sadsatsumahead

[sadsatsumahead]

But have you ever considered how tiny your newborn baby girl would look compared to Robby?

It’s time for her to pass out after a bottle, but her big brown eyes will not close. She wants to hang out with her momma for a little while longer, but you desperately need a shower.

Robby is already moving to lay down on the bed, knowing exactly how this scene plays out. He’s just in an old t-shirt and sweatpants and those slutty little glasses. You lay your baby girl on his chest, and Robby is smiling from ear to ear just at the chance to hold her.

“C’mere, sweet pea.”

She’s still so little, complete with her newborn scrunch that makes her body look like a tiny bean. That’s why her father bestowed her with such a fitting nickname the moment he first saw her.

Her body is right on top of Robby’s heart, and the steady beating, combined with his hummed lullaby and his giant hand holding her in place and his bearded kisses on her furball of a head, immediately lulls her to sleep. No fuss, no tears, just instant peace.

—

See this very sweet post by @espressheauxs, where the sweet pea inspo came from 🫶🏼

[sadsatsumahead]

[sadsatsumahead]

I think my vagina just had a stroke

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

[sadsatsumahead]

#I need to stop relating to a 50 years old man

[sadsatsumahead]

[sadsatsumahead]

I need him 💔

Ho'oponopono

Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: Filthy smut, angry sex, unprotected p in v sex, age gap (reader late 20s, Robby early 50s), jealousy, Robby doesn’t clock flirting, angst but then heavy fluff at the end, NOT proofread lol I’ll fix them as I go

Description: When a new intern is flirting with Robby, the reader blows up at him for entertaining it. To prove his love for her, he drags the reader to an on-call room.

Michael Robinavitch Masterlist

--

The words “I love you” hadn’t been exchanged between you and Robby. You were waiting for him to say it first, but there was no doubt in your mind that he did love you. You could see it in everything.

In the way he always failed to hold back a prideful smile when you commanded a trauma case.

In the way he caged you in his arms, tucking you deep into to his chest, after the death of a patient.

In the way he laughed when you danced with him in the kitchen while dinner cooked on the stove after a long shift.

In the way he always walked on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street, guiding you with a large hand on the small of your back.

In the way he hit snooze on the first alarm of the morning, grumbling until it was silent again, then pulled you closer against his frame, nestling his face into the crook of your neck and kissing the soft skin.

In the way he worshipped your body and whispered your name as he fucked you every night, keeping as much of your body pressed against his at all times while he railed into you.

In the way he always looked at you like you personally hung the stars and painted the sunsets and planted every flower.

But when you watched Robby laugh at a joke the new intern had whispered a little too close to his ear, you couldn’t feel the ground beneath you. The foundation of your relationship had suddenly cracked.

The new interns started a couple of days ago, but you had been off until today. They were all kind, smart, and a little scared. But one of the interns had taken a particular liking to Robby. She was young and pretty. Her laugh sounded genuine and sweet. She was quick on her feet, and you didn’t miss the way she blushed when Robby complimented her for it after a trauma came in this morning.

It was close to 3pm, and you’d watched them interact several times. The intern clearly had a crush on your boyfriend that must have developed on her first day. Could you blame her? Robby was handsome, funny, and a very good teacher. Anyone with a praise kink would be on their knees for him, yourself included. And it’s not like she would know that he was your boyfriend. It’s not something that was announced as a part of intern orientation, nor was it professional to mark your territory by kissing him right in front of her to make a point.

But what really stung was the way Robby leaned into her when he laughed at her joke. That he was entertaining the flirting, even though he didn’t reciprocate it. He was flashing that boyish grin that he usually only reserved for you.

It made you sick. Physically sick. You felt nauseous and had half a mind to run to the bathroom before you puked your guts out in front of everyone. Just as you were about to check out your patient in Central Three, you saw it happen.

She touched his arm. Practically fondling his bicep. And Robby didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t make a single move to discourage the touch. In fact, he raised his hand to pat it, in more of a fatherly way than anything. But it didn’t matter.

It sent you into a spiral. You needed air, and you needed it before you threw up. Your skin had paled, and your mouth began to water, a final warning sign. You sprinted out to the ambulance bay, rushing past Robby and the intern, not giving them a single glance.

When the fresh air hit your face and the scent of antiseptic faded away, your nausea began to curb. You still leaned against the brick wall, stabilizing yourself, taking deep breaths. The whir of the automatic doors caught your attention, and you saw Robby hurry out, snapping his head in every direction until he saw you.

“Hey, kid. What’s goin’ on?” His voice was soft but laced with worry. “You okay?”

You closed your eyes and swallowed hard. Was it worth telling him the truth? All it would do was make the rest of your shift uncomfortable.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You answered, refusing to meet his gaze, focusing on not throwing up.

Robby closed in on you, practically trapping you against the wall when he grabbed your face in his massive hands, tilting until your eyes met his. “Need ya to talk to me, baby. You’re pale as a ghost, you’re shaking.”

You wished that his touch didn’t immediately alleviate some of your worries. But you refused to let yourself be so malleable for him, especially when he was entertaining affections from someone else.

“I just…needed some air.” You replied, drawing in another deep breath through your nose.

Robby nodded, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “You don’t have to tell me, but I wish you would. Helps me understand.” His offer was tempting, and you knew he meant it.

Just as you were about to confess your jealousy and petty hatred towards the intern, you saw writing on the dorsum of his hand. It was a bunch of numbers. It was a phone number. In a particularly cutesy handwriting that certainly wasn’t your boyfriend’s.

“What’s that?” Your voice was curious but dangerously cold.

Robby followed your eyesight to the back of his hand. “Oh, one of the new interns wrote her number on my hand. She mentioned a library in town that I hadn’t heard about, and she said to text her later to get the address. I wish she didn’t use Sharpie though because it’ll take forever to-“

“Why don’t you go fuck the new intern? Seems to be your thing.”

A freezing silence followed even in the heat of summer. Robby’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, blocked by wrinkles of surprise. He blinked dumbly for a few seconds.

“Excuse me?” His voice was slow and cautious.

You stepped to the side to get away from his proximity, away from his warmth. “Don’t play dumb with me, Robby. I watched you flirt with her all day.” Your words came out in hisses that would make a viper jealous.

Robby’s jaw slackened, and his eyebrows began to drop, furrowing with anger. “Who do you think you’re talking to, kid?” It was scarily authoritative. He had switched from boyfriend to attending in a mere second.

When he took a step forward, you took another step back to maintain the distance. “Sorry I can’t be the youngest in the room anymore. Guess that’s what gets you off.”

Before he could respond, the automatic doors slid open, and Dana ran through. “Robby, we need you in Trauma One!” She called out.

Robby leaned close to you, nostrils flared, a dangerous fire in his eyes. “We are not done with this.” He practically growled.

You cocked an eyebrow, unfazed by his threat. “Go take your little plaything with you. Just try not to cum in your pants when she touches your arm again.”

The muscles in his neck shifted, his entire face reddened from fury. It took every ounce of self control for him to walk away, following Dana back into the Pitt.

Once he was gone, you let out a deep breath that you didn’t realize had been trapped in your chest. You felt a little better. You got to release your anger, but that didn’t stop the pang of guilt that hit your gut when you thought about the words you chose. That you didn’t give Robby a chance to say anything. That you didn’t give yourselves the chance to handle it in a healthier manner.

—

You finished stitching up a patient’s arm in Central Three before heading out to the desk hub. Every now and then, you peered through the window to see Robby still working in Trauma One, covered in sweat, his gown stained with blood. It had been well over an hour since Dana had called for his help.

You cleaned up your suture kit, discarding the sharps into a red bin. “Okay, I’m gonna be back in a few minutes with some bandages to keep that wound covered, alright?”

The patient just smiled and nodded, content with your plan. When you stepped out of the room, a strong hand grabbed your bicep and started dragging you down the hallway. You quickly recognized the New Balance shoes, now covered in blood, and knew it was Robby.

“What are you doing?” You grumbled, low enough to keep attention away from the two of you.

Robby didn’t say anything. His hoodie was gone, leaving him only in his black scrubs. Sweat trickled down his face and neck, his hair disheveled from pulling off a sterile hat. He looked rough.

He kept pulling you behind him like you weighed nothing, stopping only when he shoved you into an on-call room, slamming the door behind him. Before you could say anything else, he caught your mouth with his, pushing you back until your head pressed against the door.

Robby wasted no time snatching your scrub bottoms down, shoving his long fingers down your panties, furiously circling your clit. A strangled cry left your lips and into his mouth.

“Hush.” He growled, a sharp breath blowing against your tongue from the single word.

He dragged his hand down to your folds, testing the wetness. Satisfied by the way you drenched his fingers, he reached for his zipper with his free hand. His cock sprung free from the confines of his boxers, and he gave himself a few pumps.

“You can say a lot of things to me, and I won’t get mad. But accuse me of entertaining someone other than you? Like a fucking slap in the face.” His voice was steady and harsh as he ran his tip against your pussy.

