 

She smiled and rolled her eyes as she turned back to her desk. “Sure.” 

You walked back to your office slowly, distracted, telling yourself it was something—anything—else. 

You were not being stationed elsewhere; you were not being sent home. 

You closed the door behind you and stood staring down at the all too familiar seal stamped next to your name. It didn’t feel like your name, like your hands curling around the edges of the paper, claws that were already starting to dig in, so you couldn’t be dragged howling away. 

For a long time, you could only stand there, vision tunneling, mind sluggishly trying to catch up to what your heart already knew. 

Eventually, you realized you were not drawing breath, and choked as you inhaled, the air thick with the scent of tobacco and black tea. Ghost, when you glanced around, was not there, but he had been. A cup of coffee was at the edge of your desk, steaming, still hot.

Because you still preferred coffee in the morning, despite having developed a taste for tea, and he knew that. He seemed to know everything about you.

It made you want to cry, but you crossed your office to your desk instead and sat. 

Delicately you slit the letter open along its seam, and read what you’d already known would be within. 

Home. 

Only the shape of home had long ago shifted.

Home was here. 

Home was the base and your softly lit office; it was your flat that you’d worked hard to make your own; it was tea with your coworkers and baking with your neighbor. 

Home was—

Home was—

It would be better for everyone if you went home, but the notion of leaving behind the little life you created so painstakingly over the last year tied your stomach in knots. You liked your apartment and the base and your neighbors. You liked your coworkers and hot cups of tea on rainy afternoons in chilly offices. You liked Soap and Kyle and Price. 

And Simon—

You liked having him in your life, in whatever way he let himself be. You liked when he visited you. You liked being close to someone, even if it wasn’t exactly in the way you wanted. You liked the quiet surety of your routine with him, even if it was unfair to both of you for you to be comforted by it. 

Your chest ached; your throat closed.  

It would be better for you to go. 

You did not want to go. 

You carefully pushed the letter back inside the envelope and thrust it into a desk drawer. 

It felt more like an execution notice. 

.

.

.

You managed to keep the information to yourself for two days. 

The tender bruise it left on you only seemed to deepen, that well in your chest that was meant to bring you comfort only serving to pinch. 

You wondered, again and again, if something had gone wrong. If you were not properly bonded, if Ghost had frayed the bond beyond repair like a dog chewing through its leash, if, perhaps, you had done something wrong. Maybe your disbelief has sown rot into your soul, an infected tether that poisoned both of you. 

It was raining again, a chill passing beneath the frame of your window, the lights dim and low. The last of your coworkers had long gone home and night had long ago fallen. 

You were curled in your office chair, your blanket and Simon’s tucked around your shoulders, when a gentle knock caught your attention. 

When you glanced up and found Ghost in your office doorway, you smiled, you forgot for a moment about that letter in your desk and everything it meant. 

“Ghost,” you greeted, unfolding your legs, blankets sloughing off your shoulders and into your lap. “Hey.” 

“Bird.” 

“It’s late.” 

“Is,” he agreed with a nod. 

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him and the knowledge that you would be leaving this—him—soon clamped around you, seized something in your chest and squeezed. Fear and loss welled like twin heartaches, pooled in that hollow beneath your ribs that should only know warmth. 

He paused for only a moment before he rounded your desk, cupped your face between his ungloved palms and tilted your head up. He didn’t say anything, gaze trailing slowly over your features. 

Your chest tightened with the examination—bright, painful hope. To be the focus of your soulmate’s attention was like being buoyed, like sitting in the sun. It made you feel deeply settled. It was nectar sweet and confusing. You wanted to kiss him and felt as though you should ask for nothing and receive even less. 

And guilt. 

You felt guilty for not telling him as soon as the papers were handed to you. 

You expected the contact to be brief, but when he pushed his forehead against yours, he left it there for a long moment. 

He didn’t usually and it gave you pause. His eyes were closed when you opened yours again. You felt as though he were asking for something but you couldn’t understand the question. Exhaustion curled off him in waves. 

“Are you okay?” His eyes flickered open, confusion swirling in when he found you already looking at him. 

He tilted back and didn’t answer.

“You look tired,” you said carefully. “More tired than usual, anyway.” 

“What are you still doin’ ‘ere?” 

“Waiting for you to come make us a tea.” 

He made a soft huffing sound that you took to be a laugh. “Aye?”

“Mm.”  

He made a discontent noise and pulled away entirely. “Shite liar for someone who works in the shadows.” 

You smiled. “You just know me too well.” 

“Alright?” 

A heavy hand closed around your throat and you glanced away. “Yeah.” 

When he dropped into his usual chair, he tilted his head. You could read the words in his eyes before he said them. “Want to try that again?”

“I would actually like a cup of tea,” you said. 

“I’ll make you a cuppa if you tell me.”

You smiled, “Negotiating now?” 

“Always seem to be.”  

You frowned, not sure what he meant by that as you let your head fall back, wondering if you could put off telling him awhile longer. But Ghost’s suspicion was raised now. He looked relaxed, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread wide. His chin was tipped down, brows knitted together. You knew he was ready to go home, by the simple mask he was wearing and the dark hoodie he was swaddled in.

You thought of pushing the hood back, tugging the mask off, raking your nails through his hair as you had that day in the guy, and banished the image with a shake of your head. 

You fidgeted, plucked at the edge of your sweater with nervous fingers. He wouldn’t care, you thought, and you weren’t sure what would be worse: apathy or relief.

Simon said your name slowly, a dangerous warning hidden somewhere in the back of his throat. 

The sound seemed to take up space in your chest. 

He watched you, waiting for you to spit it out, shoulders stiffening, brows an unyielding, lowered line. 

You took a deep breath, bravely plucked the letter from its place in your desk drawer, and slid it across the tabletop toward him. 

Simon went very still, staring at the unassuming little envelope. You waited and watched him, watched his eyes and the slope of his unmoving shoulders.

