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randomdegu · 11 days ago

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: ̗̀➛ sweet blooming flower

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ tattoo artist simon 'ghost' riley x reader (extended)

synopsis : Fate is a strange force—pushing a shy, insecure flower into the den of the big, bad Ghost. But with enough dedication and time, that delicate flower can finally bloom perfectly.

cw : angst, smut, body shaming, eating disorders, ex toxic relationship, anxiety, violence, blood mentioned, age gap (reader in mid 20's, simon in late 30's), undertone of daddy kink, chubby and insecure reader. words : 20,3k

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤmasterlist ⋆ inspo ⋆ ao3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that shattered something deeper than you thought was possible.

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

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

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

The numbers on the scale never dropped.

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

Now, it was neither slim… nor healthy.

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

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

You were barely holding yourself together.

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

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

But the truth was different.

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

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

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

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

Fat.

That word felt branded on your forehead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They always fell.

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

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

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

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

You had been grateful you never joined.

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

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

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

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

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

But to you, it was beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, you ate.

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

It had been weeks since that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

Tired of letting him win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was all a stupid idea.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before him, it used to be your favourite one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with that, he sent you on your way.

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

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

And you found yourself longing for more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And despite everything, that voice still echoed.

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

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

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

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

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

The shop was empty. Silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It made your chest ache in the best way.

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

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

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

The look in your eyes was quietly devastating.

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

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

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

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

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

And that, Ghost thought, deserved something beautiful.

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

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

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

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

There was no turning back now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt right.

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

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

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

You nodded. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You told Ghost you were ready.

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

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

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

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

That last part snapped you out of your dreamy fog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twenty minutes later, the buzzing stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, he didn't like it.

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

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

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

All you could do was nod, stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gloves. Ink. Needles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fat. Ugly. Big.

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

Dread hit you like a wave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A lump formed in your throat. It hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked at him, stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just kept feeding you.

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

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

But you told him everything else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No pressure. No rushing.

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

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

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

But it felt wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

Another silence settled between you.

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

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

And right now, he thought you were beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He'd been right. Spot on.

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

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

And he had no intention of going anywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t hesitate. He just said yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes never left you. Not once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being here. With you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stilled. Breath catching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, who?”

“…Yes, Simon.”

That would do—for now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moan that escaped your lips then was nearly pornographic.

"Sorry…" you whispered, your breath shaky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then they slipped past the edge of your panties.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reflex hit before you could stop it.

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

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

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

You did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Simon didn’t rush.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just in case.

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t going anywhere.

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

It almost felt twisted. But it wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

But with Simon, that part felt… right.

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

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

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

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

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

That took your breath away.

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

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

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

But Simon didn’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But nothing happened. No shame. No recoil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hottest thing you’d ever heard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, daddy." You finally let out.

"Good girl."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was his way of telling you he was here.

That he wasn’t going anywhere.

That you were okay. That you were enough.

Lying there felt almost therapeutic.

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

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

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

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

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

Still, he turned back to your sunflower.

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

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

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

The sight took your breath away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And honestly? He was no better.

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

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

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

That voice.

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

No. No, it couldn’t be.

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

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

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

You’d thought it was over.

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

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

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

Your ex.

He was really there. Actually there.

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

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

That was all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew what was coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His sweet blooming flower.

what a fucking ride it had been.

#saving this for later #omfg i love this

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randomdegu · 17 days ago

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Blood And Fresh Snow

Viking!Soap X Princess!Reader

Summary: Princess!reader is taken in as a slave after her small kingdom in France is raided by Vikings, but after a certain Viking buys her in a village auction she begins to grow closer to her new owner.

Word count: 3,111

Warnings: heavy violence, eventual smut, eventual fluff, slavery, heavy dubcon, death, death of children, gore description

A/N: Hi there! This is my very first fanfic, so please go easy on me :) I don't see a lot of medieval or fantasy themed fanfics involving Soap. I'm a Soap girl at heart and a fantasy enjoyer, so I've decided to make one of my own! I hope you enjoy it, let me know if you want a part two or if you have any other requests, don't be shy! <3 -Lilith

The snow crunches softly under your feet as you proceed through the rose garden, full of vibrant red winter roses. The garden had been planted especially for you, courtesy of your father as a birthday gift so many years ago. It brought a fond smile to your face to remember that day, the joy you had felt as you rushed to go see it up close after catching a glimpse from your window.

From a distance, you see your mother with your two younger siblings, who were playing in the snow with your governess, not far from where your mother was having tea under the gazebo. She truly looked splendid with all her marvellous furs and jewels. You always admired her sense of style.

As your mother glanced over at you, she smiled as well and beckoned you over. She seemed like she had something she wanted to talk to you about.

"You wanted to see me, mother?" You asked as you walked up to her, your hands neatly folded in front of you. You truly were the image of elegance, of a perfect princess. You had always been everything your parents told you to be, and it paid off. You always got everything you wanted. They told you that you were their 'special girl'.

"Yes my dear, please sit. This conversation is of the utmost importance. It's regarding your future." Your mother patted the chair beside her. Her expression shifted into something slightly more serious.

You brushed some of the fallen snow off of your chair and sat down. Your mother's words made you nervous, what did she mean it regarded your future?

"What is this about, mother? You're making me nervous, here..." You asked anxiously, fiddling with the hem of your fur coat.

Your mother took a deep breath before speaking again, as if mentally preparing herself for the conversation that was about to unfold.

"...Your father and I have made the hard decision of arranging a marriage for you. We know this is not what you wanted, but it will do much good for the kingdom. We have found you a good man, he's the king of a decently sized kingdom in northern Germany. He is kind, smart, and well-tempered, you two shall be a good match." She explained calmly, although it looked like she herself was hiding her nerves. You had expressed your wish to marry for love since you were small, so she knew there was surely going to be an argument.

You immediately went into a rage, forgetting the need to respect your elders. Of course you were angry, this was your future! How dare she just decide that for you?! Your goddamn parents could have at least spoken to you prior to the arrangement, but now it was too late. Your life of freedom and independence was over.

"WHAT?! And you just decided this without asking me?! How dare you, how dare you decide my future without my consent or even knowledge!" You screamed in frustration, standing up and pacing around a bit, your hands clenched at your side tight enough that your fingernails drew a small amount of blood.

Your mother glared at you, standing up as well. "Do not speak to me that way! I am your mother, learn some respect. You will marry him and that's final. I know this is not your desire, but you will accept it one day. My marriage to your father was arranged as well, I know how angry and helpless you feel. But I promise, you will learn to be happy with him in your new life. You will find joy."

Your mother took your hands in hers, a pleading expression on her face, as if begging you to calm down and accept your fate. But you weren't that gullible. You yanked your hands away from her.

"I will never be happy again thanks to you and father. Not everyone gets lucky and just finds love in a fucking arranged marriage." You spat out. Your mother gasped in horror at your use of language, she did not think cursing very befitting of a princess. You couldn't care less, you stormed off back into your room. The servants sent worried glances at each other, as if everyone knew your fate before you did. It was infuriating.

As soon as you got to your bedchambers, you slammed the door, taking off your coat and throwing it, not caring where it landed. You collapsed on your bed and began to wail. How you would have loved to be a man in this moment, you would have all the power in the world, but you had the misfortune of being born a woman in this cruel world. Eventually you fell asleep, your silk pillowcase stained with your fountain of tears.