Without a warning, he sank deep into you with a swiftness, sparing no time for you to adjust to his length. Your breath hitched as his first thrust came soon after. His hands grasped your thighs, hoisting you up for a better angle. You moaned at the wonderful stretch and delicious pain. Anyone walking by would be able to guess with certainty what was happening behind the door.

“You’re the only one I’d risk my fucking job for like this. Reminding you that I only belong to you. Right next to our patients, right next to our coworkers. So you better keep that pretty mouth shut.”

His hips rocked against yours, thrusting deep, almost too deep. Your whimpers were muffled by his lips on yours again. When he could hear people walking by outside, he moved you to the bed, putting your knees on the mattress, and realigned himself with your pussy before returning to his blistering pace.

“Don’t you ever disrespect me like that again, you understand? Don’t you ever question my loyalty and my love for you.”

Your head was shoved into the mattress, resting on one side of your face, drool beginning to trickle out of your open mouth. “Love?” You breathed.

“Yes. Love. I love you. I fucking love you.” Robby grunted through each thrust, the smacks of his pelvis against your ass growing increasingly louder.

Tears pricked your eyes as you felt your orgasm building but also from his confession. “I-oh, God. I love you, Robby.” You babbled.

He bent down to press a kiss to your spine, never relenting from his speed. “Wanted to say it at a nice dinner, dress up for you, make it a pretty memory. But you needed to hear it now, yeah? Full of my cock in the fucking on-call room?” He grumbled.

You felt your abdomen tighten, heat pooling incredibly fast. “Michael, please.” You whimpered.

“Callin’ me Michael already, huh? You must be gettin’ pretty close.” He cooed, and you nodded pathetically. “Good, ‘cause you gotta go check on that patient in Central Three.”

He reached around to your clit, circling viciously again to coax your orgasm out. When you came, it broke you. Your back arched, pussy squeezing around his cock with each wave of bliss.

“Atta girl. I know you needed that. Mmmm, so good for me.” His deep voice praised you sweetly, losing a bit of its gruffness from earlier.

Your high began to come down, and Robby made a fist in your hair, pulling just a bit until your ass was flat against his hips.

“Now why don’t you keep rockin’ back against me so I can fill you up, yeah? So you can feel me running down your legs when you see that intern talking to me again and remember who I belong to. Not her. You.”

His voice made your pussy clench tightly around him. You wearily began shifting back, filling yourself with his length, slick with your cream. His grunts became louder, his grip in your hair tighter, and he held his free hand over his mouth to bite the back of his hand, where that fucking phone number was, to keep from whining.

“Fuckin’ hell. Oh, that’s right, pretty girl. Just like that.”

With a few more of your backwards thrusts, each one sealed with a lewd squelch from your juices, Robby came, and fuck, he came a lot. His cock twitched longer than usual, filling your walls with his thick cum. He didn’t move for a while, just enjoying the aftershocks of your orgasm around his cock, keeping you plugged with his release. He slowly slipped out, grunting explicitives as he did, and tucked himself back into his pants. He pulled your panties and scrub pants back up for you, planting sweet kisses on your shoulder and neck as he did. You flipped over onto your back, resting on your elbows, catching your breath.

“Feel better?” He asked, pulling you to your feet gently.

Your legs trembled as you tried to regain your footing, hands clutching his shoulders in the meantime. You shuddered as you felt his hot cum drip into your panties from the change in position. “Yeah.” You breathed.

Robby wrapped his arms around you, keeping you close to him. “Good. ‘Cause I mean it. I love you, kid. With everything that I am.” His lips pulled into a smile with his promise.

You matched his smile and reached up to caress the side of his face, gently scratching his beard. “I love you, too. God, I love you so much, Robby.”

He pulled his lips into a thin line, his brow furrowing with a serious expression. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize that she was flirting with me and that it made you uncomfortable. I can see it now in hindsight, but I won’t entertain it further.” He said. “I don’t think I saw it because I genuinely wasn’t interested in anything besides education.”

You nodded in acceptance. “I’m sorry, too. For snapping at you like that. I was just angry and very insecure.” You confessed. “I didn’t even give you a chance to defend yourself.”

Robby brushed a strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Ho’oponopono, yeah?” He whispered.

You smiled and nodded, running your hand through his hair to smooth it down for public appearance.

“I love you.”

“Thank you.”

“I forgive you.”

“Please forgive me.”

You both recited the mantra, each statement sealed with a gentle kiss. You giggled and nuzzled your nose against his. “The four things that matter most. You taught me that on my first day.” You noted.

He nodded, rubbing your waist in soothing squeezes. “I’m glad you remembered.”

You shrugged and bumped your forehead against his playfully. “I have a good teacher.”

Robby patted the small of your back and tilted his head toward the door. “Come on, kid. We gotta get back out there.”

You lowered your forehead into his chest, inhaling his comforting scent that never failed to ground you. “Just a few more seconds.” You pleaded.

Robby couldn’t say no to that. He just tightened his embrace and rested his head on yours, swaying your bodies gently. “Y’know, I had something made for you. Was gonna give it to you when I took you out for that nice dinner.” He broke the silence.

You smiled slightly and hummed. “What is it?”

He began to lead you to the door, ready to lead you both back to the rest of the shift. “Check your locker when I’m doing shift-change with Jack tonight. Might find something there.” He said with a cheeky smile.

—

Just like Robby suggested, you found a present in your locker when you went to retrieve your backpack at the end of your shift. The box was small, not wrapped. Just a simple receptacle with a lid. You pulled away the top to inspect the contents of the box.

A key.

You gingerly twirled the metal in your fingers, inspecting the grooves. You didn’t have a photographic memory, but you recognized the unique pattern.

A key to Robby’s house.

You smiled and clutched the key in your hand, slinging your backpack over your shoulder before heading to the floor again. There you saw Jack and Robby going over the patient list for handoff. You sauntered over to the desk hub where they stood, leaning against the high counter. Once Robby met your gaze, he smiled and patted Jack on the shoulder, wishing him luck for the night.

When he approached, you couldn’t repress the silly smile on your face. “I got my gift.” You said simply.

Robby matched your smile and leaned against the counter. “You know what it’s for?” He asked.

You shrugged. “I think I know, but tell me anyway.” You hummed.

He looked down, almost bashfully, and nudged your foot with his. “It’s a key to my house. For you to stay whenever you want…for however long you want.”

You tapped his foot playfully in retaliation. “Is staying forever an option?”

Robby’s eyes met yours, a twinkle of hope in them. “Of course. It’s up to you, kid.”

“It’s always been my end goal.” You confirmed, taking a step closer to him.

Robby let you invade his space, and he placed a hand on your hip. “Then I might have something a little shinier coming your way in a few months. How’s that sound?” He asked with a charming wink.

You giggled and threw your arms around his neck. He chuckled and squeezed you tight, catching your lips for a very quick but very public kiss. One that every new intern could see from across the room. Including her.

“Sounds perfect.” You replied, kissing him one more time. “Ready to go home?”

Robby nodded, eyes crinkled at the corners from his grin. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

—

A/N: I hope y’all liked this! I’m a little out of the long fic-writing game. I’ve been so busy and only had motivation for blurbs. I’m hoping to get more fics out here soon!! Thanks for reading!!

[sadsatsumahead]

I will NEVER be over this picture.

[sadsatsumahead]

: ̗̀➛ 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), daddy kink, chubby and insecure reader.  words : 20,3k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ㅤㅤㅤmasterlist⋆ inspo⋆ moodboard⋆ ao3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that shattered something deeper than you thought was possible.

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

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

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

The numbers on the scale never dropped.

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

Now, it was neither slim… nor healthy. 

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

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

You were barely holding yourself together.

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

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

But the truth was different.

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

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

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

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

Fat.

That word felt branded on your forehead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They always fell.

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

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

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

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

You had been grateful you never joined.

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

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

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

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

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

But to you, it was beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, you ate.

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

It had been weeks since that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

Tired of letting him win. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was all a stupid idea.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before him, it used to be your favourite one. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with that, he sent you on your way.

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

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

And you found yourself longing for more. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And despite everything, that voice still echoed.

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

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

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

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

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

The shop was empty. Silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It made your chest ache in the best way.

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

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

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

The look in your eyes was quietly devastating.

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

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

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

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

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

And that, Ghost thought, deserved something beautiful.

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

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

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

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

There was no turning back now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt right.

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

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

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

You nodded. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You told Ghost you were ready.

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

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

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

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

That last part snapped you out of your dreamy fog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twenty minutes later, the buzzing stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, he didn't like it.

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

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

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

All you could do was nod, stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gloves. Ink. Needles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fat. Ugly. Big.

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

Dread hit you like a wave. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

A lump formed in your throat. It hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked at him, stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just kept feeding you. 

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

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

But you told him everything else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No pressure. No rushing.

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

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

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

But it felt wrong. 