Tension bled into the air so thickly you felt as though you might choke on it. You clenched your jaw so tight that pain lanced down your neck and into the top of your spine.  

Minutes passed and he didn’t so much as twitch. You weren’t sure he was breathing.

“Simon?” You said quietly, gently, as you could. “You okay?” 

He blinked, seemed to come back into himself, gaze locking onto yours as he reached for the letter with large, ungloved hands. His eyes only slid away from yours again when he pulled the letter out of its sleeve and glanced down to read it. 

“That’s all right,” he said after a moment, his voice even. 

Your belly lurched. So apathy it was, unmoved by the prospect of you leaving. 

“I know,” you said quietly. Your voice cracked under the pressure in your throat, as you willed yourself not to cry. “Nothing to make a big deal about. Just thought you should know—”

He shook his head and abruptly stood. “Ghost—?” 

He crossed your office in two strides and wrenched open the door before he disappeared through it.  

You frowned, wondering if you were meant to follow him, knowing that you never were. You settled back in your chair, tucking your legs in again, staring at the frost slowly creeping across the window glass, obscuring the fat yellow moon peeking from between parted winter clouds. 

Simon returned, to your surprise, a few minutes later, with a file folder. 

You felt a sense of dread as he dropped it on your desk. 

“What is this, Simon?” 

“I’ve already started it.” 

That did not answer your question. 

You sat forward and pulled it toward you, flipped it open and found a half completed residency application. Your fingers froze before you thumbed through the myriad pages. Forms filled in in chunky block handwriting. 

“What is this?” You asked again, attempting to quell the rising panic in your chest. “What did you do?” 

“The bond has to be officially recognized first,” he said, still not exactly answering your question. 

You swallowed. You’d heard about formal bond recognition and frowned at the last several instructional pages. Required photographic proof of bond pairing, and, an in person demonstration of proof of said bond—

You imagined it for a moment, the two of you before some faceless judge, Simon carving out another part of himself for the sake of you being able to remain when he didn’t even want you. Didn’t want you around, never wanted you to know who he was. And yet he was willing to shackle himself to you, toss the key away. 

Nausea welled, a heavy hand closing around your throat. A date was scratched in red at the bottom of the page for mid-April next year. Distantly, you realized it meant he had been working on this, thinking about it, for much longer than you had. It was. . .sweet. 

It should be sweet. 

You were suddenly aware of how much you did not know about him as you read through the pages. His birthday. His last name. If asked to fill out his half of the forms, you would not be able to. But it was all there in his own hand writing, information freely given for you when he had only given up his name by accident. He was giving up everything he kept close to the chest, that he kept from everyone. 

But your horror and revulsion won out when you turned the next page and found a scan of his military ID. His naked face stared blankly, uncomfortably out at you. 

What it all meant crashed down on you with the force of a toppled building. You saw yourself demonstrating the bond again. Simon unmasked, a wolf without its teeth, because you knew he would never let you be the one to prove the bond. He would stand there and carve himself up, wrench out a bone and lie it down as proof. 

Years of wishing you could protect the soulmate you didn’t know from further harm curled fingers through the bars of your ribs, prying loose that desperation. 

Now you could. 

His name, his face, his privacy, his sense of safety. 

You slammed the folder closed and shoved it away. “No,” you said, horrified. “No. Absolutely not.” 

His brows softened when you glanced up at him. His voice was maybe the gentlest you have ever heard. “I would do it, love—”

You made an involuntary, distressed sound. “Jesus Christ, Ghost. No.” 

All this effort was not his choice, and you couldn’t take anymore from him. It was pity and harm rolled into one. It was self flagellation; it was locking a weight around his ankle and jumping into a deep lake. 

You couldn’t keep burdening the people around you, anyway. Simon with the bond he had no interest in and was plagued and bound by, the rest of the 141 being vulnerable for it. 

Price had asked you to take care of him and you could. 

Ghost’s gaze was hard when you met his eyes. “Why not?” 

There was a dangerous edge in his voice, a fissure that said tread carefully. 

“Why would I ever want you to do this?” You fired back. 

Your voice was panicked and louder than you meant it to be. 

He shrunk away, at the same time that his shoulders seemed to widen a few centimeters. 

“I can’t do that to you,” you said, pushing the file back toward him. “I won’t do that to you.” 

“You aren’t going to try to stay.” His voice was flat and far away. 

Something lurched behind your breastbone. You rubbed at the spot but the pain didn’t fade. “I will not let you scar yourself for nothing!” You snapped. 

He was so still, his body a coiled spring. “Nothing.” His voice was hollow.   

You swallowed. “It’s easier this way, Simon,” you said after a long beat of silence. “It’s safer, if I just go.”  

He sat back, like you’d punched him and was struggling for breath. 

You watched the wall come down in his eyes, protective distance, that blank, far away, unreachable look he always used to wear when he first started visiting your office. 

“That’s what you want, yeah?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, and when you opened them again, he was gone, as though he’d never entered your life at all. 

The room seemed to reverberate with the loss of him. A warning in the still, cold air, a tragedy leaching into your lungs. 

You fucked something up, but you weren’t sure what or how. You paced circles around your office until you felt ill. You knew he wouldn’t come back, that you might have broken the fragile peace that existed between you. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The pain didn’t recede. 

.

.

.

You used to have nightmares. 

Each night you would lie down, close your eyes, and drown for a few hours. Long, looping gray halls, faint outlines of fists knuckled into drywall. You would search, thread your way up and down staircases without end, flinging open doors that led to the same bruised walls.

You could trace the trajectory of Simon’s life through your scars. The child abuse he’d clearly endured, the abrupt way the regular tracery of pain vanished, and then slowly appeared again. In starts and fits, enough for you to know that he had endured and finally escaped, and perhaps had a dangerous job, or lifestyle. You imagined a boxer, an MMA fighter. You imagined a construction worker, a welder, a fire fighter, a soldier.  