You bolt awake at the sound of a banging at your door and the harsh wind rattling the window of your bedchambers. You were only in your chemise, a servant must have removed your outer layers. The winter in the eastern France could be incredibly cold at this time of year. The smell of smoke was strong in the air as you quickly rose from your bed, making your way to the door and immediately opened it to find your maid, Sophie, holding a candle in one hand and a terrified look on her face. She was a pale as a ghost.

"Sophie? What's the matter? You're as white as a sheet. And why is there a smell of smoke?" You asked worriedly.

"It's the Vikings my lady, they've come for us. More than two-thirds of the kingdom is already dead or injured. They're making their way to the castle, we must make haste. Your family is being evacuated along with a few servants. Come with me, I know a shortcut to the dock." Sophie replied. She waved her hand frantically, gesturing for you to follow her as she began to make her way down the spiral staircase down from your bedchambers.

You had heard takes of Vikings since you were young, and it never ceased to be frightening. How they were brutes, savages, madmen who killed anyone or anything in their path to victory. You immediately thought of your family, wondering, praying that they were safe.

She was as scared about all of this as you were, by the looks of it. Sophie had cared for you since you were a baby, and you were especially close with her. She felt like a second mother to you and you had always held her close to your heart. She lost her family about two decades ago, and you always saw the sadness in her eyes whenever she looked at a child, as if Sophie was constantly being reminded by the universe of what she lost.

You quickly grabbed one of your furs that was draped over a chair before following Sophie. The two of you made your way into the woods behind the castle, the snow freezing under your bare feet as you walked quickly. You looked over your little kingdom, fire, everywhere. Gods, more than half of your kingdom was ablaze. You shook your head and looked away. You had to focus on getting out of there, alive and preferably unharmed.

The dock was in view, you could see the ship that you were supposed to board, there were people in the distance but it was too hard to see what they looked like. Before you could think another thought, an axe had been thrown at Sophie's head, blood splashing onto the white snow. You let out a scream of terror, tears immediately forming in your eyes. Sophie was dead, the woman who had practically raised you, was dead. But before you could move or run away from the assailant; let alone begin to process the horror that had just occurred before your eyes, you were grabbed from behind and tossed over someone's shoulder. The figure was big and strong, definitely a man, a long braid cascading down his back. The Vikings, they had caught up to you.

You kicked, fought and screamed, but it was no use. This viking man was way stronger than you were, and all the soldiers were battling the vikings down in the village.

"Oh, shut up, you little shit! Nobody is coming to save you." The Viking barked harshly at you. You stopped screaming but didn't stop struggling, in fear he would kill you if you persisted.

The big brute of a man picked up his bloodied axe from Sophie's bludgeoned head. He began with big strides across the blood-covered snow, with now one of their viking longboats pulling into the dock.

'Be brave,' you thought to yourself 'focus on staying alive. Your family needs you. You can't die now, calm down and try to think of a way out of here. You need to find your family.'

"Oi, lads! I found the older princess! Prepare the boat, some rope and a pair of shackles! This one's pretty, we can make good use of her!" The Viking man called out to the other Vikings on the dock.

Your heart dropped into your stomach, what did he mean he could make good use out of you? What would they do? No, focus, think. Look around, how can you get out of here...You found no solution, but you had to keep an eye out for an opening.

As you reached the boat, the man took you off of his shoulder but made sure to keep you contained. Your hand were immediately tied together with rope and your feet were shackled. The vikings began to board you onto the longboat, but you took a glance in the boat that belonged to your family, and you immediately wished you hadn't.

There was blood everywhere on the deck of the ship, not to mention the intestines scattered around the bodies, bits of flesh spread across the wood. The bodies of your family. Of your mother, father, older brother, little brother and sister; who were only five. Your brain immediately began to spiral, not only had you lost Sophie, but your whole family.

Your knees immediately gave way as you went crashing to the ground. You began to wail violently as you tore your gaze away from the gruesome sight. It felt like a dagger had been plunged into your heart, and for a moment you felt like maybe it had. As your hands gripped your chemise with an iron grip, you began to hyperventilate. Was this what dying felt like? Maybe. Your last conversation with your mother came to mind, how you had screamed at her. You felt sick to your stomach. You didn't even get to apologise; let alone tell her you love her or even say goodbye.

You couldn't really remember what happened next, but it felt as if you were forcefully shoved onto the boat by one of the Vikings, but you would never forget the look of the faces of your family, especially your mother. The next thing you knew, you were awake on a rocking boat, salty sea water spraying onto your face and the harsh winds chilling you to the bone. You tried to adjust yourself but realised that you had been tied to the mast.

The panic began to set in deep in your stomach as the realisation hit that you were all alone. If you died today, who would remember you? It was highly unlikely that were any survivors from the raid on your kingdom, so nobody probably realised you had even been taken. Your heart was racing, your pulse pounding and you could hardly think straight. You believed it to be a panic attack.

"Hey lass, ya alright? You're breathing really quickly. Here, I managed to convince them to keep ya fur. This'll keep you a bit warmer. It ain't much but it's all I can do."

You looked up to see a man crouched down in front of you. The first thing you noticed was his eyes. They were a bright blue, and...so kind. My, you'd never seen such gentle eyes before. His hair was funny though; it was in a strange style you had never seen before. It was like a mohawk but the part in the middle was long and in the same type of braid you had seen on the other Vikings. And his accent was strange, and exotic. It didn't sound like the other Vikings, and you had never heard it before. His eyes were almost too kind, like he was trying to get you to trust him. It was unnerving. He draped the fur around your shoulders, making sure it wouldn't fall off if they hit a rough patch of water. He tilted head slightly to one side, smiling a little, as if he realised that you were suspicious of him.

"You don't trust me do you? That's fine, I don't expect ya to trust me right away. But you will one day sweetheart, I'll make sure a' that." He carefully took your face in his large hand. "When we get back home, I'm gonna make sure you come home with me, sweet girl. They call me Soap, but you can call me Johnny."

Your eyes widened in surprise at his words, but you couldn't get you own words to leave your throat. Who did he think he was?! There was no way you would go anywhere near his home, god knows what he would do to you. You tried to move your head, but his grip was far too strong.

To your relief, and this ‘Johnny’s’ disappointment, the leader of the raid was calling him over, saying to: “stop slacking off” and to: “get his arse over here and stop flirting with the cargo”. You believed they called them chieftains. The chieftain had short brown hair, unlike Johnny, and a mutton-chop beard. Johnny sighed and got up, making his way back to his place on the boat, not before stealing one last glance at you with that lady-killer smile of his. You wouldn’t let his charm work on you. You couldn’t.

Three sleepless nights passed of the sea tossing your body around above its depths, keeping you from sleep and from staying dry from its spray. You felt like a miracle occurred when you finally reached the land and you were untied from the mast, but unfortunately for you those ruthless bastards of Vikings left your hands and feet restrained. You supposed they couldn’t risk you running away from them, you were ‘useful’ to them after all.

You looked around after you were practically shoved off of the plank onto the snow-covered land. It was much different from home. You found yourself in a village surrounded by mountains covered with pine trees in its own little valley. It looked like something straight out of one of the fairy tales you read as a child, gorgeous. But it would become your prison, unable to even return to your homeland after everything you had lost; everything they had stripped away from you that was part of who you were. You were an orphan now, practically homeless. It was hard to wrap your head around, so you stopped thinking about it.