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

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

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

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

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

Another silence settled between you.

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

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

And right now, he thought you were beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He'd been right. Spot on.

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

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

And he had no intention of going anywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t hesitate. He just said yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes never left you. Not once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being here. With you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stilled. Breath catching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, who?”

“…Yes, Simon.”

That would do—for now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moan that escaped your lips then was nearly pornographic.

"Sorry…" you whispered, your breath shaky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then they slipped past the edge of your panties.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reflex hit before you could stop it.

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

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

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

You did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Simon didn’t rush.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just in case.

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t going anywhere.

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

It almost felt twisted. But it wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

But with Simon, that part felt… right.

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

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

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

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

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

That took your breath away.

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

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

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

But Simon didn’t let you.

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But nothing happened. No shame. No recoil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hottest thing you’d ever heard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, daddy." You finally let out. 

"Good girl." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was his way of telling you he was here.

That he wasn’t going anywhere.

That you were okay. That you were enough.

Lying there felt almost therapeutic.

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

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

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

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

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

Still, he turned back to your sunflower.

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

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

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

The sight took your breath away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And honestly? He was no better.

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

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

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

That voice.

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

No. No, it couldn’t be.

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

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

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

You’d thought it was over.

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

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

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

Your ex.

He was really there. Actually there.

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

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

That was all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew what was coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His sweet blooming flower.

what a fucking ride it had been.

[sadsatsumahead]

June 1, 2025 - Women paint the Palestinian flag on the steps of Piazza Gramsci, in Orgosolo, Sardinia. [link]

We believe that in such a dramatic moment, such as the one the Palestinian people are experiencing before the eyes of the entire world, we cannot remain indifferent. Faced with the painful awareness of our impotence in stopping a conflict, we wish to express our dissent with the peaceful tools at our disposal.

[sadsatsumahead]

Reporter: Why do you think so many countries’ governments around the world are just ignoring what’s happening in Gaza?

Greta Thunberg: Because of racism, that’s the simple answer, I would say. Racism, and basically desperately trying to defend a deadly, destructive system that systematically maximizes short term economic profit and geopolitical power over the well being of humans and the planet. Right now, it is morally difficult to defend that – it is impossible— but they’re desperately trying which is …. absurd is not the word, but there are no words to describe it.

- Greta Thunberg in Paris, after returning from Israel’s illegal abduction of her aboard the Madleen (10 Jun 25)

[sadsatsumahead]

Organized Care

Summary: Listen this is a very self indulgent thought because I'm the worst at this... but Jack would be the king of reminding you to take your meds. Birth control, psych, midol/aleve, whatever... he is just always making sure your needs are being met because he knows your mind just blanks on those things... but not him. He's got you.

Jack was finishing up his chart, his brow furrowed in concentration. The buzz of the ER didn’t bother him, he had learned to tune it over a decade ago. He finished his sentence, leaning back in his chair with a sigh, looking at his watch.

“Shit. Dana, have you seen y/n?” Jack asked, fumbling to get something from his pockets.

“She’s over at bay 6, why?”  Dana looked up from her tablet. Jack tapped his watch and walked off.

“Okay, Mrs. Simmons, you take it easy.” You smiled to the patient as you left. Jack was waiting patiently just outside the curtain.

“You want to get coffee?” He asked.

“Not particularly, why?” You said, eyes trained on your tablet as you typed away.

“You need one.”

“I don’t, I feel fine.” You looked up at him, confused. Jack raised his hand, a small pill organizer in it, and shook it.  “Oh! I forgot again.” You chuckled.

“You always forget. Come on, before you start whining about ‘brain zaps’ or whatever you call it.” Jack guided you toward the breakroom, his hand on the small of your back.

“Well, if they made an SSRI that didn’t have to be taken on a strict schedule, I’d do that one.” You sighed as you walked in, grabbing your mug and pouring the stale coffee in it.

“You’d never remember to take those either.” Jack chuckled as he handed you your meds.

“Why remember when I have you?” You downed the pills.

“What if I’m out of town? What if I’m in a coma?”

“Why would you be in a coma?”

“Why is anyone in a coma? Life happens.” Jack sipped your coffee.

“If you’re in a coma, I don’t think my meds would be able to do much.” You chuckled.

“Take your Tylenol now too.” Jack handed you the pill.

“I don’t need it.”

“You’re hunched over like an old Italian woman. Your back hurts, I can see it a mile away. Take the damn pill.” Jack scolded.

“You’re mean when you care.” You rolled your eyes, taking the pill.

“You like it.” He smirked as he pulled you in by the hips.

“Maybe.” You ran a hand through his hair. The intercom buzzed about a new trauma arriving, causing you both to groan in irritation.

“Let me know if you’re back acts up.” Kissed your cheek and ran off. You smiled to yourself. You always did like how he took care of you. You were both much better at caring for each other than yourselves. It was a symbiotic relationship.

The morning sun was starting to filter in through the ambulance bay doors, bringing some levity to the stark white walls.  The day shift was starting to filter in, the next group due for 12 hours of hell.

“Good morning.” Dana smiled as she sat at the desk.

“It’s only good for you because we managed to clear out the place.” You scoffed, leaning over the counter.

“You guys cleaned up good last night.” Robby smirked as he walked over.

“You’re welcome.” You hissed.

“What’s with the attitude?” Dana chuckled.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry.” You sighed. “I’m on my period and I just want to go collapse in the bath.”

“I do not miss those days.” Dana laughed. “Just wait until you have to work through menopause.” She shook her head.

“I am suddenly very grateful to be a man.” Robby nodded.

“The uterus is the stupidest organ. Why crush yourself? It doesn’t make any sense.” You groan, head falling into your arms on the counter.

“We’ll do rounds and get you out of here. You can sit down if you need to.” Robby said.

“I’ll never get back up.” You flopped your arms out in front of you.

“Here.” Jack seemed to appear out of nowhere, placing two pills in your outstretched hand. “Where did you come from?” Dana jumped.

“I’m always around.” He smiled. “Take your midol.” Jack scowled until you downed the pills.

“Thank you.” You sighed. “I need to check the dressing on bay 5 and then I’ll join for hand over.” You slunk off toward the patient.

“You just carry Midol in your pocket?” Robby looked at Jack, confused.

“Yes.” Jack’s face was equally confused. He pulled out his pill organizer. “I have Tylenol for both our backs, aspirin, Midol, Imodium,  her Zoloft, my pain meds, Pepto chewables because her stomach gets upset if you look at her wrong, her Zyrtec for the allergies she swears she doesn’t have, her birth control because one time she stopped the alarm without taking it and she was two days behind and we both had a panic attack when she was randomly nauseous four weeks later, so I’m in charge of those now…and Tums.” Jack shook the organizer at Robby.

“Wow. You just have that on you at all times?” Robby asked.

“Yeah. She forgets to take care of herself. Someone has to remember.” Jack shrugged.

“That is a new level of whipped.” Robby chuckled.

“Maybe, but I’m the one with a hot woman in his bed and you’re not.” Jack smirked as he walked off.

“Oh, he schooled your ass.” Dana laughed.

[sadsatsumahead]

how easy you are to need - part 1

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

|| part 2 >>

Summary: You accidentally send some very compromising pictures (and a particularly filthy video) to your boss/attending/crush. Chaos follows and, along with it, a very pleasant surprise.

wc: 7.6k

Warnings: f!reader, secondhand embarrassment probably (it ends well), kind of non-con voyeurism, resident/attending, implied age gap, lewds n’ nudes, jerking off at work, banter, robby has a dirty mouth, mutual pining, (they’re both down so bad but robby is better at hiding it), tension, reader is shorter than robby, alternating pov

A/N: *sobbing into my hands* it was not supposed to be like this. i need help. i need to be sedated. actual smut in part 2, i promise </3

Honestly, you really shouldn’t be putting in this kind of effort for a guy who’s failed to get you off not just once, not twice, but three times now, which happens to be the same number of times you’ve hooked up with him. 

Yet here you are, striking various poses in various states of undress with the hope of inspiring Tony to just try harder.

You start on your knees in your thigh highs, cheeksters, and a way-too-short crop top. Arch the back, make sure to get some under and side boob, a tasteful lewd to whet his palate.

Move to the bed and lose the panties. Part of your face is in the shot, lip between your teeth, but the main focus is your ass that’s pushed into the air enough to get a better view. 

The last photo is of your tits—most of them, anyway, but if Tony is smart enough to press his thumb to the screen, he’ll see that it’s a live and be generously afforded the sight of your nipples on screen for half a second when you give a little bounce. 

None of it is crazy, just enough to make him hungry, prepare him for the video you film. Back in bed, you take the time to get yourself wet with your favorite vibrator, feel your muscles contract and loosen in preparation for your fingers first, then your dildo. 

About seven inches with a satisfying girth, the toy is a shade of light teal (and glows in the dark, but that’s irrelevant). Phone secured in a telescopic stand that gives you more reach, you click ‘record’ again and spend the next 20 minutes filming and editing until you’re pleased with the end result. 