For awhile, you were content, the dreams receded like nothing more than a bad memory. Mostly, he seemed to be safe, and that was enough. A new mark would occasionally be added to your skin, but it always seemed incidental, an accident or mishap. That you could handle. 

Then those awful months had come, where each morning there were fresh marks. Your fear was like a fist in your throat. You rarely slept, afraid of what your mind would conjure, afraid of all the ways you could never help. Your soulmate was being tortured, of that you were sure, and you could only watch. 

You would wake up—a plethora of new scars seared into your flesh, and a sense of pain, the impression of pain you should feel, lingering around you like a malignant cloud—and plead with anything, anyone that might be listening to help where you couldn’t. Your throat, chest, and back saw the most damage then. No more defensive scars on your palms, but thin circlets had formed around your wrists. No more bite marks but that awful corded scar had roped its way around your throat. 

The nightmares returned with vengeance clutched in their fists. Bloodier, more violent. 

Now, dreams of perpetual, unending silence. A life lived alone. Those same looping, gray halls filled with doors that you could hear other people behind, just out of reach, all locked. Most times, though, the dreams were more violent than that, blood on concrete, endless replays of dreams past, torture past. 

It filled you with a type of horror you thought long past you, that you thought couldn’t be felt anymore. 

But it was worse, now, knowing it was Simon that had inspired those dreams. It had been bad enough knowing only that it was the abstract concept of someone meant for you on the receiving end. 

You’re sure your dreams were only a whisper of what he experienced. 

The dreams seemed to be arbiters, harbingers of some tragedy, rewritten lines of a play long acted out. 

You missed him. 

Didn’t know how to check on him. 

How to apologize for ever having shown up in his life. 

It made you wish you’d turned down that transfer last year, that you had never gotten the one thing you always wanted. 

Soap, when he appeared in front of you, assessed your sleeplessness with an astute, bluntness you only felt numb to.  

“Ye look like shite.” 

“Thank you for that, John MacTavish,” you said, swerving around him and down the hall toward your office. “Is there something you need?” 

He followed you, situated himself as comfortably as he always did, firmly in Ghost’s chair. 

“You okay, lassie?” 

You clutched at the files as you hovered in the doorway and took a wincing breath. The pain hadn’t gone away. “Yes. Just tired.” 

“Ghost has been tired, too.” 

“It’s a good thing you aren’t a spy, Soap.” 

“Aye, but am not tryin’ to be.” 

You huffed, tightened your hold on the files and tablet. The pressure against your chest helped. “I’m getting transferred home.” You smiled but it felt awkward and false. “Good news.”

He tilted his head. “For who?”

“Simon,” you said easily. “And all of you. I’m a burden the rest of you have to bear,” you attempted to joke. 

Neither of you laughed. 

Johnny was uncharacteristically quiet, the silence like a shroud. 

“And you talked to the Ghost?” He asked after a long moment. 

“Yeah.”

Johnny frowned. “And he’s alrigh’ with tha’?”

You frowned back at him, fidgeted, plucked at the edge of your sweater with nervous fingers. “I can’t ignore orders,” you said simply, though you both knew there was a solution. The one Ghost had already thought of. 

Soap was still watching you, his head tilted to the side. “What d’ye want?” 

A strange choking feel raked up your chest, bound itself over your heart. If you could, you’d slip into Simon’s bloodstream. To be carried there, to belong. You wanted so badly to be wanted, to have somewhere safe. 

You shook your head. “I don’t think it matters what I want.” 

It was unfair, though, that it didn’t. 

That you have never mattered. 

A sudden, intense burst of anger welled up in the back of your throat. “I’m starting to think the whole fucking thing is fool’s gold.” You ground your teeth together, “I think it’s all bullshit meant to give you hope. And nothing else. It never meant anything at all.”

Johnny looked pained. “Ach, bird—”

“No,” you interrupted. “No. I’m sorry. That’s not fair of me. I think I am uniquely fucked up.” 

A burst of warmth made you whirl toward the hall but no one was there. 

.

.

.

Once, Simon, without preamble, before you knew what he was to you, had abruptly asked one afternoon if you’d ever gone through RTI training. 

“Yes. I might not do field work, but I still know too much,” you’d answered and tilted your head curiously to the side. “Why?”

He had not answered, but looked marginally more at ease. 

“Were you?” 

“What?” 

“Tortured?” 

His eyes had flicked over you. “Think you know the answer.” 

You had nodded.

“They say to compartmentalize,” you said, curious. “That you buy time instead of trying to avoid talking. But I was never good with pain. What did you think of?”

In an odd bout of truth sharing he had said, “Dead now, what I thought of.” He settled into his chair more firmly. “Don’t think of anything you care to lose.” 

And that had been that. 

.

.

.

Simon didn’t say goodbye.

You weren’t exactly speaking, anyway. 

Silence had unspooled between you and him, thick and cloying, a rope that wrapped tighter around his throat with each coil. 

Ghost still checked on you, watched from the shadows as you began moving through preparations to leave your post. Cases handed off to other intel officers, your office slowly depleted of the things that made it yours. 

The potted plants in their terracotta shells disappeared and reappeared in other offices—in the break room, on a filing cabinet in the hall. The bug lamp vanished and so did your blanket and the lavender headphones, the stack of books in the corner. Your scent faded, that oakmoss and lavender that permeated the air seemed to falter more with each passing day. 

When he peered into your office, a wraith at the edge of your life once again, you worked in total silent stillness in the cold room. You had not touched his blanket, slung over the back of the chair as it always was. 

Things were moving too fast, and he was wasting time. You would be gone by the end of the year; it was already the middle of December. He knew, when he looked in on you before they left, that it would be the last time. He would return to the base and your office would be empty, bereft. 

Soap was staring at him from across the transport plane, his brows drawn down, fists curled loosely around the straps of his vest. His sergeant looked angry. 

The air was cold. 