You watched in seething jealousy as you watched the Vikings that had kidnapped you reunite with their families as you mourned yours whom they stole from you. They didn’t deserve it, you thought, you didn’t even think if Vikings had families at all, you just thought of them as ruthless barbarians that raided peaceful settlements.

“Take this one to the town hall, the slave auction will be starting soon. Arne will get the money for her, he captured her. She’ll fetch a good price, that one.” The chieftain said gruffly to one of the Vikings walking off of the boat.

The other Viking groaned in response. He didn’t seem too keen on walking you over. Wait…a slave auction?! No, no, no, this could not be happening. A princess reduced to a slave, it was almost laughable. You simply stared at your bloody and bruised feet in your shackles on the freezing cold snow, struggling to process what was happening. You were going to be sold off as a slave…You thought about who your new master would be, most likely a man. You hoped he would be kind, although it was unlikely for a Viking, you thought.

A rough shove interrupted your train of thought from the man that was supposed to bring you to this ‘auction’. You shot him a sharp glare as you reluctantly began to walk in the direction of what they called the town hall.

Eventually, you made your way into the town hall and you were ushered behind a big curtain on what looked like a stage with others shackled and miserable, just like you. It made you feel less alone in a way. Except they were definitely more worse for wear, most of them had been beaten and bruised, covered in dirt and filth. It gave you an insight into people who didn't have the upbringing that you had, and you felt bad for them. But now you were the same as them, shackled, bruised, and about to be sold off as a slave.

You heard people filling up the large room, lots of chatter and laughing, as if they were just here for a gathering. It was sickening. The curtain was lifted and you felt hundreds of eyes on you as they observed you, as if you and the others were nothing but objects for purchase, not human beings. You tried to make yourself look smaller, weaker, so that maybe, just maybe, nobody would choose you and they would let you go. But you looked the healthiest and strongest out of all of the others, and it wasn't long before bids were placed.

After a lot of back and forth, a winner was finally declared, the auction was over and you were about to be handed off to him. You stared at the floor, trying not to cry again as you shuffled off of the stage. The rope leading your tied hands was handed to your new owner and you still didn't want to look at him.

"So this is her, aye? Don't worry sweetheart, I'll make sure your properly cared for. Ready to go to your new home?"

You recognised that voice...It sounded familiar but you couldn't quite put your finger on it. You reluctantly looked up to find...Johnny? The man that had flirted with you on the boat? What could he possibly want with you?

#saving this for later

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randomdegu · 2 months ago

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p!link collection 6 👻🚬🧢🧼🪦🗡🐺🦿🦌🤠 (🌽 links)

ghost 👻

when ghost gets down to business you'll end up a moaning and panting mess -mlm-

ghost using the rest of 141's cum as lube, even after he made them wear condoms to fuck you

ghost won't rip you pretty lingerie, but he can fuck your ass mercilessly

when simon's away from home for some time, he can't help but cum pathetically at the warmth of your pussy

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

price 🚬

old bastard he is, he had you fooled, but he ends up overstimulating your pussy by eating you out

price making a beautiful painting out of your stomach using his cum

oh to experience some of that rough unhinged price, being slapped and dirty talked to as he makes you jerk him off

seeing you, pregnant and clad in his clothes, makes price instantly hard

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

gaz 🧢

if you tell gaz you are going to shower, he will for sure be hopping in, and not exacly to help you get clean

gaz using that finger and tongue combo until he can't pull any more orgasms from your cunt

gaz is a horny drunk, fucking you messy in the bathroom after a few extra pints

sometimes gaz has to pull some tricks so he doesn't cum before you do

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

soap 🧼

please do peg soap unit he turns into a loud leaky mess

soap is exactly where he wants to be: kneeling at your feel, leashed and eating your cunt

if soap sees a lovely plug in your ass, he will go fucking feral

after the first time, soap actively seeks the feeling of your fingers inside of his ass

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

graves 🪦

it's always the southern accent as graves calls you a needy whore what turns you into a mess

when graves latches onto your pussy, he sin't getting off until you cum in his mouth

for graves, the place doesn't matter. actually much better if he gets caught plowing into you in the car

graves like messed up shit, like that one 'forced anal' scenario, with you tied up

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

konig 🗡

konig is so desperate and horny that he can't keep his hips still as he fucks his fleshlight

fucking pervert konig is, adding a bit of 'extra salty cream' on tope of some lovely pancakes he made you

konig's all rough and imposing until he's under you getting the fuck edged out of his cock

konig's an eager pup so willing to worship your pussy, without a care of the messes he makes

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

makarov 🐺

makarov is a 100% a hole inspection kind of man

hear me out: makarov getting folded like a fucking pretzel and getting his ass fucked

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

alejandro🤠

alejandro eats like a man starved, but once he's done eating your pussy, he may need a lil' help with his boner

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

rudy 🦌

rudy coming back home after almost fucking you into a coma, only to fuck you all over again

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

alex 🦿

tell alex you are needy and he won't even think twice before pulling you into the bathroom and fingering you dumb

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

nikolai

nikolai always lays with his tempting ass on full show, so might as well get a taste -mlm-

oh to have nikolai's hairy thighs plaping against yours as he fuck you in doggy

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

keeegan

keegan is so into choking. using his hold on your throat to fuck you deeper

#saving this for later

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randomdegu · 2 months ago

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masterpost || MDNI

Hi! You can call me Noona! I write whatever comes to my mind and atm, I am very much obsessed with CoD and Genshin/Capitano. I am very much open to hearing ideas and just yapping in general, but I also can’t promise that I will write every request.

What I don’t write: fully explicit smut, suicide

Masterlist has not been updated fully. Use the tag noona.writes to see everything I’ve written!

Masterlist:

POLY 141 X READER:

Goddess!reader x poly 141

2. Baker Reader x poly 141

part 1 + part 2

3. Sick!Reader x 141

4. Bunny Owner Reader x Poly 141: Matchmaking Buns

part 1 + part 2

5. Chubby Reader x Firefighters 141

6. Expiration Date Concept

7. Stage Manager Reader x Magic Mike 141

8. Chubby Reader x Monster 141

part one + part two

9. Lavender Marriage AU

part one + part two

10. Abused Reader x Poly 141

part one + part two

11. Dark Romance Reader

12. Haunted House Shenanigans

13. john catches you making out with one of his men

14. spoiling them when they return from missions

15. False Accusations Concept

16. going to them for safety + guard dogs

17. kittens named after their titles

18. Poly 141 x Farmer Reader

20. Poly 141 x Neighbor reader

21. Clubs and Oiled men

22. Vampire 141 x Blood Donor Reader

23. Bodyguards 141 x Sick Reader

24. Poly 141 x Protective Reader

25. Shared-Wife trope

26. food: no1 source of comfort

27. anasthasia

28. Dragon John Collecting Chubby Reader into His Hoard:

p1 + p2 + p3

29. arranged marriage

30. harpy 141 grooming harpy reader

31. Chubby Burlesque Reader x 141

32. Reader with a Terrible Past

33. Self-Sacrificial Reader

34. Vampire Poly 141 x Reader: Late Night Hunger

35. yandere 141: bro-zone edition

36. 141 x big, tall fem reader they mistake for a man at first

37. 141 x Hacker Reader

38. Scuba Divers 141 x Mermaid Reader + super lovely art by @grombs-blog <333

39. mafia 141 x singer reader

40. 141 x recluse reader

41. 141 x Protective Reader:

p1 + p2 + p3

42. Guards 141 x Princess Reader

OTHERS:

Bite kink with Soap

Yandere Capitano + part two

Bundad Simon

harpy Gaz x wingless reader concept + oneshot + more

moose Konig

rugby player simon x ballerina reader

divorced but obsessed simon x reader

Ghoap angst concept

simon x family traditions

Horrible konig concept

john price x single mom reader

simon and a certain someone grieving your loss

from simon's girl to his missus

johnny's supportive nature

you came/you called

lipstick testing

Big eater simon riley

house-trained Simon Riley + p2

bear price x chubby reader, winter day

Simon Riley x reader: non-sexual smell kink

Raven Hybrids Simon x Reader

"As beautiful as the day I lost you"

John Price x Soldier Reader who wants to be wife-d up

Dukedom 141 Masterlist

CoD Omegaverse

Roommate au masterlist

Until the Last Loop

Here Comes the Sun + p2

Witch of the Woods

Bakery/Coffee Shop au

Fae Duke(King)dom au \\ different take

ANONS

WIPS

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randomdegu · 2 months ago

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now playing: Change (In the House of Flies)

by: Deftones

nsfw🥀, sfw🐇, fluff✨

knife set drabble✨🐇

natural blonde🐇

>1k words, angst

Meanie!Simon

moodboard/headcannons

blackcat!reader

softdom🤨? 🥀

cry baby🥀 (dad bf)

acknowledge me🥀

3.6k words, toxic!simon.

daddy issues🥀

4.1k words (dad bf)

cherry waves🥀

>2k works (I think), it’s fluff if you squint.

untitled unmastered🥀

2.1k words, harddom!simon, brat-taming

bar drabble🐇

photograph drabble✨🐇

a little comfort (dad bf) ✨

xoxo 🥀✨

icky daddy drabble🥀 (dead dove)

Country!Simon

*soon*

back to the waiting room.

#saving this for later

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randomdegu · 2 months ago

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Simon Riley with a user who's embarrassed of her sounds. CW : PiV, restraining, overstimulation.

Simon was an observer. So of course he noticed it. How when his hands travelled south and touched you in the ways that he knew drove you to the edge, you would gasp quietly and make the smallest sound in his ear.

While yes, that definitely sent blood rushing down to chub up his cock, he wished you would be louder.

It became a challenge to Simon. He craved to make you scream under his touch.

He started to push down on your lower stomach when his fingers or cock were in you. A small keening sound coming from you before you stopped it from getting louder.

Simon was quickly becoming frustrated. He had tried everything. Scouring online forums to find any tidbits of information he didn't already have stored away.

Then one night, he made you come on his cock. His calloused thumb rubbing your clit. And then, when he usually stops, he kept going.

A surprised moan came from you. Your eyes widening slightly as your hips squirmed.

And then your moaning got louder.

You couldn't stop. You were mortified at the mewls and whines coming from your lips. Covering your mouth when you nearly screamed in pleasure.

Something dangerous flashed in Simons eyes at your action. Sending a shiver down your spine.

"No" Simon growled, grabbing your hand and pinning it beside your head. Doing the same with the other before you could think to bring it over your mouth.

"Who knew all i' took was to make you come on my cock a few times for you to finally star' making sound, huh?" Simon growled, angling his hips slightly.

He then moved your wrists above your head and pinned them with one hand.

His other hand moved down and pushed on your lower stomach, making you squirm and cry out. Your neck and chest going bright red from embarrassment.

"Fucking trying for months t'get you to sing for me birdie" Simon grunted, his hips snapping into yours at such a pace, your brain went dumb.

"'s e-em-embarrassing!" You whined, trying to writhe your wrists free from Simon's strong grasp.

"How is it embarrassing when you sing so pretty for me, hm? So good for me, baby" Simon groaned against your neck. Biting down for good measure.

You scream as you came again, entire body buzzing and trembling. Before you went limp under Simon. Too weak to beg for a break.

Simon was nowhere near finished with you. He finally had gotten what he craved. Albeit at the sacrifice of abusing your cunt in the process.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

#saving this for later

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randomdegu · 2 months ago

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Dukedom AU masterlist

all posts related to the main dukedom au and its spinoffs will be here!

original Dukedom au: first part

part two

part three

reputation protection

1. baby fever + 2 + 3 2. lipstick and kisses 3. terms of endearment 4. dolling up 5. simon and johnny find out about graves 6. how did it start? 7. Graves and Reader first meeting? 8. what if reader's baby does not look like john? 9. Genuine fondness between graves and reader? + dark end for graves 10. baby girl 11. mini-reader baby boy 12. more than a commodity 13. post-request 14. does simon need a wife? 15. what is graves like? 16. sick duchess 17. what duchess tries to keep to herself? 18. complications at birth 19. simon and pleasure 20. johnny and pleasure 21. people's princess 22. pregnancy protectiveness 23. some thoughts regarding kings and queens (Check reblogs :3)

24. Northern Duke König wants you + p2 25. Regicide 25. independent duchess 26. ways in which they pursue you

27. Someone tries to take advantage of you 28. snowy day 29. john vs rumors about you 30. pussy enthusiast johnny 31. what if they knew reader beforehand 32. what if you got kidnapped 33. john has a strange nightmare 34. yandere dukedom 35. another yan dukedom concept 36. they want duchess real bad 37. crown prince jealousy 38. boudoir paintings 39. Simon’s nightmare 40. they yearn for you 41. terrible reputation 42. asserting dominance: Kyle & Johnny 43. only one of them falls at first 44. competency kink

Quiet Duchess: specialized interest

duke simon x his wife: size difference

Spinoff angsty dukedom with konig + part two + John's lament

angsty dukedom, no konig + part two(fix-it)

what if konig leaves? + part two + konig returns + his reaction to the prosthetic

duke konig thoughts in reblog + more

taking it too far

they watch, yet do nothing

leaving inc. ale and rudy

running away ft. villager konig

pregnancy

laswell saves reader

duchess' mother

hereditary illness

body possession

raw food

murder attempt

Shirin: the sweet maid

untitled

last straw: kyle & johnny + simon & john + flowers

self-harm & ruffles

existing, not living

#saving this for later

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randomdegu · 2 months ago

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“say thank you, baby.” simon murmured against your mouth. trailing lazy kisses and licks down your sweat slicked skin.

“you gotta be grateful,” he murmurs softly, his thick cock pummeled into you. fucking against the spongy spot inside of you that made your clit throb.

your mind was muddled, hazy and cock-drunk as the wet sound of him fucking you fills the room. “thank you,” you gasp out. eyes rolling back.

“for what, baby?”

a sharp snap of his hips has the air knocking out of your lungs. “for-for fucking me-for your cock-”

a dark chuckle leaves simon’s lips, rumbling against you and making your nipples tighten as he slowly rocks into you. one hand cradling your head and the other spreading your thighs open for him. “such a good girl. got such good manners, baby.”