Your moans are loud enough to hear but not over the top, still leave gaps that are filled by the squelch of your pussy. Some frames catch the quiver of your thighs, others a glimpse of the curve of your tits where your shirt has ridden up. The star of the show, however, is the toy you’re plunging in and out of your cunt, coated in gossamer arousal at first but eventually smeared with white cream as you continue to fuck yourself with it. 

The orgasm at the end is faked, impossible for you to achieve without clitoral stimulation, but you’re positive Tony won’t know the difference considering you’ve already faked three with him. 

Scrolling through, you hum at everything you’ve managed to capture. Good work. Maybe he’ll finally go down on you for longer than three minutes. Maybe next time you see him, you’ll actually cum. 

Wishful thinking, but enough to motivate you to send the suggestive images and filthy fucking video. 

It’s about four PM, so Tony will be at work for another hour. Refusing to wait with baited breath, you toss your phone to the side and busy yourself with cleaning your toys. You’ve done enough for this guy; you’re not gonna let him take up any more space in your mind by obsessing over what his reply might be. 

You have no idea that you’ve just made a horrible mistake.

You should’ve double checked. Maybe then you would’ve been quick enough to delete everything. 

But, you didn’t, so you’re not, and about 15 minutes later when you pick up your phone again your heart drops into your ass. 

It’s so fucking stupid. You’re so fucking stupid. But Tony was your most recent message, and you were positive that when you unlocked your phone, it opened up his thread like it usually does. You hadn’t even noticed that it had, instead, taken you to your most recent notification—an older text thread that had remained untouched for over a week.

Until now. 

>> I know you just worked 5 in a row, but Mel is out with the flu. Is there any way you can come in for her tomorrow? 

From Robby. 

As in Dr. Robinavitch. As in your senior attending, your boss, your teacher (your crush for the last two years).

And, right there under his question, or really in response to it, are your three pictures and amateur video. 

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep vomit from spewing past your lips, ohh God, your stomach is rolling. There are literal tears in your eyes as you frantically type 

<< DO NOT FULLY OPEN THIS THREAD!!!

<< JUST DELETE IT 

<< PLEASE

But, you’re kidding yourself. It’s already been 15 minutes since you sent them, and that dreaded ‘Read’ is already time-stamped beneath your video. 

Dizzy and hot with humiliation, you walk into your bathroom and sit on the tile, want to be as close to the toilet as possible in case you really do hurl. 

<< I am SO sorry those obviously weren’t meant for you 

<< I didn’t realize you texted 

<< I should have double checked. Triple checked 

<< I’m so so sorry oh my god 

Three dots appear, and you bite down on your lip so hard, you just might open the scars left by old piercings. 

The dots disappear for several seconds. Pop back up. Disappear again. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

>> No worries. Deleted. 

You inhale shakily, the text almost impossible to read with how your phone quakes in your trembling hands. 

There is no way you’ll be able to look Robby in the face ever again. You should just go to the hospital now and grab any shit you have in the locker you share with Trinity. Start looking at different residency programs. See if you can get some kind of letter of recommendation from an attending who is not Robby. 

His question, you remember. If you can work for Mel. You can’t agree to it—absolutely not. 

Should you tell him that, though? Is he waiting for a real answer that does not involve your naked fucking body? Oh, this is bad. This is very not good. 

You don’t tell him that you’ll cover the shift, and Robby doesn’t ask a second time. He probably knows you’re going through the five stages of grief and are nowhere near ‘acceptance’. He’s a smart guy, merciful despite what some of the other residents say. You need time to process your egregious mistake, and he’s giving it to you. 

Or, so you assume. 

In reality, Robby is about ten miles away, dealing with what might be the most painful erection in the history of mankind, and he can’t even do anything about it aside from hide in the bathroom, staring and cursing at his traitorous dick for reacting like this. 

He’s at work, for fuck’s sake. There are patients bleeding out on the other side of this door, and he’s standing here like an asshole, contemplating if it’s possible to will his predicament away, or if it’ll be easier to just jerk off right here. Robby has no doubt that he’d be able to cum within thirty seconds, but the morality aspect of it…

Getting himself off in the bathroom of his own emergency department is goddamn degenerate behavior, but how the fuck is he supposed to focus like this? 

Holy fuck, he’s so hard it hurts, and when Robby finally pulls his cock from his cargos, the pressure of his hand alone has him gasping and hissing. His tip is leaking precum, and he decides that yeah, this was the right move. Most ethical? Fuck no. But at least now he won’t have to explain any suspicious fluid that may bleed through his pants. 

The weight of his phone in his pocket is comparable to that of an anvil. Robby tries to ignore it, gives himself a few slow strokes while bracing his other hand on the wall. 

Don’t. Don’t look at the pictures. Do not fucking open that thread again (the one that he definitely did not delete). Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t—

“Shit,” Robby huffs, grabbing his phone, unlocking it, immediately opening your messages. 

He’s fucked. He is fucked. Can’t believe he’s actually doing this. It’s wrong on so many levels, but God, you are gorgeous and splayed out, on display for Robby to drink in even though these images were not meant for his eyes.

The arch of your back in the picture of you on your knees. The outline—the suggestion—of your tits beneath that impractically tiny top, completely gone in the next image to show off the slopes and curves and valley between. Robby thinks about what it might feel like to suck on your pebbled nipples, what sounds you’d make for him. 

Then, he sees the video, the one he hadn’t actually opened because the screencap was already too much. It’s what sent him speed walking to the nearest bathroom in the first place. 

He’s smart enough to turn his volume all the way down, looks over his shoulder to make sure no one is nearby despite being in a very locked staff restroom that is one, marked as occupied, and two, requires a code to get in. Still, it never hurts to double check (as you learned just a few minutes ago). 

With a deep breath, hand still wrapped around his cock, Robby taps his screen to play the video and—

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, sucking saliva from his teeth as he watches you move the camera from your chest down your torso, your hips, and finally the hand between your legs. The toy between your legs. 

Robby is panting as he watches you, stroking himself and time-locked with the bright dildo you’re thrusting in and out of your cunt. 

He wants to hear you, fuck, he wants to find out if you’re moaning or whimpering or letting your pussy do all the talking. 

The toy shines in the light whenever you pull it out, but Robby zeroes in on the ring of cream you leave around the base, smearing it up and down as you keep fucking yourself, and fuckfuck, he’s gonna cum. He’s gonna cum in this hospital restroom to this video that he was never supposed to see, the video he’d told you he deleted. 

So wrong, so fucking wrong, possibly the most fucked up thing he’s ever done, but he couldn’t help it—can’t help it when you tremble and buck and shove the dildo into your pussy as far as it’ll go like you’re greedy for more. 

Robby can give you more. He wants to give you more, has wanted to for too fucking long. From the first time he stood behind you to guide you through a procedure, got a whiff of your shampoo, saw the way you smiled at him. Cute and competent, beautiful, flexible, good. You’re so fucking good. 

He’s ignored it for two years. Two years of squeezing his eyes shut to block out the stars in yours. Two years of biting back groans when you end up pressed against him in a crowded trauma room. Two years of flushed skin and heart palpitations and staring at someone he shouldn’t even be glancing at. 

But, now he has the pictures and this video, and it’s like he’s been damned to a special kind of hell. He’s watching you take that dildo, obsessed with the idea of watching you take something bigger, take him, let him fill you up with more than just his cock. Shit, he could give you so much more, load after load until his cum is dripping out of your pussy rather than off of his hand like it is now. 

“Fuuucking—”

Robby drops his head to the wall and takes a few deep breaths while letting the shame wash over him, wishing he would drown in it instead of simply bathing. 

•

Robby quickly figures out that he is going to have to be the mature one out of the two of you. He doesn’t really have a choice, has to pretend that he didn’t get off to your photos or that he’s watched the video so many times he has it fucking memorized. Every breath, every moan, the faked orgasm at the end that’s honestly kind of insulting. He’s offended on your behalf because you should never ever have to fake that. You should have never gotten so good at faking it.

The first shift that you work with one another, you go out of your way to avoid him. It’s impossible to keep up considering the environment and pace that goes along with traumas, but whenever you aren’t stuck in a room with him, you do your best to hide. 

It isn’t subtle. 

If Robby could, he would also be making himself scarce, but again, he was supposed to delete your messages, not obsess over them with his hand shoved down the front of his pants. 

After stepping into an exam room that you’re already in then watching you scurry out of it at the first opportunity, Robby decides he’s had enough. This kind of avoidant behavior, though understandable in this case, just doesn’t fucking work in an ER, and he refuses to let you fuck up the rest of your residency over some accidental nudes. 

So, Robby plasters on his best ‘I have never seen your pussy before’ expression and, when he gets his chance, wraps a hand around your elbow and gently guides you out to the ambulance bay. 