Simon’s skin ached. That bloody pain was under his ribs again.  

He couldn’t stop thinking of your blanket. Why would you remove it first when you needed it? You were always cold, always sun seeking. Your blanket abandoned, his hoodie you wouldn’t wear. It was like you were abandoning comfort. 

“The lass seemed—”

“That’ll do, Sergeant,” Ghost cut Soap off quietly, a warning in his voice. If Gaz and Price were listening, they didn’t show it, huddled over a tablet together at the far end of the hull. 

Soap glanced away. “Was cryin’ before we left.” 

Ghost jerked his gaze back up. 

“Enough,” he snarled, and then felt exhaustion tug his anger back down. 

He closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the heaviness of his gear fall against his body, crushing even as his spine loosened.

It was enough. 

He didn’t need to be reminded of your misery, or your rejection. 

Domestic conflict didn’t suit him. He was afraid of it, had only ever watched it end with a bruised cheek, tears, a voice like knives. He already swore that he would never be that kind of man, that he wouldn’t become his father. 

Conflict that couldn’t be swiftly ended with a gun or a blade was out of his bloody purview. 

You deserved better, and that truth had never been more apparent or that you knew it too. 

Why would I ever want you to do this?

Fair enough question.

Mapping his own fear wasn't easy. It didn’t come naturally. 

He wanted nothing more than to scoop it out with a rusty spoon, put it on offer to you. 

But you didn’t want that, and he’d known that all along. 

The plane hummed and shook like it was in the fist of a giant, shuttling them through the sky, an overgrown child with a toy. 

“Aye,” Soap said, an unusual snap in his voice. “Maybe you were right, LT.”

Ghost opened his eyes. 

It was bait. 

They both knew it. 

Ghost asked anyway, his voice low and dark. “Usually am. Care to tell me what about this time?” 

“Maybe she deserves better.” 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed on an emergency op. They left three days ago, chasing some nightmare that they had dealt with before. Intel that you had pooled and passed off to Laswell without too much thought about it, turned out to be something they’d long been searching for. 

Price checked in with you. Kyle and Soap said goodbye. 

Ghost disappeared without a word. 

You caught a glimpse of his shadow disappearing down the administration wing’s hall before they had gone, warmth fading around you, and knew he had been outside your office. His involuntary monitoring only served to make your chest ache.

You knew that you weren’t likely to see any of them again. Your apartment was a sea of boxes; your office was bereft. It was unclear how long the op would last. 

You weren’t likely to see Ghost again, anyway, who had become as good as his namesake over the past few weeks. It was terrible, the way you waited and hoped that he would come back to you, just so you could say goodbye. He was impossible to hunt down when he did not want to be found. 

As it stood, you were alone, your office was empty for all but the equipment you were given on your first day and Simon’s blanket. You weren’t sure what to do with it. It wasn’t yours but leaving it behind to be tossed in with the trash or thrown in storage somewhere to rot, festering alone, eaten by moths, seemed wrong.  

Still, you had left it over the back of his chair. Maybe he would see it when he returned and finally take it with him. 

You did, however, keep the hoodie he had left in your apartment. No one had to know that you slept in it, felt comforted just by touching something that was his. 

Were you especially pathetic, or was that something all bonded soulmates felt? You couldn’t imagine Simon feeling that way about something of yours. It was hard to imagine him being comforted by anything besides a gun, a knife, his own violent hands.  

Maybe if you weren’t so upset, maybe if things had gone differently, you would have noticed you were being followed long before it was too late to do anything about it. 

You were walking from your car to your apartment, gym and work bags slung over your shoulder, sweat still drying between your shoulder blades when the unease settled around you. You felt watched, not in the way that you had become accustomed to. 

The back of your neck prickled, some long buried sense warning you that danger was near. When you glanced over your shoulder, the street was empty and blue in the waning winter light, the barest fanning of snow shimmering, fans of yellow puddled down the sidewalk behind you. 

But you could hear footsteps.

You didn’t change your pace, slipping your hand into the front pocket of Simon's hoodie instead, feeling the comforting weight of the switchblade gifted to you all those months ago. Cold, solid metal. 

It felt a bit like safety, wrapped in Ghost's fading scent, the knife he'd given you in your palm.

All those nights you stayed late on the base, Simon waiting patiently for you to leave, eyes closed, arms crossed before he walked you to your car flicked through your mind. 

The irony struck you now, of all those careful wanderings to your car, no one had ever been there along this route. The path from your car to your front door was barren, the moment of your day that you were most alone. 

When you glanced behind you again, still no one was there.  

You told yourself it was nothing, though every instinct was telling you that wasn’t true. Cold bled between your shoulders, snaked down your spine in a warning drip. 

The footsteps faded but the watched feeling didn’t. 

Once inside you locked the door behind you and made a beeline for your bed side table drawer where you’d stored Simon’s half completed residency application. You started to shred it with your hands before you realized that would not be enough. 

A thud on the landing outside made you jump, confirmed your worst thoughts. You were on your way out, all the case files and hard drives you had been trusted with handed back over to Laswell, debriefed a million and one times. There was only one thing someone could be looking for. 

You calmly carried the documents to your kitchen and threw them in the largest pot you had. It only took a moment for it all to go up in flame after you dropped a lit match in, suffocating his name and yours, the edges of the copy of his military ID going at the corners and then swallowing his face. 

You wanted to dig your hands into it, scoop the ash into your mouth, just to keep it all safe. 

For half a moment, as smoke curled around your kitchen, you felt stupid. It was probably nothing and you’d just erased the only memory of your soulmate’s face you had been allowed. 

Then, the front door exploded inward.

You were slammed into the counter, scattered remnants of the meager combat training you had received flicking through your head. 

But your body was faster than your brain, you wriggled loose and stabbed upward with the blade suddenly in your hand. 