NSFW LINK 🌽— inspo

#saving this for later

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randomdegu · 2 months ago

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Simon with a sweet bird that never cusses until he overstimulates her

Simon Riley with a sweet bird, one that never cussed, one that had a voice like honey melting his heart every time she said his name, one that wouldn’t even hurt a fly— he’d seen you escort one out of the flat in a glass cup once, whispering an apology when it bumped into the window trying to escape.

The opposite of him. Basically.

You were the small slice of life that felt refreshing and comforting.

Coming home from days stuck in dirt and gunpowder, surrounded by a bunch of sweaty men, shit rations, stale air, everyone swearing like sailors and half of them snoring like hogs. Price.

Only to find his pretty bird waiting in the living room, the scent of your cooking greeting him at the door like it missed him too. You’d hum when you saw him, greeting him with soft, loving words that never failed to ease the tight coil in his chest. Following with you telling him to go wash up, a plate already warming in the oven, his favorite drink poured in a glass.

You were everything he didn’t know he needed until he had it. Until he had you.

So really, that’s why it shocked him so much when it happened.

When he had you spread beneath him, your thighs trembling, your cunt soaking, warm and needy around him. He hadn’t meant to overstimulate you. Not this time. But he’d gone weeks without you, and it was like his body was starving, needing everything all at once, the sounds you made, the grip of your body, the fluttering way you clenched around him.

He didn’t even register how many times you’d came already not until your voice snapped through the haze in his brain.

“Ah— fuck, Simon! Shit!”

He nearly stilled mid thrust. Hearing your voice breathless like that, laced with a hint of desperation made his head spin.

Because it was the words. The fucking words.

You cussed.

You, his soft, sweet girl. The one who apologized when she bumped into strangers on the street. The one who blushed if someone said “shit” too loud in public.

Was now the one saying it, filthy words falling from your pretty mouth in gasping moans while your eyes rolled back and your fingers dug into the sheets for support.

Simon had heard cussing in every tone you could think of. Heard Johnny spewing playful insults like it was his native language after five beers. Heard Price curse quietly under his breath while going through mission reports. Heard grown men yell bloody murder while bleeding out.

He wasn’t new to it. Hell, he cursed too. Sometimes under his breath when he stubbed his toe, sometimes in bed when you were giving him head so good it knocked thoughts straight out of his skull.

But hearing you say it? Like that? Because of him?

It was like discovering something forbidden. Something addictive.

So maybe that’s why after that night, he started overstimulating you more often. Drawing orgasm after orgasm out of your trembling body, not stopping when you started to whine, not when your thighs twitched or your voice cracked or your hand reached down to grab his wrist in a wordless plea.

He couldn’t help it.

Not when every moan, every sweet “fuck-fuck! Simon, please!” came out of your mouth sounding like music only he got to hear.

He knew all your tells. The way your body arched when he hit that perfect spot inside. The high pitched noise you made right before you came. The dazed look in your eyes after your second orgasm. The unfiltered curses that always spilled when he gave you a third. Or a fourth.

And you, his sweet bird unknowingly helped him discover a kink he never even knew he had.

The way you said his name when he had you pinned beneath him, cock buried deep inside of you, one hand on your hip and the other circling your clit with slow strokes.

Your cum was already coating his cock, sticky and white, dripping down your thighs, and he was still moving, still using you, still chasing another orgasm out of you, when you suddenly whimpered out a line that made him cum so fast it left his vision blurry.

“Fuck, Simon! You fuckin’ bastard!”

He groaned like the words alone made him finish, his release spilling deep inside you while you trembled underneath him.

Who would’ve guessed Simon Riley got off to being called a bastard?

Then again, it was you saying it.

How could he not?

put my WHOLE soul into this one fr fr

#saving this for later

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randomdegu · 2 months ago

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RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

✘ SEQUEL : ' IN CONTEMPT '

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity.

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it.

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way.

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes.

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything.

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark.

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter?

…

You decide to send him a letter.

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness.

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper.

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is.

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago.

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet.

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.

It doesn’t.

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten, the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

“Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate.

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before. “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you.

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.”

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is.

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.”

You could slap him.

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts, “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

“Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long.

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

“Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls..

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

#saving this for later

21K notes · View notes

randomdegu · 2 months ago

Text

Lay All Your Love On Me

. Pairing: rockstar! Poseidon x gn! Reader . Summary: You're a photographer for the band Natural Disaster. There's been tension between you and Poseidon for months. Zeus thinks you two should just fuck. (I don't have enough brain power to make a proper summary, I'll edit it when I get the cnahce) . Warnings: I would say this oneshot is 16+. It gets kinda spicy towards the end. There's mentions of sex and swear words. . Notes: The voices... They told me to write this I feel like I could've done better with this but, you know what's done it's done, I know that If I don't put it out now I'll never be actually content with it poseidon divider made by @vibeswithrenai and taken from this post

Lights pulsed in a chaotic symphony, a swirl of blues, greens, and yellows swallowing the entire arena. The energy in the air was electric, thick with anticipation, the kind that pressed against your skin like an oncoming storm. If the massive speakers weren't rattling your bones, the roar of the crowd more than made up for it—a deafening wall of sound that left no doubt about the spectacle unfolding before them.

People had traveled from all over just for the chance to witness this moment, to see Natural Disaster live in the flesh. Thousands packed together, a sea of bodies moving as one, their cheers blending into the pounding bass that vibrated through the floor, creeping up your legs and settling deep in your chest. Some fans screamed the lyrics at the top of their lungs, others clutched onto each other, overwhelmed by the sheer energy of the night. The whole place felt alive, buzzing with an almost tangible force.

Even after nearly a year of touring with the band, you were still struck by the sheer magnitude of their audience—passionate, relentless, utterly devoted. You almost regretted not knowing about them before; it felt like a missed opportunity. But at the same time, maybe that ignorance had been a blessing in disguise. It had brought you here, given you this chance—an opportunity most fans could only dream of.

As the song swelled toward its chorus, you found yourself mouthing the words, the melodies, the slight inflections of the singer's voice etched into your mind like second nature. It had become instinct, like breathing. More than once, you'd caught yourself humming their songs during your downtime, the tunes slipping from your lips before you even realized it. Who knew how many other times it had happened unnoticed?

Your attention snapped back to reality, and you quickly readjusted the lens of your camera, bringing it to your eye once more. The three figures on stage seemed like they were having the time of their lives—energy radiating from them in waves. Or maybe that was just the way the bright stage lights mixed with the sweat glistening on their skin, making them appear almost otherworldly. The music pulsed through the air, vibrating in your chest, while the crowd around you swayed, screamed, and reached toward the performers as if they were divine beings descending from Olympus itself.

One of the three, the vocalist, turned his head in your direction, and the moment his gaze swept over the crowd, the volume of the screaming behind you somehow surged even higher. You silently thanked your past self for remembering earplugs.

Still, despite the chaos, his eyes found yours—and stayed there.

For a second, the world shrank, the lights dimmed, the crowd melted away. He was stunning, almost ethereal, as if the entire setup of the concert existed solely to highlight him. The glow of the lights framed his features in a halo of brilliance, while the deep, inky black of his hair shimmered faintly with a bluish outline, reflecting the colors behind him. His eyes—what little you could see of them through the moving lights—held something you couldn't quite place, but whatever it was, you knew it was something good. Something electric.

Your lips stopped moving. Lyrics left right on the tip of your tongue unsaid. He had you in a trance.