You don’t protest or shrug him off, just sigh, resign yourself to whatever fate you think Robby has in store for you. 

He looks around, checking for any coworkers or, you know, incoming ambulances, and once he deems it safe, Robby takes you by the shoulders, looks you dead in the eye, and states, “you have got to fucking relax.”

He thinks you might sputter or gawk, but that is not what happens.

“That’s easy for you to say!” and you do not bother censoring yourself when you continue, “you’re not the one who sent fucking nudes to your boss.”

“Definitely not arguing that, and I get that you’re embarrassed, but I’m telling you—” he notices that he’s still holding onto you, drops his hands and shoves them into his jacket pockets, “—it’s fine, alright? I’m not gonna fucking blackmail you or make fun of you or some shit. I’m not twelve.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re a grown ass man who I work with every day who has now seen my—my, like…” 

You can’t even say it, can’t even look at him, just hide your face in your hands. 

It’s fine. Robby can finish it for you. Maybe if he’s blunt about it, the awkwardness will dissipate. Lay it out. Rip off the band-aid. Exposure therapy. 

“I’m a fucking doctor. Seeing a pair of tits,” perfect, pretty tits, “and a vulva,” slick and creamy, hole all twitchy and greedy… Christ. Robby has to clear his throat in order to finish, “it’s not gonna faze me. Yours is not the first female body I’ve seen.”

The number of emotions that play out on your face is more entertaining than it should be. Mortification to surprise to confusion to something very fucking pouty. 

“What? What are frowning about?” 

Your, “nothing,” comes out suspiciously fast, and Robby narrows his eyes as you avert yours. “Nothing. It’s just weird hearing you talk like that.”

He rubs a hand down his face. Of all the things to focus on. 

“Tits. Pussy. Cock. Cunt,” he lists because if you’re gonna hash all of this out, he can’t have you on the brink of combusting. 

“Oh my god, stop! Stop talking!” It’s practically a squeal, and the noise sends heat racing down Robby’s spine to settle right at the base of it. 

It reminds him of the sounds you made in that video, turned up all the way while in the privacy of his own home. Gasps, and mewls, and adorable whines. Little ‘please please please’s thrown in there as a treat, but even if the begging isn’t genuine, it still sounds damn good, still ricochets in Robby’s brain even now. 

“I’m just trying to show that this isn’t a big fucking deal,” he tries, then immediately backtracks when he sees yet another emotion play out on your face: anger. “Hold on, wait, listen. I’m not trying to invalidate you. I—look, I get that you’re probably feeling vulnerable, or that now I don’t know, I have something on you, or more power or some other bullshit. I recognize that, okay? Nod with me,” he pauses to make sure you’re following, would be worried about condescending, but you don’t seem to take it as such, just stare and do as you’re told, nodding slowly. “As far as I’m concerned, it never happened,” a lie, “it was a mistake. You have a life outside of this ER just like I do.”

“You send dick pics to the wrong people?” you pipe up, finally starting to look more like a person and less like a deer being hunted.  

“Well, no…” Robby cradles the back of his neck, “but I’m sure some of the people who’ve seen it wish they hadn’t.”

He never noticed how fucking cute you are when you’re caught off guard—eyes widening, brows rising, lips parting. 

“Didn’t ever think I’d end up in a conversation with my attending about his dick,” you mutter. 

Robby laughs, “yeah, well, I didn’t ever think my best resident would send me a sex tape.”

Your jaw drops, but the corners of your mouth are still upturned. “It was not a sex tape—”

Hands back in his pockets, Robby’s body language screams his disagreement. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, presses his lips into a line, rocks his head back and forth as if he’s waffling on the idea until he eventually responds, “mmmyeah, except it is. That was a sex tape.”

“It was n—wait,” you stop, eyes going wide again only they don’t stop growing, threatening to pop out of their sockets. 

Confused, Robby raises an eyebrow and—

Ohh, shit. 

“You watched it?”

Yep, he just outed himself, and now all he can do is cringe. 

“Robby, what the fuck?!”

He expects a slap to the face. Deserves that and more. But all you do is stand there, hands on your cheeks like you just stepped out of whatever art museum The Scream is mounted in. 

“I’m sorry—I don’t…” He runs his palms up his face, presses them to his temples before settling at the top of his head and squeezing his skull as if it’ll ground him. “I have no fucking excuse. I’m sorry. It was just base brain curiosity.”

Head hanging forward, you shake it back and forth, muttering something Robby can’t hear as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. 

Should he go back inside? He should go back inside. Jesus, this is about to be an HR clusterfuck, god dammit—

“Okay, the least you can do is tell me I looked good in it, fuck.” 

You seem to steel yourself, crossing your arms over your chest, hip cocked out, chin up in some kind of unnecessary defiance. 

“You…” Robby blinks at you, stunned. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, blushing all the way to his scalp. “You want me to fucking critique it?”

“Absolutely not. If you criticize any of it, I will kill myself,” you say so seriously that Robby actually believes you. “I want you to tell me that I didn’t fucking film it for no goddamn reason, ‘cause the guy it was for didn’t seem to care, so—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Robby cuts you off, startled by how loud his voice is. 

It makes you jump, but you still release something that might be a giggle. 

“I wish I was. He just said ‘you’re sexy’,” finger quotation marks, “with a sweating emoji.” 

You roll your eyes, and Robby lets out an incredulous laugh about an octave higher than is normal for him, looks up at the bay awning while uttering, “Jesus, men are so fucking stupid,” before he levels his gaze back on you. 

“Yeah, I’m well aware.” All moody and inpatient, literally tapping your foot as you look at Robby expectantly. “Well?”

He checks his surroundings again, must be habit at this point, then asks, “you want me to be honest?” and when you nod, he pushes a little more, “one hundred percent?” just to be sure. 

“Oh my god. You watched the video like a fucking pervert. I think I deserve some validation—yes, I’m sure.”

How is his skin still getting hotter? 

Robby exhales through his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut for a second before shaking off his nerves. 

You aren’t mad at him. Irritated, maybe, but not about to shove a scalpel into his carotid. And, you’re asking for his opinion, asking for his praise, brimming with curiosity. 

It gives Robby undeserved confidence, and he slowly walks you backward toward the brick wall behind you until he’s got you crowded against it. 

Lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, he confesses—quiet, deep, rough, “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cum to that video of you.” 

You inhale sharp enough for him to hear, air filling your lungs and making your chest rise, and suddenly Robby isn’t the only one who’s burning. He can feel the heat radiating off of you. 

So, he keeps going.

“You want validation?” 

He’s met with the tiniest nod, as if you’re ashamed for asking. Robby tells you exactly why you shouldn’t be. 

“I got those messages while I was here, right in the middle of the pitt. Didn’t even move ‘cause I was too busy staring at how pretty you are in them…” He raises a hand to catch a strand of your hair, tries to memorize how soft it is between his fingers. “Locked myself in the bathroom ‘cause I couldn’t let anyone see how fucking hard I was getting. Doubt I need to tell you what I did in there.”

He’s getting bold. Too bold. About to cross the last line bold. Your head is tilted back so you can gaze up at him, and Robby takes it as an invitation, drops your hair in favor of running a knuckle up the side of your neck then along your jaw. 

“I watched that video and stroked my cock until I came all over my hand like some fucking teenager. And, then I went home and did it again.”

Biting your lip, your eyes are hooded and desirous as you slide down the wall a couple inches, stopped by the leg Robby slots between yours without thinking. 

“Listened to you over and over—so fuckin’ sweet when you started whining, when your pussy started begging.”

“Holy fuck,” you whisper, and it pulls a chuckle from his chest. It’s easy to tell you’ve never had a man speak to you like this. Robby is glad to be the first. Honored, even. 

Some of your weight rests against his thigh, and he has to bite back a groan when your hips twitch against him. 

It was just a few days ago that Robby was locked in a prison of arousal and self-loathing, hating himself for even thinking about getting off in the EC. Now, he’s got you pinned to the wall outside of the same department, and all he wants is to watch you grind and squirm against him. 

Any shame he felt before is long fucking gone. 

“The photos, the video… I know you’re embarrassed, but I am fucking ruined, okay? I can’t think straight anymore, not when you’re around. Fuck, not even when you’re gone.” 

He’s telling you too much, admitting things he shouldn’t, but he’s spent days walking around with the image of you fucking yourself with a dildo burned into his retinas (days walking around with his cock being at least half hard at any given time). 

Pent up, frustrated, and stupid, Robby really can’t be held at fault for running his mouth and letting his hands wander. 

“And, the worst part of it all,” his fingers curl over where your neck meets your shoulder, but his thumb is stretched out to lightly press against your throat, wishing he could leave his unique print on your skin. 

“The fucking worst part is that you took those while thinking of some someone else, put on your little thigh-highs and fucked yourself for some asshole who can’t tell the difference between a real orgasm and a fake one.”

You go rigid between Robby and the wall, staring up at him in shock. You’re still simmering from the contact, with where all this is heading because it is heading somewhere. 