You both seemed surprised when you made contact, slicing a long stripe along his cheek up to the corner of his eye. The point of your knife sunk into his eye, and when you ripped it back, blood sprayed across your ceiling. 

You had been drilled not to linger though, yanking back when he released your elbow, screaming and clutching his face. 

You dodged two more men whose fingers grazed you but didn’t catch. They seemed more surprised than you were that you avoided it, that maybe Ghost had been telling the truth when he said you were unreasonably fast. 

You flung your knife at the one in the foyer, and watched it sink to the hilt into his throat. 

You didn’t pause, flew down the steps to the road and wrenched down a black street and then a tiny alley that you hoped you could lose them in, that you could get lost in. The irritated crash of voices followed you as you zigzagged through the streets of the town that had become your home, and now had turned into a maze. 

Distantly, you realized they were speaking in Russian, footsteps pounding against the pavement behind you. The wind was bitterly cold, snow burning down around you. 

Ghost’s words fanned across your mind, you just had to be fast enough to run away, to hide, that was all. You held onto his voice, the memory of him guiding you.

All you had to do was run away. 

But you turned down another street and found the narrow close ended in a brick wall that you were not tall enough to scale. 

This time when you were pushed forward, your temple connected with brick, stars bloomed across your vision. Your arms were pinned immediately to your sides. 

You threw your head back, skull connecting with a crack against someone’s nose. 

“You fucking bitch—” 

Thick fingers against the back of your neck, slamming you forward into the brick again. This time nausea crawled into your throat along with pain and a thin trickle of blood, stars blooming across your vision. 

“Easy, easy! Nothing that will scar. Not yet.” 

You were shoved harder against the wall, an uncomfortable, heavy weight bowing your spine, but your captor was careful not to let your face rasp against the brick again. 

Blood licked warmly into the corner of your mouth, dripping lovingly into your mouth. A nerve throbbed behind your eye. You grunted, air squeezed out of your lungs when the man behind you leaned harder on you. “Careful, little rabbit,” he said. 

Footsteps sounded behind the pair holding you captive, slow and measured, a brutal, unhurried pace that eventually stopped to your left. 

“I don’t have to wonder what you were burning, but I think I can guess,” he said by way of introduction. “Let’s see her face.” 

The hand on the back of your neck cupped your jaw instead, yanked your face around so violently you felt it in your neck. 

A man’s face swims into your peripheral vision. Dark, sharply intelligent eyes met yours. Predatory, like looking into the teeth of a fox. You had seen his face before. And if he was here, the op the 141 was currently on was a decoy.  

Fear swam into your gut, adrenaline sweeping down your spine. 

“Ah,” he said, reaching out to stroke the back of his pointer finger down your cheek. “You must belong to Ghost,” he said. He drew a blade slowly from his trouser pocket. It sung as he flipped it open and held it to your throat, drawing it shallowly over your flesh. “No one else has so many scars.” 

You shivered and the blade bit deeper into your skin.

You felt blood pool warmly in the hollow at the base of your neck. “Yes, I think if I had Simon Riley here, you’d match, wouldn’t you?” His eyes flicked over you, watching you closely. 

You didn’t blink, despite how irked you were that he knew Simon’s name. Didn’t acknowledge the implication of your scars. “He won’t come,” you said, voice hoarse. “If that’s what this is.”  

“He will,” he said, withdrawing the knife, wiping it clean on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket, swiping it neatly clean. “Simon Riley,” he said again, drawing out the syllables of a name you wanted to rip out of the air, stuff in your own mouth. “He tends to have this kind of bad luck with things he cares for. Don’t you agree?” 

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The lancing pain in your head was growing and thinking was a failing battle. The pressure on your spine was intense, your lungs crushed beneath the weight of the man holding you in place, a mouse beneath a paw. 

You closed your eyes. “He doesn’t care about me.” 

“That is not how soulmates work.” 

You laughed, a choked horrible sound to your own ears. 

The world tasted like blood. 

Like the copper tang of a penny pressed beneath your tongue. 

You could taste it on your teeth.

“Then you don’t know Ghost very well.” You said. “He doesn’t want me.” If anyone could overcome that instinct, that taboo, it was Ghost. He would not come for you, of that you were sure. It would be easier. “He won’t come. It’s the tactical choice.” 

“I suppose we will see, will we not? We will have fun together, you and I, in the meantime.” 

He disappeared from your view, footsteps disappearing back down the close.

Panic settled hard and fast in your stomach, what you were about to endure whether they killed you eventually or not.

You squirmed as the weight eased off your back, kicked backward desperately. Your sneaker connected with a shin before you were jerked around and slapped. You lunged forward, not sure what you were about to do when a sharp pain bloomed in the side of your throat and the world went dark. 

There was one thing you were certain of, though, as your consciousness faded and your body was hauled through the dark, the thickening snow. 

Makarov was wrong.  

Simon was not coming. 

And you, as always, were alone. 

.

.

.

Ghost couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

The base felt eerily silent as he tracked through it, hauling his kit, beelining for your office, the failed op like a warning bell in the back of his mind that he couldn’t ignore.  

It was your intel, Laswell said, that led them there.  

Your office was empty, dark. 

The only personal item left in the room was the blanket you had knitted for him all those months ago, left across the back of the chair he always sat in. 

He pressed gloved fingers against it and a chill curled in his gut. Your office, for so long a comfort, a warmth, a haven, felt barren, vacant. It smelled of dust, and he knew you hadn’t been there in a few days. The scent of your perfume no longer lingered in the air, your presence as faded as if you’d never been there at all. 

It did not help the feeling that something wasn’t right. 

An indescribable, irrational fear gripped him. Like talons hooked around his lungs, pulling them slowly from between his ribs. The pain had returned, settled as neatly behind his breastbone as if it had never left. 

Nausea wound tight in his throat. He pressed a hand against his chest but it didn’t ease. It lingered, seemed to pulse worse than it ever had before. He had heard you and Johnny, once, talking about the pain. There were cases where it had returned, when soulmates were separated against their will, or, if one was in danger, dying, hurt. 