Then, as if sensing the spell he'd cast, he smirked.

The moment shattered, and your instincts kicked in. Without hesitation, you snapped a photo. Candid shots were always great, but this? A direct look, caught in time—that was something different. That was raw. That was real. It communicated things you couldn't quite explain.

Lowering your camera just slightly, you peeked over it—and there he was, still smirking, still looking directly at you. And worst of all, you knew, without a doubt, that smirk was meant for you.

You rolled your eyes, playful but unimpressed. His smirk widened, eyes glinting with amusement before he finally turned away, shifting his gaze to some unseen point in the middle of the audience, continuing with the performance.

You exhaled, glancing down at the screen to review the shot you had just captured.

Perfect.

The crowd behind you erupted again, their voices blending into one thunderous chant—one name over and over, rising like a prayer to the heavens.

"POSEIDON! POSEIDON! POSEIDON!"

The stage lights flickered in response, casting the entire scene in a fleeting, shimmering blue, like moonlight on crashing waves. And for a brief moment, you wondered if this man was just a performer—or something far more.

──────📸──────

"I think tonight went great."

The four of you made your way out of the arena through a dimly lit back alley, slipping through the heavy metal door that slammed shut behind you with a dull thud. It wasn't the most glamorous exit, but you had to stay humble somehow, right? In all seriousness, it was one of the safest ways to leave venues like this—without the risk of being swallowed by a screaming crowd.

Still, you had a feeling you could have walked right through the front doors if you wanted to. Considering how late it was and how long ago the concert had ended, the majority of fans had already cleared out. It was Zeus' fault, really. If anyone ever arrived late or left late, he was somehow always to blame. In this case, though, you silently thanked him for it.

"Yeah, we got to end it with a bang!"

You had been told you'd need to wait a few hours before getting back on the tour bus—the crew still had things to pack and prep before hitting the road again. You weren't too thrilled about the downtime, but it wasn't like you had a choice.

"What did you think, [Name]?"

Three heads turned toward you in perfect synchronization, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. They always asked, and you always gave the same answer. So this time, you decided to switch it up.

"Eh, it was fine."

You waved a dismissive hand, fighting to keep a straight face as the three of them froze in place.

"...Fine. Fine?"

Zeus, the blonde, looked as if you had just personally insulted his entire bloodline. His mouth hung open slightly, his brows furrowing before he lurched forward and clamped a hand against your forehead.

"Are you okay?" He demanded, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

You laughed, batting his hand away. "Yes."

"You never say it's fine. You're always all like—" Zeus suddenly slung an arm over your shoulders, lifting his hand like a talking puppet, bringing his voice higher in what you assumed was a terrible impression of you. "'Oh, well, I think it was splendid! Absolutely brilliant! Poseidon is divine! A true gift to the stage!'"

You barely heard the last part, too caught up in the sheer audacity of how he made you sound—like a tiny English orphan boy from some old timey novel.

"I don't sound like that!"

You turned to the other two for support, but Hades merely shrugged, and Poseidon... Well, he smirked, looking far too entertained.

Over the past year or so, you'd grown close to them—not just as colleagues, but as friends. Real friends. The kind that could spend hours together on the road without wanting to kill each other (well, most of the time). You had late-night conversations about nothing and everything, inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else, and a ridiculous amount of shared memories in different cities across the country. They had become your people. And, judging by the way they always included you in everything, you knew they felt the same.

Poseidon was the next to step beside you, his presence effortlessly replacing Zeus as he shoved the blonde's arm off your shoulders and draped his own there instead. Zeus scoffed, rolling his eyes as he gestured toward you and Poseidon, looking to Hades for support, but Hades merely shrugged again.

You stiffened slightly at the unexpected touch, but when Poseidon looked at you, the tension faded. His scent—something faintly salty, like the sea after a storm—washed over you, strangely familiar and oddly comforting. It was strange, really. You hadn't ever seen him anywhere near a large body of water, except for the few times the band stopped in coastal cities for a break. And yet, he always smelled like the ocean.

"Well," Poseidon drawled, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. "I think it's a good thing. Helps us improve, doesn't it, angel?"

His gaze lingered just a second too long. Neither of you looked away.

For a fleeting moment, the rest of the world faded.

Then—

"I heard of this one bar from a friend," Hades interrupted, breaking the spell as he glanced up from his phone. "We could go there while we wait. He said it isn't usually busy."

Poseidon turned to him, giving his brother a thumbs up. "Sounds good."

Just as you began heading in the direction of the bar, a small group of lingering fans spotted the band and rushed over. They weren't overwhelming—just a handful of excited people eager for a quick interaction.

"Could we get a picture?" One of them asked breathlessly, eyes darting between them in awe.

Poseidon shifted away, dropping his arm from your shoulders.

You instantly missed the warmth. The weight of it.

Still, you smiled, already holding out your hand for their phones. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. You didn't mind taking pictures—it was part of the job, unofficially.

But then, one of the girls stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked at Poseidon with a giddy, almost shy expression.

"Can I get one with just you?"

Poseidon, ever the charmer, gave her an easy, lopsided grin. "Of course."

You raised the phone, framing the shot, but something about it made your stomach twist.

The way her hand lightly grazed his arm. The way he leaned in just a little closer for the picture. The way she bit her lip slightly before giggling.

Nothing inappropriate. Just too familiar.

You quickly snapped the picture and handed the phone back, forcing a neutral expression.

It wasn't a big deal. It shouldn't have been a big deal.

And yet.

Poseidon caught your eye as you handed the last phone back, something flickering in his expression. Maybe amusement. Maybe something else.

You watched as the small group of fans disappeared into the night, their excited chatter fading into the hum of the city. Zeus and Hades, meanwhile, had gone back to squinting at a map on Hades' phone, quietly bickering over which turn to take next, determined not to get lost.

"Jealous?"

Poseidon's voice was sudden, low, and far too close, making your heart jump just slightly. You recovered quickly, schooling your expression into a smirk as you glanced up at him.

"Not at all. Just tired." You stretched your arms lazily before dropping them back to your sides. "How far did you say the bar was?"

"Three blocks over... there!"

Hades finally lifted his gaze from his phone and pointed in the direction of a warmly lit bar sign down the street before taking the lead, Zeus following close behind.

Poseidon, however, didn't budge.

His sea colored eyes stayed fixed on you, expression unconvinced. He saw right through your excuse—probably already had some remark lined up about how your face definitely told a different story.

But before he could get the words out, you moved.

In one quick motion, you grabbed him by a belt loop and gave a firm tug, pulling him closer. The unexpected action made him stumble slightly, his face shifting in surprise—then, just for a moment, his ears burned red, his breath hitched, and his heart skipped a beat.

You didn't give him the chance to recover. With an innocent smile, you simply turned, still holding onto his belt loop, and started pulling him along toward his brothers.

That seemed to shut him up.

For now.

──────📸──────

By the time you finally made it to the bar, the four of you had settled into a secluded booth toward the back. It was a snug fit but comfortable, the kind of space that made it easy to sink into conversation without interruption. The atmosphere was calm—almost homely—an intimate contrast to the chaotic, electric energy of the arena.

The warm glow of dim lights reflected off polished wooden surfaces, casting soft shadows across the walls. A low hum of voices drifted around the room, but no one was loud or disruptive—just small groups of friends talking in hushed tones, likely regulars who had carved out this space as their own. The only other sound was the faint murmur of a football game playing on a small TV mounted in one corner, though judging by the lack of interest from anyone in the bar, it was probably a rerun.