But, the difference between… there’s no way he could know. He’s just talking shit about Tony because he’s jealous apparently (and that idea is extremely fucking hot), but his words hit home because yeah, you have faked every orgasm with Tony, and no, he hasn’t noticed. 

But, how could Robby? He’s seen one video; it’s not like he knows—

“Honey, I’ve been fucking for longer than you’ve been alive,” oh, good lord, “I know what an orgasm looks and sounds like.” His hand is calloused where he cups your cheek, and you melt straight into it. “What you did in that video was beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t real.”

He raises the leg between yours, probably rocks onto the ball of his foot, and it presses harder against you, but it’s not enough. Even when you grind down, clutch at his shoulders, it is not fucking enough. 

His brazen display of self-assuredness makes you dizzy and dumb. If he’s this confident, there must be a reason, and that reason is likely how you’re responding to him. Your body language, how you can barely even see him through your half-lidded eyes, how your bottom lip is raw from chewing on it.

It makes you desperate—embarrassingly so, and when his coarse beard grazes over your cheek bone, you let the last of your inhibitions dissipate. 

“Robby, I swear to God, if you keep talking, I will literally fuck you in one of the parked ambulances.”

He has the audacity to laugh, a puff of air straight from his throat that cascades over the shell of your ear, and it makes you want to cry. It makes you hit your head against the wall behind you. One, two, three times before Robby slips his hand between your skull and the bricks. 

“Not in an ambulance,” he shakes his head, brown eyes trained on your mouth. “You won’t be able to move the way I want you to in an ambulance.”

His voice is so low, a rumble, a vibration, and it makes you pulse, pussy hungry for what you can’t have. 

You roll your hips in a plea for more friction, and you’re about ready to strip right here and now if it means he’ll fuck you. 

If you could just push him a little further. If you could just make him as crazy as he’s made you. 

Eager to the point of hysteria, you squeeze your eyes shut and tell him the secret you’ve been harboring since starting at the hospital (part of it, anyway), something you never imagined telling him, and it comes out in the form of pathetic incoherencies— “it was you. I was thinking about you when I made the video, ‘nd I’ve done it before—made myself cum while—I try not to, t-to think and, like, imagine other things, but can’t—”

A surprised grunt (squeak) is forced out of you when Robby crushes his lips against yours, and you cannot remember the last time a man has rendered you so fucking useless, but fuck, you’re holding onto him as if it’ll keep you in a solid state because it sure feels like you’re about to evaporate out of his hands and into the clouds.

You are going to die here. No way you can survive his beard scratching against your face or the sensation of his lips on yours, warm and a little chapped but so, so hungry as they move with yours. 

Jesus fuck, you feel his tongue, do not hesitate to stroke it with your own, licking into his mouth before pulling back and catching his bottom lip between your incisors and biting. 

Robby groans, the fingers at the back of your head curling into your hair. He cants his hips forward, and you finally see that it’s not just you who’s affected. Worked up. Not thinking straight. 

This is Robby—the man who is obsessed with controlling everything he can, who refuses to let anyone see what he’s bottled up, who compartmentalizes so much you’re surprised he doesn’t have multiple active bleeding ulcers—tearing apart at the seams little by little. 

Quick, tiny rips that turn to longer cuts then into deep gashes until he’s cleaved right down the middle. You feel the way his eyebrows pinch together when you hold his face to yours, inhale every one of his shaky breaths, grind yourself down on his thigh as his hips move in short, abortive thrusts. 

Fuck, fuck, “on-call room—”

“No.” Growled. Rough. Leaving no room for argument. “I’m not doing this until I can spread you out,” —the way he keeps running his nose up your cheek is driving you crazy, but not as much as his voice in your ear, “until I can make you scream my fucking name.”

“God, fuck, Robby—”

He smiles, you think, judging by the way his beard scratches at you differently, “not a chance in hell I’m letting anyone else hear you like this.”

There is a very good chance, however, that you’re dripping through your panties and possibly your scrubs. You surge forward, demanding another kiss that Robby eagerly bends to. 

A siren sounds in the distance, distorted by the doppler effect that matches the way you feel inside, like your sanity is waxing and waning, screaming then whimpering. 

“There are still three fucking hours left in this shift,” you grumble, “and you expect me to just power through? Wet?”

He swears under his breath, something that is so very satisfying, but when he actually lifts his head and pulls back enough for you to see his flushed face, he somehow manages to school his expression into something professional. 

“I expect you to do your job,” he says, masterfully composed. You pout, and Robby brushes hair from your face at the same time that he shifts his leg against your cunt, and you think he must really enjoy seeing you unstable because he tacks on a low, sing-songy, “be good for me.”

Fucking devilish. 

Hands on his chest, you shove him backward, eyes narrowed in a heatless glare. 

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“Oh, you have no idea how mean I can be,” he shoots back, winks, then turns his attention to the ambulance that’s pulling up into the bay. 

Back to business, hands in his pockets, brown eyes clear and alert, like nothing even happened. 

“34-year-old female with multiple fractures after a hit-and-run while biking…”

You move on autopilot, falling into step beside the gurney as the medic rattles off numbers and injuries. The motions come easily, muscle memory, but even as you assess and examine, you can’t ignore how damp your panties are. When Robby announces that the biker’s hip needs to be reduced, you almost roll your eyes at him before stepping up to get a better angle. 

External rotation, upward pull, praise the Gods for fast-acting pain meds. 

A hand steadies you as you begin to lower yourself, and you don’t have to look to know who it belongs to. Scorching and far too familiar, following your movements while remaining planted on the small of your back. 

When you’re on solid ground, you lean close to Robby’s shoulder and clack your teeth together as if snapping at him. Playful, maybe even cheeky, but quick so that no one else notices. 

He goes along with it, scrunches his nose while imitating a snarl, and you gallop to put distance between you and him before he can catch the ridiculous fucking giggle that bubbles out of you.

What have you gotten yourself into? 

Two and a half more hours, a case of appendicitis, and a knowing smirk. 

An hour and 45 minutes, a collapsed lung, and fingers that linger a little too long. 

30 minutes, a football player with a compound fracture, and breath on the nape of your neck as he slides to get to your other side. 

The night shift crew starts trickling in, and Ellis nearly pulls you into what would probably be a witty conversation full of laughs and subtle shit-talking, but you spin away from her with the excuse of being late for a family dinner. 

You need to shower and you need to give yourself a pep talk in the mirror and you need to—

“Family dinner?”

Robby catches up to you outside, which was not supposed to happen because he always stays later than necessary, wants to be his control freak self and keep an eye on the night shift for at least an hour. 

“Too late for you to play dumb. I already know you’re an evil goddamn mastermind.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responds, eyes to the sky, whistling in a casual, cartoonish manner. 

Bouncing back and forth between overwhelming frustration and giddy anticipation, you walk a little closer to him, biting the inside of your cheek when Robby gently shoulders into you.

Then, like a bucket full of ice water, the situation washes over you all at once. From the accidental pictures up to now. The mortification and anxiety, the compulsive avoidance, the enthusiastic conversation you had mere hours ago. 

You stop walking.

Flirting at work is one thing, but bringing it out into the real world…?

You want it. You want him. You have for too long, and you’ve struggled with it. 

Dating apps and hookups and finding new fucking hobbies—they’re just attempts at distracting yourself. You wish you could cope with extra shifts, but that would be counterproductive. It’s hard enough seeing Robby a few days a week. Any more than that and there would be no hope for you to get over this thing you’ve had for him. 

This can’t be a hookup brought on by a few filthy photos. This can’t be the first time he’s ever seen you as more than just a resident. This can’t be a roaring fire tonight that gets doused in the morning. 

Robby only gets a few steps further before noticing your standstill, stops a few feet ahead at the edge of the lot your car is parked in. 

“You okay?” he ventures, “rethinking all of this?”

You shake your head, “no,” then, “yes.”

Robby frowns but the expression doesn’t come off as upset. More confused than anything. 

“You can back out. I know you’re in limbo or… something, but—”

“No, it’s not that,” you wave off, and you notice that your hand is shaking. Actually, all of you is shaking. It’s pretty well contained, you think, but the antsy energy makes you clench your jaw too tight.

Robby is looking at you in a way only he can—concerned, compassionate, exhausted—and he’s about to open his mouth again, push for you to talk to him with that gentle tone that’s usually meant to placate patients and family, and unfortunately, you’re going to be completely honest, tell him what you left out in the ambulance bay, because you’ve never been able to lie to him. 

“What is it, then?” He takes a step forward but keeps his hands in his pockets. It makes him look relaxed, unimposing, I am restrained; I cannot hurt you. “This can end right here if you want it to, but you’ve gotta tell me.” 

Kind despite the gravel, just as you predicted. 

Heaving a sigh, you snort to yourself, truly cannot believe you’re about to ruin the rest of your residency with a single conversation. 