Usually it meant the pair was dying, it was a warning, an easing into the snap of the bond being severed forever. 

Simon dropped his kit, kicked the door shut and yanked up his sleeves, the hem of his shirt, searching fruitlessly for a needle in a fucking haystack. 

It was faint, at first, because it was yours and not his, buried beneath pain and thick scarring and years of not taking care of those scars. 

He watched, for the first time, as a scar that wasn’t his bled into his flesh. 

A deep one, puckering the meat of his forearm in a new and disturbing way. It was not an accident. A message was being writ in your skin for him to see. 

It didn’t hurt, and that was the worst part. The ghost of pain seemed to linger in the air above it, pain he should feel and didn’t, the suggestion of torment like an electric current he desperately wanted to stick his fingers into, wrap around his wrists and yank away from you. 

An involuntary, nearly inaudible sound wrenched out of him.

It wasn’t just one. The more he stared, the more faint, flicking lines he saw, across his arms, his stomach. 

He knew what it meant. 

He didn’t know how to process what he was seeing, or the feeling that accompanied it. 

The uncertainty and fear you’d once described to him, of knowing that his soulmate was hurt but not how, of being helpless to watch, washed over him in a violent wave. 

He took a deep breath. 

Then another. 

Simon was gone. 

Price, he knew, would still be in his office. 

if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!

[viperify]

nerd!Tom loves grinding his cock over your pussy!

warnings: mature content. nerd!Tom uses you (and your pussy) as a study reward. no p in v, just some messy grinding, he cums on our pussy, cum play, fingering, LOTS OF PRAISE!

author's note: I intended this to be shorter but ig I have to make up for my absence anyway so...

wordcount: 1,9k

Innocent cuddling with Tom is nearly unheard of. Whenever he has you waiting for him on his bed after a long day of reading and revising for his next presentation or exam, his first instinct is to hold you close, to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and breathe in your scent.

And sometimes, right then, he'd drift off to a peaceful nap. His larger body splayed over yours as his chest rises and falls gently—and you'd join him not too long after, relishing the rare moments you get to have him just for yourself, your fingers tracing the subtle muscles on his back, soothing the strain of supporting his tireless efforts to remain Hogwarts' top student.

However, most of the time, it is not quite that innocent.

Because not only is your boyfriend a nerd who spends nearly every single minute of his free time combing through a massive pile of books and documents, no, he's also a needy freak, contrary to the belief of perhaps… everyone else.

Believe it or not, he enjoys being on top of you more than he enjoys being on top of every class—he said so himself after all, intoxicated by the feeling of your sweet pussy squeezing around him, his mind hazy with lust.

But still, they were his words.

And Tom lives up to them. No matter how tired his eyes are or how much his back aches from being hunched over books all day, he still finds time for you, finds the energy to rut his thick cock into your warm walls, even if gently and awfully slowly so.

Today has been no different. You've been in his dorm for hours while he is preparing for an upcoming Potions project, which he's only aware of because he's Slughorn's favourite student and he let him know. Claiming he needs to be ahead of everyone else if he wanted to score another Outstanding, Tom naturally hasn't rested since.

You do not try to argue with him anymore, try to tell him that even if he started two weeks after everyone else, he'd still receive just the same grade.

Instead, you've been watching him, splayed across his huge bed, which he has the honour of owning as a Prefect and Head Boy, distracting yourself with a novel (non-educational, obviously) until he had enough and joined you. The sun had just started to set at that point, weak rays bathing his dorm in a subtle golden glow. Tom crossed the bed, crawled over you, and fit his body perfectly between your legs, resting his head on your chest.

And now, just a few minutes later—all of his usual innocence has evaporated at last. His hips rut his full-blown erection against your lower tummy, his hot breaths coming fast and laboured as his face stays buried in the crook of your neck.

"So good to me," he whimpers, one of his warm hands on your thigh, holding you open for him, the other interlocked with yours. "So patient."

You hum in agreement, angling your hips upwards so as to encourage him to finally get on with it—and Tom gets the hint, although a little differently than you anticipated.

He flips up your skirt, having it pool around your waist, and then sits back and studies you. His gaze is fixed on the damp spot that has formed on the cotton lining of your panties, swallowing the urge to be inside you.

"So pretty," he murmurs, his thumb brushing along the length of your slick underwear, tracing your slit through the fabric until he reaches what he knows to be your clit—applying gentle pressure, circling slowly with just the tip of his thumb.

Tom observes your every reaction—from the way your lips part for a silent gasp to your hips bucking off the bed, chasing his touch, begging him for more. And if he is being truthful with himself… neither does he have the patience to wait any longer.

He hurriedly tugs his trousers and underwear down his legs, carelessly discarding them somewhere on the floor before he hovers over you again, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips—but as soon as you hook your fingers into your panties, he grabs your wrist and stops you.

"Don't undress," he whispers, looking down at you with his gentle, brown eyes, placing your hand beside you. "I'd like for you to keep them on for now."

You meet his gaze with a confused expression, but you nod nonetheless—anything if he finally lets you feel him.

His head dips to brush kisses down the side of your neck, and the next moment his body lowers to rest on top of yours—his cock perfectly nestled between your thighs, rubbing against your clothed pussy with every slight twitch of his hips.

"Tom, please, I—" you whine, wrapping your legs around his lower back, pressing yourself up against him. "I've been waiting so long, please don't— oh—"

"Shhh," Tom murmurs with a strained voice, nipping at your throat gently, grinding his length along your soaked panties, the head of his cock brushing over your swollen clit with every tender move of his hips. "Need you like this. It'll feel so good, I promise. You trust me, right?"

You nod eagerly, trying your best to concentrate on the blissful, tingly feeling in your core whenever you feel the slightest friction where you desire it most. "Yes, Tommy. Please, more."