You sat with your arms stretched out toward the center of the table, your camera resting in your hands, its screen illuminating the dim space as you scrolled through the night's captures. The three of them leaned in, watching as you flicked through the images.

Comments were thrown around—some admiring the shots, others laughing at the more unflattering ones. Zeus, of course, was the loudest, making sure to poke fun at Hades' stone faced expressions and his own occasional ridiculous poses. But as the slideshow continued, one comment, in particular, caught you off guard.

"Why are most of these Poseidon?"

Your fingers froze mid scroll.

Zeus had a raised brow and an infuriatingly smug smirk, leaning forward with one arm propped on the table, hand supporting his chin. Before you could even process how to respond, his expression flickered—just for a second—as if he had been struck with sudden pain. Someone had clearly kicked him under the table.

You weren't sure who.

"I just want to know!" Zeus protested, rubbing his leg and throwing an accusing glance around the table.

Your face heated up, your mind scrambling for an excuse.

"He's the main vocalist," You stated matte of factly, shifting in your seat. "If you have a problem, take it up with the people. It's what they want to see."

Zeus' smirk only widened.

"Are you the people?" Before you could formulate a response, another thud sounded beneath the table—this time louder, sharper. Zeus flinched, hissing in pain as he immediately bent down to rub his leg. "Stop that!"

You fought back a grin, quickly glancing at Poseidon, whose face remained neutral—too neutral.

But the glint in his eyes?

Yeah.

You had a pretty good idea who was responsible for the second kick.

Still, you quickly drowned what was left in your glass and stood up. You needed a second to breathe—to shake off the lingering embarrassment sitting heavy in your chest. It wasn't anything serious, nothing you couldn't handle, but still, your skin felt a little too warm, your pulse just a little too quick. A short walk to the bar and back would be enough to compose yourself.

"I'm going to get a refill. Anyone want anything?"

A chorus of no's and I'm fine's met your ears, so you simply nodded and made your way to the counter.

As you waited to be served, another patron leaned against the bar beside you—a guy, about your age, casually dressed, clearly waiting for his drink too. It wasn't long before you exchanged a few words, just friendly conversation, nothing out of the ordinary. But across the room, someone else seemed to think otherwise.

Poseidon sat stiffly in the booth, his drink untouched, his jaw just slightly clenched. His deep blue eyes locked onto the guy at the bar like a predator watching potential prey. It was almost laughable how intense his stare was—if looks could kill, that man would've dropped right then and there.

Zeus noticed. With a slow, knowing smirk, he leaned toward Poseidon, voice dripping with amusement. "You keep glaring like that, and he might actually drop dead."

Poseidon exhaled sharply, tearing his gaze away and taking a slow sip of his drink, trying to appear indifferent. It wasn't working. "I'm not glaring."

"Oh, shut up." Zeus leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to keep it between them. "You've been pining for months. Months. Even Hades can't take it anymore."

As if on cue, Hades, who had remained mostly quiet, reached across the table and grabbed the camera still sitting open in the center. His sharp eyes flicked to the screen—a clear shot of Poseidon, captured in perfect lighting, an almost ethereal glow around him. He turned the screen toward his younger brother.

"It's a sign." Hades stated simply.

Poseidon frowned. "A sign?"

"They like you too. And if you need more proof, let's talk about the unbearable tension between you two." He sat back, crossing his arms. "Honestly, it's getting exhausting to watch."

"And those stupid braids! You let them braid your hair like some kindergartener every night!" Zeus threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

Poseidon instinctively glanced down at the braids you had done for him earlier that night. They weren't anything elaborate—just a few loose ones scattered through his hair, with two framing his face. You'd woven small trinkets into them, mostly ocean themed charms—tiny seashells, beads shaped like starfish, a silver wave. He had reminded you of his domain, and you had made it very clear in your choices. And he wore them with pride, he wasn't about to let his brother take it away.

He absentmindedly reached up, running his fingers over one of the charms before looking back at his younger brother, expression almost offended. "They're not stupid. I like them."

Zeus snorted. "You look like a hippie."

Poseidon arched a brow. "Did you look at yourself in the mirror before stepping out?"

Before Zeus could fire back, Hades sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alright, enough." He muttered, effectively cutting through their bickering. His gaze shifted to Poseidon. "They won't be there forever for you to tell them and you know that. It's clear that you want to. Stop being the Poseidon that puts everyone at an arm's length and just do it."

Poseidon rolled his eyes, but the lightest hint of pink dusted his cheeks. He brought his drink back to his lips.

Zeus, of course, had to make it worse.

"Or, in better words—just fuck already."

Poseidon nearly choked on his drink.

"Shut up." His voice came out more flustered than threatening, especially with the way he quickly glanced around to see if you had heard that. His blush deepened when Zeus waggled his brows at him.

"I'm just saying—" Zeus continued, clearly enjoying this way too much. "You need to quit staring like some lovesick fool and do something about it."

Then, suddenly, his focus shifted. A girl had just walked into the bar—a striking one, by the way Zeus' gaze immediately locked onto her.

"For example..." He tapped the table once before standing up. "Watch and learn, brother. You'll get to experience it firsthand."

And just like that, he was gone, striding toward the girl with all the confidence of a man who had never once been rejected, not that it was true.

Poseidon exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

Hades turned the camera toward him again, this time slowly pushing it to him, expression unreadable.

"You know he's right."

Poseidon groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.

"Great. Just what I needed—you agreeing with him."

Poseidon huffed, leaning back against the booth with his arms crossed.

Hades, ever composed, simply shrugged. "I'm not saying you should rush into things and have sex straight away." His tone was dry, amused. "But you do need to tell them. It's going to eat you alive if you don't." He met Poseidon's gaze evenly. "You'll know the right moment. And if you don't take it when it comes, you're going to regret it."

Before Poseidon could argue, Hades' phone buzzed against the wooden table, cutting through the conversation. The screen lit up, and Poseidon caught a glimpse of the contact photo—his sister in law's familiar face.

Persephone.

It was almost a ritual at this point. Every night after a show, without fail, she called to check in. Maybe to ask how things had gone, maybe just to hear Hades' voice. Either way, Poseidon had lost count of how many times this exact moment had played out.

Hades barely glanced at the screen before reaching for the phone, a rare, almost imperceptible softness passing over his usually sharp features.

"It worked for me." He murmured before standing up and making his way toward the exit. The door swung shut behind him, the cold night air swallowing his voice as he answered the call.

Poseidon glanced around the nearly empty table, a quiet exhale slipping past his lips. It was as if the universe was mocking him—one by one, everyone had slipped away, leaving him the last one standing. Hades had stepped outside, deep in conversation with Persephone. Zeus had all but disappeared, wrapped up in a flirtatious exchange with the woman who had just walked in. And then there was you.

His eyes found you at the bar, where you exchanged a friendly wave with the man you'd been talking to as he returned to his table. You didn't seem particularly invested in the conversation—just polite, casual—but it still made something coil uncomfortably in Poseidon's stomach.

Before he could think too much about it, his hand instinctively reached for your camera, making sure no one else would take it in your absence. Then he pushed himself up from the booth and walked straight toward you, not hesitating for a second.