“I know, yeah, just… I’m about to say some things, and they might make you feel awkward or, I don’t know, like, trapped or whatever, so—”

“Is this about the crush you’ve had since you started?”

He just says it. To your face, right out in the open!

Jaw dropping all the way, you stare at Robby completely dumbfounded. Your cheeks blaze and your ears ring and the world around you comes to a jerky stop. 

“You—you knew?”

His eyes are damn near blinding with the way they shine, a smile tugging at his lips, so fucking self-satisfied even as he blushes. 

“It took me a while to catch on, but yeah,” he nods, moving closer now as he pulls a hand from his pocket to scratch over the hair on his cheek. 

You’re only torturing yourself by asking, “how?” but you need to know. What did you do? What tipped him off?

Robby’s grin softens, his blinks get slower, and for the first time today, he sounds a little unsure. 

“You remember that marathon last year? Some charity event, I think for Alzheimer’s or dementia, one of those nightmare diseases.”

“It was Parkinson’s,” you remind him. 

“Right, anyway, we were fucking packed with broken ankles and torn ligaments, that one guy with rhabdomyolosis…” he lists, eyes to the sky instead of on you. “Then, that kid came in with a dislocated jaw, and—”

“Oh, no, I remember now.” Because you do. You remember this story almost as well as you remember the butterflies. 

Robby chuckles. “I still don’t know why, but you got this fucking look on your face when I showed you how to pop it back into place, like I’d just performed some goddamn miracle, and it didn’t—no, it still doesn’t make sense to me, but I remember liking that look way too fuckin’ much, thought about it too much, wondered if you thought about me too much, and eventually it sort of… started making more sense. Not that it’s me, that doesn’t—the doe eyes, I mean, I understood a little better.”

His rambling would be adorable if you weren’t so fucking embarrassed. Shit, how many times had you stared at him with those “doe eyes” without realizing it? Like a dumb puppy chewing on his pant leg to get his attention. 

You slap a hand over your face and shake your head. “So, you’ve just been going along with it no matter how uncomfortable it probably made you.”

If you were to actually look at him again, you’d see the way Robby rolls his eyes. 

“Didn’t listen to a fucking word I said, Jesus…” 

Now, you do glance up, see the familiar way his fingers lock at the back of his neck as Robby slides his jaw back and forth like he’s thinking. Debating. 

“Okay, here’s what it is—I went along with it. I ignored it.” Ah, ouch. “Or, I tried to, ‘cause it’s fucking distracting, but not… it doesn’t make me feel like—what’d you say earlier? Awkward or trapped. It's distracting ‘cause I can see it. On your face. And, I lose my goddamn focus ‘cause all I can think about is—fuck—what can I do to make you keep looking at me like that?”

He looks stressed, like he’s arguing with an ignorant, unruly patient, even releases one of those incredulous laughs. It doesn’t feel like he’s frustrated with you, though, and you think that maybe he hadn’t planned on telling you all of this. 

“Wait…” you massage your temples, “what are you��hold on.”

Is he saying what you think he’s saying? No. No, definitely not. 

“You’re my resident,” Robby groans, and you know. You know you’re his resident and he’s your attending. 

You know it’s cliché and stupid and impossible which is why you’ve been doing everything you can to move the fuck on. It even felt like you’d been making progress, slow and minuscule as it was, it was still progress. 

But, now you’ve seen how heated his gaze is, heard how rough his voice gets, felt his body pressing against yours, and all of that progress has been lost. In fact, you’ve fallen behind your initial starting point, and this time he knows. 

“I’m sorry—I know. I didn’t mean to put you in a shitty spot, but I couldn’t help it! If I could stop, I would.”

“Please fucking don’t,” Robby replies swiftly, covers the last bit of distance until he’s right in front of you, shaking his head and keeping you pinned under those endlessly tortured brown eyes, “don’t be sorry, don’t try to stop.” 

His hand feels huge on your cheek, and you subconsciously lean into it while gazing up at him. Curling his fingers, you feel his nails graze your cheekbone as a devastatingly soft plea falls from him, “don’t stop fucking looking at me like this.”

You wouldn’t be able to even if you wanted to. 

The kiss is a surprise. You didn’t think he’d be the type to be comfortable displaying something like this in a public setting; any of your coworkers could walk by, could snicker, could judge, so either he’s not in his right mind, or he really does not care. 

“There are people,” half-hearted and muffled against his lips as you raise up to your tiptoes. 

Robby huffs a laugh and tells you, “couldn’t give less of a fuck,” and proves it by settling his free hand on your back, just over the waistband of your pants, and pulls until you’re slotted against him. 

It’s… not softer than before, there’s definitely still force behind the kiss, but it’s less greedy. Less about taking, more about giving—giving up, giving in, giving everything. 

You’re still just as desperate as you were three hours ago, want him between your legs, want him to wreck you, but the way his mouth feels moving with yours is all you can focus on. Harsh pressure receding into something feather light, angling your face, tender yet controlling, so that his nose bumps yours, parted lips barely dragging over yours, and he’s teasing, making you want him more and more. 

“So, here’s my plan,” Robby breathes so, so close. 

You think you hear footsteps nearby, can’t find it in yourself to be bothered by them. 

“You have my…” you barely manage to swallow a whimper when he pulls you impossibly closer, “—undivided attention.”

Robby smiles and hums, “like the sound of that,” before getting back on track, “my plan, though—”

“Mhm, your plan,” your hands travel down his torso, finding belt loops to hook your fingers in. 

“It involves going to your place first, so you can grab clothes, your toothbrush, and whatever toys you use to get yourself off—” 

The way he says it punches the air straight from your lungs. 

“Then, we’re going to mine, and I’m gonna use every one of those toys, make sure you actually cum.”

Robby nips at your lower lip, traps it and sucks before he continues. 

His voice isn’t just gravel now; it’s stone. Firm, deep, excavated from his chest— 

“And then, I am going to fuck you until the only thought in your pretty head is how good I can make you feel.”

If it weren’t for Robby’s broad frame in front of you, the setting sun would beam straight through your dangerously blown pupils, fry both of your fucking optic nerves, but the danger is blocked, eclipsed by this menace of a man.

You’ve seen Robby goof around, seen him play and poke fun, but you have never seen him look and sound and be so fiendish—an honest to god villain. 

And you are so fucking wet, you think you’re getting dehydrated. 

“That… that sounds, uh,” you try, possibly panting, definitely light-headed. But, you are nothing if not stubborn, so you counter, “sounds kinda presumptuous, actually. Assuming I’m just gonna, like, spend the night and cum my brains out.” 

You make a show of rolling your eyes. The petulance doesn’t quite land when you shudder from the sensation of his fingers toying with your waistband, so you add, “I’ve noticed that when guys talk a big game, I usually leave disappointed.”

Robby looks entertained, a little endeared, an expression that reads something like, that’s cute. 

“I’m sure that’s been your experience in the past, but I’m not some fucking,” he makes a dismissive motion like he can’t be bothered to think too hard about it, “some douchey real estate agent you found on Tinder.”

“What side of Tinder are you on?” you snort. 

“I’m not on it at all, actually, but you’re missing the point.”

“Right,” you suck your teeth, still challenging but refusing to move away from him. “The point being you’re gonna rock my world or whatever.”

Robby takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger then uses them to shake your head for you. With his eyebrows raised, his responding, “no,” sounds like an admonishment, “the point being I actually care about making you cum, and plan to do so—multiple times, if I have it my way…”

“Your way,” you parrot. 

“My way.” He strokes your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Gonna make sure you don’t send more filthy fucking pictures to anyone but me from now on.”

Is it possible to climax from words alone? It must be because having Robby talk to you like this, show how possessive he can be, it feels like you’re about to explode. 

“So I can keep sending videos, then? Didn’t say anything about those.”

“As long as it shows my head between your thighs, go for it.”

Your pitchy, disbelieving giggle breaks enough for him to hear, “what? Are you serious?”

“No, I’m not fucking serious, are you kidding me? My eyes only, got it?”

Your pussy clenches as if he’s already fucking you.

“I—didn’t you have a fucking plan, or are you just gonna keep riling me up?”

“Oh, so you’re on board then?” he toys, smile growing both in size and smugness. 

You click your tongue, quietly scoff, “as if you don’t know. Asshole.”

Robby laughs, and you grab a handful of his hoodie before turning and making your way to your car.

He’s more than happy to be tugged along behind you.

[sadsatsumahead]

americans pleeease. please kill elon musk 🙏🙏🥺😔😩🙏 americans! please. Please !!! kill elon musk. don't you remember gun.. ? bang bang ? your favorite game..? Americans... please. 😔🙏 have you forgotten your local deity, captain america: kill nazis??? americans !! I know you can do it 🥺🙏 please americans..

[sadsatsumahead]

using her acceptance speech to highlight the la protests, gaza & trans rights that’s MY swamp princess

[sadsatsumahead]

Hi! Please do an "i want a baby" text prank with the pitt (especially with shen my meow meow) thank you!