He hums lowly in approval, his hands at the back of your head, tilting your head towards his to kiss you thoroughly this time. "Good girl. So perfect, allowing me to have you like this."

You open your mouth to respond, though the only sound that leaves you is a broken moan, thighs trembling as he sets a cruel pace, making sure to give your clit just enough attention to make you soft and pliant beneath him.

Tom continues with this for what feels like an eternity—rutting his hot, thick erection against your pussy, swollen and dripping with need at a cruel, slow pace. Your arousal has long soaked through the thin cotton fabric and inevitably coated his cock in a glistening layer of your combined arousal, his precum adding to the mess where your bodies are tightly connected.

You're so drunk on the feeling of his cock grinding over your pussy, you at first don't even recognise the warmth of your climax building low in your tummy—but he does.

Because it is not solely you whose senses are screaming for more.

Tom craves the feeling of your slick pussy, of your tight heat embracing him, pulsing around him—and so, he gently tugs your panties to the side, watching as his cock disappears between your glistening folds.

He nearly comes then and there just from the sweet, wet warmth of your skin on his, groaning as he slips upwards with ease, his hips stuttering at the increased sensitivity. "Fuck, darling— what on earth are you doing to me?"

His tip reappears to bump against your sensitive bud, having you moan in pleasure, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, holding his gaze. "Don't— don't stop."

Tom shakes his head, lips parted as his breathing grows heavier with each passing second, and brushes a kiss on your jaw. "I wouldn't dream of it."

And then, a split second later, his pace quickens—he's grinding against you with purpose now, mumbling strings of praises while he makes you watch his swollen cock make a mess of your pussy, gliding between your folds as though it had belonged there all this time.

The room fills with your combined sounds of pleasure, with the slick noises of him gliding between your puffy, sticky folds and his endless praises for you.

When you get too wet, he uses his thumb to keep himself from slipping out, and you nearly lose it at the increased pressure and precision.

If he doesn't stop this soon, you'll lose your damn mind.

"Tom, I need you inside— inside, please," you cry out, your climax approaching fast while you can't do anything but take what he's currently giving you—perfectly angled thrusts right over your clit, which have you seeing stars.

But Tom has different plans.

He sits up just slightly, letting his cock slip free to guide it lower towards your entrance—but instead of pushing inside, he merely lets his tip bump against your drooling hole, with three or four shallow thrusts. Enough to give you an idea of what he'd feel like inside—heavy and leaky, thick veins bulging beneath his skin and stretching across his entire length, yet not to actually push inside.

Damn him.

As hopeful as you were—the feeling is gone as soon as it came.

"I want you to come for me," Tom rasps, grinding against your sloppy folds again. "Just like this. Nothing else—just me, here."

"You're— oh God, you're impossible," you whine, but cannot deny that your orgasm isn't far—and Tom knows it.

With every rough thrust, his hand guides himself to where you need him most, and within minutes he has you right where he wants you—on the very brink of your climax, begging the waves to consume you whole.

Tom too is close, breathlessly whispering praises as his head dips to your neck once more. "So beautiful, sweetheart, so good to me— always so patient and pliant, I— fuck—"

His thrusts falter then, cock twitching between your sticky folds, a throaty groan escaping him when ropes of thick, white cum paint your glistening pussy opaque white. It's so much, you can feel it seeping down the length of your slit, gathering at your neglected hole before it drips onto the silk comforter beneath you.

Tom allows his senses to return to him before he lifts himself off you, appreciating the mess between your thighs—and when you try to close your legs, he stops you.

"Just a little bit longer, darling. Show me how pretty you look," he says, and you obey.

His fingers trace the white residue, smearing it where it belongs—in between your folds and over your clit. You whimper, back arching off the bed at the touch, and just like you've wanted it all along, two of his long, slender fingers gently slip inside your warm walls, using his cum as additional lube—not that you need it, but the mere sight of it has his cock hardening once more.

Tom curls his fingers just right—rubbing over that perfect spot inside you while his other hand takes care of your puffy clit.

"Tommy, mmph— fuck!"

A smirk tugs on his lips at the state of you—all fucked out even though he never let you feel him inside you in the first place, his fingers eliciting the sweetest moans from your bite-swollen lips, teary eyes staring up at him.

Just how he likes you.

"Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how good you can truly be."

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

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yall vs me (ily baby)

[twolegsandbleeds]

cw: afab!reader, video sex, simon is both hopeless and hopelessly in love your honour. 1.4k words.

"si… up a bit. or down a bit. just not… there. all i can see is your left nipple. which isn't a terrible view, but it's not the one i'm after babe." you're biting your lip, staring into your phone screen from the comfort of your pillow laden bed, tucked safely away in yours and simon's shared flat - a classified amount of miles from wherever the fucking the world he is.

"love," he grumbles from off screen. "i don't think you quite understand the realities of my current situation. i am fuckin' large. an' i'm sleepin' on a bunk bed made for a bloke 'alf my size. give me a fuckin' second."

he finally comes into view properly- more than his left nipple anyway - face filling your phone screen. brown eyes, albeit with dark circles under them, stubble grown out for more than a few days.

but it's his face. the face you miss waking up to in the mornings when he's gone like he is now, trapped in some shitty temporary base somewhere. doing things you don't particularly care to think too closely about.

"there you are." you say quietly, voice softened around the edges with affection. "hey baby."

you can see him visibly relax - jaw unclenching, frown lifting. "hey petal." his lips twitch at the corners when he sees your reality compared to his. "you look fuckin' comfy, don't you?"

you grin - smug - and nod. "i am so fucking comfy si."

his lips twitch again. "good. you deserve to be, love."

and he means it.

the two of you catch up for a while - mostly you speaking, the same as usual - filling him on the minutiae of your life, the squabbles at work, the cups of tea you've been having with your 83 year old next door neighbour edna some afternoons. he listens, enraptured, like you're telling him the secrets of the universe and not small, everyday things.

he offers a few things in return - not much. just that johnny is being particularly explosion happy and gaz has got himself a boyfriend who likes caps as much as he does.

then you adjust positions slightly, the camera dropping down and giving simon a glimpse of the white tank top you're wearing; thin cotton stretched over your chest, nipples hard little peaks under fabric.

he groans.

then immediately drops his phone so you get a lopsided view of the slats of the bunk above him.