"What are you having?"

His voice was low, close—closer than you expected. Before you could react, one of his arms slipped around your waist, the sudden contact making you jump slightly. His touch was cool, his fingers settling almost too naturally on your hip, as if they had always belonged there.

It wasn't just a fleeting touch, either. His thumb moved in slow, absentminded circles over the fabric of your clothes, sending an unexpected shiver up your spine. Your mind short circuited for a moment.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus. "Just some water."

Poseidon raised a brow. "Nothing else?"

"Yeah, not in the mood to let you guys drink me under the table again." You finally turned to meet his gaze, expression playfully accusing. "I've learned my lesson."

"It was one time!"

"It was embarrassing."

"It was adorable."

The bartender slid your glass of water toward you, and you took a sip, letting the cool liquid settle your nerves. Glancing back toward the booth, you realized how empty it looked.

"Where are the rest? Are we leaving?"

Poseidon followed your gaze before checking the clock on the TV screen. "We probably should." He took out his wallet and paid the bartender what was owed.

You downed the rest of your drink, letting him guide you toward the entrance.

As you passed Zeus, still deeply engrossed in conversation with the stunning woman from earlier, Poseidon didn't even slow his pace.

"He's married."

The words were spoken so casually, as if it was just an offhand remark. But they landed like a thunderclap. The woman stiffened, her expression shifting in an instant. Without another word, she stood up and left.

Zeus groaned dramatically. "Oh, come on!"

Poseidon, still not sparing him a glance, only smirked.

──────📸──────

The bus was quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine as it rolled down the darkened highway. Most of the others had already settled in for the night. Hades, ever the responsible one, had turned in first, slipping into his bunk with a final check of his phone before muttering a goodnight. Zeus, on the other hand, had collapsed onto his bed with all the grace of a fallen tree, his snores already filling the small space.

Poseidon, however, was still awake—still thinking.

Zeus and Hades' words from earlier refused to leave his head, circling like vultures. You need to tell them. It's going to eat you from the inside out. He scoffed softly to himself. Like it was that easy.

And now, with the bus lights dimmed and the world outside nothing but a blur of passing headlights, he found himself glancing toward your bunk, where the soft glow of your laptop screen illuminated your face.

You were sitting cross legged, laptop propped on your thighs as you transferred the night's photos from your camera. Your bunk was the top one—you had fought tooth and nail to get it, determined not to settle for anything less. What you didn't know was that Poseidon had let you have it, even if he'd never admit it.

As you carefully checked the last of the transfers, Poseidon walked by, already dressed for bed—pajama pants hanging low on his hips, a tank top clinging to his frame in a way that made it impossible not to look. When his eyes landed on you, there was no surprise. Of course you were still awake.

"You still up?"

You hummed in response, not looking away from the screen, even though you really wanted to. "Making sure I don't lose any pictures."

He lingered for a moment, then, with a casual air masking something deeper, asked, "Can I see them again?"

You turned to him, surprised by his genuine interest. "Of course."

With effortless strength, Poseidon grabbed the edge of your bunk and hoisted himself up, careful not to bump his head in the cramped space. You adjusted your laptop, angling the screen toward him as he settled beside you, shoulders almost touching.

The two of you scrolled through the images, laughter slipping between you as you pointed out ridiculous expressions and perfectly timed shots.

"You actually managed to look right at the lens," You mused, clicking through the images. "Which is wild because with all those lights, I'd imagine it'd be hard to spot it."

Poseidon tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking from the screen to you. "It's hard not to look at you."

You froze.

He had leaned in to say it—so close, his breath brushed your ear, his voice deep and low. Your entire body tensed at the unexpected sensation. The space between you felt suddenly nonexistent. He was always cool to the touch, like the ocean breeze on a late night, but now—now he was warm. Too warm. His presence was overwhelming in the best way, his body radiating heat like a fire in the dead of winter.

Your hands stilled over the laptop. The moment stretched. You turned your head, searching his eyes, desperate to know if this was just more of the playful flirting he always threw your way, or if—

His gaze flickered downward. To your lips.

The air between you thickened, charged, pulling you forward before you could think better of it. His lips met yours—soft, warm, lingering in a way that felt certain. No hesitation. No teasing. Just him.

You supposed that was your answer.

Poseidon tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, his hand drifting to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you closer. You melted into it. He tasted faintly of mint and something sweet, something him. When you finally broke apart, breathless, he hovered just inches away, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against your skin.

Out of nowhere you had the courage to speak. "You put on this rough, brooding persona." You murmured, lips brushing against his. "But I know you."

Poseidon exhaled a soft chuckle, raising a brow. "Really?"

"Really."

A slow smirk pulled at his lips. "What do you know?"

You exhaled, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tank top. "...You want..."

Poseidon's voice dropped an octave. "What do I want?" His nose brushed yours, the tension crackling between you like a brewing storm. "Show me."

The next kiss was different—hungrier. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moved over yours, stealing every breath you had to offer. Your laptop was an afterthought as Poseidon reached past you, flipping it shut before taking your camera and carefully lowering it to his bunk below.

Or at least, that was the plan.

Thud.

He hit his head on the low ceiling ledge, where the curtain rails ran.

You broke into laughter. "Oh, you're laughing?" He muttered, rubbing the sore spot, his expression both irritated and amused.

"A little bit." You teased.

Poseidon narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. "Oh, I'll shut you up."

With that, he lowered you back onto the mattress, one hand gripping your thigh, kneading the muscle as he brought it up, pulling you against him. His fingers trailed upward, firm yet teasing, sending sparks down your spine. He tilted your head to the side, lips grazing your jaw, then lower, lower—his mouth settling at the delicate space between your jaw and neck.

When he pressed his lips there, you let out a soft whimper, barely aware you had done it. The warmth of his mouth against your skin, the way his breath fanned over the sensitive spot—it was dizzying.

He smirked against your neck. He barely had time to make a comment before—

"Hey!"

Zeus' voice shattered the moment. "If you're gonna have sex, do it at the next stop OUTSIDE the bus. I don't wanna hear you two going at it!"

Heat flooded your face. You let your forehead fall against Poseidon's shoulder, laughing softly in embarrassment.

Poseidon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Shut up, Zeus."

Zeus snickered. "You're welcome." It was revenge for what he had done before.

Poseidon muttered something under his breath, but as you glanced up at him—his face slightly pink, his lips kiss swollen—you just smiled.

You gave him one last chaste kiss on the mouth, slow and lingering, a quiet promise that this wasn't the end of whatever had just begun. Your fingers brushed over his arm in a gentle pat, grounding both of you back to reality.

"We should go to sleep." You murmured, your voice softer now, reluctant but firm.

His eyes, still hazy with emotion, softened at the sight of you. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something that made your heart clench just a little. But he didn't argue. He simply exhaled, slow and steady, before finally loosening his hold on you.

His fingers grazed your waist one last time as he pulled away, as if reluctant to break the connection.

"Yeah," He finally said, voice quieter now. "we should."

With one last glance, he eased himself down from your bunk, settling into his own below you. The space between you suddenly felt colder, emptier—but the warmth he left behind lingered on your skin. You couldn't help the smile that had formed on your face from ear to ear, you had to stop yourself from squealing, though.

And with that, the bus rolled on, carrying you both into the quiet of the night.

#new hyperfixation babes

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