"fuck. shite." he grumbles, snatching his phone back up; holding it a little further away this time so you get a view of the scarred expanse of his chest, of blonde hairs scattered across pale skin. "sorry about tha' petal. just… you look good." a pause, "an yer tits look good. an' i 'aven't 'ad a wank for a week so i'm a little on edge."

you laugh softly, "a whole week? now that's a war crime babe."

"yeah, yeah. laugh it up." he mutters, but there's no real heat in it. he drags a hand down his face, "not exactly easy to sort myself out when i'm sharin' a safehouse with ten other blokes and sleepin' in a bed that creaks if i breath too 'ard."

you shift onto your side, propping your phone against a pillow so he gets a clearer view of you - tank top riding up over your waist, almost exposing the curve of your breast.

simon exhales audibly. "christ."

"you could always try." you say with a smirk. "be fun to watch you."

you know from the way his eyes don't leave your newly exposed skin he's going to struggle to argue.

he glances sideways - checking the door - then angles his phone so you can see more of him. the bunk is ridiculously small; one of his shoulders is wedged against the wall, his knees bent because his legs don't fit otherwise.

it would be comical if he didn't look so ridiculously attractive sprawled there shirtless.

"yer a fuckin' terrible influence." he grumbles, but he’s already shoving the waistband of his sweatpants down. his cock springs free, heavy and flushed, and he wraps a hand around himself with a hiss. “fuckin’ hell, look at what yer doin' to me. makin' me act like a fuckin' teenager.”

you grin, unrepentant, tugging your vest up, fulling exposing yourself to him. "yeah, yeah. it's been a week. you'll be quick."

simon's too busy staring at your tits to notice you're getting a view of the underside of his chin and not the way his hand is wrapped around his length, stroking himself to the sight of you.

you bite back another laugh as simon's phone wobbles in his hand again - giving you a glorious, if accidental, split second shot of his cock sliding through his fist before it swings back up to his jaw.

"si," you grin, "c'mon now. if you keep giving me chin-cam i'm going to start thing you're shy."

"shy." he repeats, voice dripping with disbelief. "i'm wankin' on camera for you. an' tryin' not to take the bloody bed down with me as i do."

you shift onto your back again, propping the phone up at the end of the bed so the camera catches a better angle of you - tank top still rucked up; one hand lazily trailing down your stomach as your thighs fall open. "why don't you try that, si?"

his breath catches. audibly. and then he follows instructions like the soldier he is - camera propped at the end of the bunk; him ending up in a kneeling position, back curved to fit under the bunk above, one hand braced on the frame of the bed whilst the other wraps around himself again.

the view is perfect.

thick thighs spread wide, the muscles in his arms tensing, close enough you can see the light blonde hairs on his chest and down his stomach; leading down to where one hand is wrapped around his cock; pre come spilling over his fingers, the vein that you've memorised the shape of with your tongue pulsing slightly.

you grin. "huh. that's what you look like fucking me from behind. i don't usually get to see it. since my eyes are on the front of my head. it's a rather nice view babe."

"love." he grumbles, "petal. light of my life. can you please focus on the matter at 'and and not… yer delightful narrations on life. just for a minute or two."

you bite your lip, fighting another smile at his grumpy tone. "sorry babe. just admiring the view of you all tied up like a pretzel just to have a wank for me."

simon huffs, but his hand doesn’t stop moving - slow, long strokes, a familiar twist in his wrist as his fingers wrap around the head. "pretzel," he mutters. "fuckin' pretzel. i'll show you a bloody pretzel when i get home and fold you into one love."

you poke your tongue out, completely unremorseful - and he can't help but grin, fondness woven into the way he stares at you through the screen. "i'll hold you to that." you shoot back, biting your lip, letting your fingers trail lower, hooking the gusset of your thin underwear across to one side so he gets a full view of your cunt.

he groans. "bloody, fuckin' 'ell love. yer gonna kill me. go on. play with 'er. let me see."

your fingers glide over your slit; gathering wetness before circling your clit in time with the strokes of his hand - his fingers flex against the bed frame, knuckles white, the muscles of his chest tensing in the dim light as he watches the way your phone camera captures your cunt glistening in the warm glow of your bedside lamp, the way your face softens with pleasure.

"that's it petal. just like that. fuck - i miss you. miss this. so fuckin' much."

the distance makes both your chests ache, but this - your wrecked voices, his body contorted just for you - makes it bearable. you both drag yourselves to the edge; whispers and encouragements and wet sounds filling the call until his hips stutter and his hisses your name; spilling over his fist with a muffled grunt. the sight drives you over the edge, thighs tensing as your head falls back against the pillow; orgasm washing over you as he stares, awestruck, as your features soften out with bliss.

you both slump - you against your mountain of pillows, him against his thin military issue bedding, breathing hard, hearts slamming matching beats in your chests.

"christ, love." he mutters, camera angled to his flushed face. "thought i was gonna break the fuckin' bed. 'ow the fuck would i explain that to price?"

you laugh, tugging your top back down, bringing your phone back up from between your thighs. "worth it?"

"always." a rare, soft smile lights up his face. "get some sleep, yeah? i'll be home as soon as i can. love you, petal."

"love you more, si."

[jesterlesbian]

you have to remember it's always always worse on twitter

[theragamuffininitiative]

tumblr users being generally knowledgeable about phishing attempts and scams and yet not hesitating to click various links from unknown users because they say such things as "spin the wheel to determine your alvin and the chipmunks band persona based on my favorite italian desserts" and we go "heck yeah."