—i want a baby

summary: as requested above except it was a joke and it turned out to be very real LOL

characters: Frank Langdon, John Shen, Mateo Díaz, Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, Jack Abbot, Dennis Whitaker.

a/n: IGNORE THAT I CLICKED POST BEFORE EDITING IT WAS A MISTAKE BYEEEE. Also, this is an AFAB!Reader BUT no gendered language as always!!

my requests are open!!

© CARMENLIKEME 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, modify or claim as yours.

[sadsatsumahead]

‘Galatée’ by Charles Jalabert (French, 1819-1901)

[sadsatsumahead]

This City Doesn’t Forget (part one · the wedding)

you weren’t supposed to see him again. not like this. not in this dress, not in this city, not with his last name still catching in your throat. but pittsburgh remembers what you tried to bury

pairing : jack abbot x f!reader

content/warnings: alcohol, mentions of past infidelity (not by reader or Jack), emotional repression, unresolved sexual tension, proximity, flashbacks (not as explicit), lying by omission, angst, guilt, wedding setting, Pittsburgh.

word count : 2,674

a/n : no smut in this part—just aching tension, bad decisions almost made, and the beginning of everything unraveling. If you guys like this perhaps I will write part two sooner than later. 18+ ONLY, not beta read.

You hadn’t planned on coming back to Pittsburgh.

Not really.

Not to stay, anyway.

You’d told yourself it was a city you’d passed through—something borrowed when you were eighteen. Temporary, in that way so many things feel permanent until they’re not. You left with no grand finale. No promises. No reason to return. Just a couple of half-used notebooks, a box of textbooks you never sold, and a past you’d done your best to forget.

But then came Match Day.

And the envelope said,

Allegheny General. Emergency Medicine. Pittsburgh.

Your fingers had clenched the paper just a little too tightly. Someone beside you had screamed. Someone else had cried. And you— You just stared.

Because it didn’t feel like fate. It felt like a dare.

You’d worked for it. You knew this program was good. You applied like it was a long shot, a name you could cross off the list without consequence.

And now, you were a PGY-1 with three weeks to relearn how to breathe in a city you swore you’d never see again.

So you moved back early.

You told people it was to settle in. To be prepared. Responsible. Practical. You needed time to unpack, sign the forms, memorize your badge number, figure out the best spot to get coffee before a night shift.

But that wasn’t really it.

The wedding was this weekend.

And if you were going to return, you might as well rip off the bandage.

You told yourself it would be fine. Just another obligation. You’d show up, smile when it was expected, drink something sparkling from a glass too thin, find your table, and disappear before the second round of speeches.

In and out. Unnoticed.

That was the plan.

But plans don’t account for ghosts. They don’t make room for versions of yourself you thought you outgrew—versions that still remember the way someone used to look at you like they weren’t supposed to.

The version that heard his name mentioned—of course he’d be there, of course he’d be involved—and forgot how to breathe.

You thought she was gone.

But she showed up anyway.

Because some things don’t stay buried. Especially not what happened with Jack.

People know pieces. Just enough to make them look twice when you walk into a room.

They know his brother cheated on you. That you ended things. But no one knows what happened after.

They don’t know it was Jack who showed up that night—quiet, steady. That he found you on the porch, sat beside you without a word, handed you a beer and stayed there, saying nothing until the tears stopped burning your throat.

They don’t know how it shifted.

How grief softened into something slower, heavier. How silence turned into stolen glances, how those glances started to hold.

How that night you leaned in—close enough to kiss him, close enough not to—and he let you. He wanted to.

And that should’ve been it.

But it wasn’t.

It happened again. And again. And then again after that.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t anything you had words for. It was too raw for that. Too hot. Too consuming. It was his hands under your shirt before you could ask him to stop. His mouth on your neck. Your body arching into his like it had been waiting for this—for him—long before either of you were willing to admit it.

He’d show up late, knock quietly, stand in the doorway like he didn’t want to come in.

And you’d let him in anyway.

Sometimes you wouldn’t even speak. Just hands and breath and hunger. His voice rough in your ear. Yours gasping into his shoulder. You were always on borrowed time, always telling yourselves this doesn’t mean anything.

But you kept coming back.

And then, one morning—he didn’t.

No knock. No warning. Just a note slid under your door, folded once. His handwriting, familiar and clipped.

This can’t happen again.

He left for another deployment that week.

You haven’t seen him since.

No one knows the truth. But they know enough.

Enough to feel the shift in the air when his name brushes too close to yours. Enough to catch the tension in your silence. Enough to know something happened between you.

And that whatever it was—it didn’t end clean.

Now, years later, you’re back in proximity with the same family. The same name lingers behind you—woven into laughter, casual conversation, the soft clink of champagne flutes.

And your body still remembers what it felt like to come undone in his hands.

You try to shake the thought. Bury it.

Because now you’re here. At your ex's wedding. Moving through it like it’s just another event on your calendar.

You arrive early—not dramatically, just early enough to avoid the spectacle of walking in late. Early enough to slip through the edges while the music is still soft and no one’s had enough to get loud.

The venue is every Pinterest bride’s dream: string lights, linen runners, eucalyptus draped over archways and tucked into centerpieces like someone spent hours pretending it was effortless.

You keep your expression even. Your heels steady. Your breath controlled.

And then the faces start to register.

A few from college. Some from the family. Familiar enough to sting. One of his cousins waves you over, smiling too warmly, like she’s rewritten history into something forgivable.

You smile back. Offer polite answers. Tell her you moved back for work. Let them fill in the rest.

No one says his name.

Not yet.

But it lingers. In glances, in pauses, in the way people talk about him and wait—just a beat too long—for your reaction.

You keep moving. Find your table. Table Nine.

Close enough to the dance floor to be inconvenient. Far enough from the family tables to make a point.

Your name is written in cursive, tucked beside a sprig of dried lavender. The seat beside yours is still empty.

You don’t even bother to check who it’s for. You’re not planning to stay long enough for it to matter.

You take a slow sip of champagne and pretend it doesn’t taste like memory.

But then—without warning—you’re back there.

Eighteen years old. Barefoot on a back porch in the thick of late July. A cold beer sweating in your hand, your legs stretched across your boyfriend’s lap. Laughter in your throat, someone’s playlist crackling through a speaker tucked behind a lawn chair.

And across the yard—leaning against the railing, one shoulder dipped into the shadows—was him.

Jack Abbot.

The older brother.

You hadn’t meant to notice him. Not like that.

But the moment your eyes caught on his—just for a second, just long enough—you felt it.

Something you weren’t supposed to feel. Something sharp and low and completely out of place.

It didn’t matter that you were wrapped up in someone else’s arms. That you were smiling like everything was fine. That his brother had just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your attention still drifted.

To Jack.

He was quiet, unreadable, beer in hand, watching the yard with that steady gaze of his. Not staring. Not even looking directly at you.

But somehow, it felt like he saw everything.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Just a moment.

But your skin said otherwise.

You could feel him—without him ever touching you. The tension in your shoulders. The awareness crawling across your collarbone. The heat that rose to your face when his eyes met yours for just a beat too long.

You looked away first.

And you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But it stayed with you. Tucked in the back of your mind. Not a fantasy. Not even a thought. Just a question. A flicker.

A what if.

You never said it aloud. Never let yourself imagine it all the way through.

Because it would’ve been wrong.

He was your boyfriend’s brother. And you were still pretending to believe that mattered.

But your body knew it. Even then.

Even before everything fell apart.

And now—now you’re standing in a black dress, back in a city you swore you were done with, and every nerve in your body remembers what it felt like the first time you looked at Jack Abbot and wanted.

What you don’t know is that he saw you the moment you stepped out of the car—and he hasn’t stopped looking since.

He hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t looking for you. Just stepped out front to grab a bottle or a box or something else forgettable from his truck.

Then he looked up.

And everything stopped.

You didn’t notice him. Not then. You were focused on the tent ahead, face neutral, shoulders back, like you were walking into a battlefield and refusing to flinch.

But Jack did notice.

He saw the curve of your neck, the glint of something gold at your collarbone. The way your dress clung like it had been chosen for someone you swore you weren’t thinking about.

He saw you—and for a second, he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then, slowly, he stepped back behind the truck, dragging in a breath like he needed to remember what year it was.

He didn’t mean to stare.

But he did.

Because he remembered, too.

And yet, you don’t see him at all—not when you walk inside, not during the greetings, not while you make your quiet rounds with a smile you’ve rehearsed too many times.

He’s nowhere. And then—he is.

You’re halfway through your second glass when you hear him.

That voice. Low. Unhurried. Still laced with the kind of weight that makes people listen. Like he doesn’t waste words unless they matter. Like honesty was hardwired into his bloodstream.

He's older. Broader. Calmer in that unsettling way men get when they've learned to live with their damage. There’s a curl to his hair now, grayer at the edges. His stance is the same—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes scanning everything and nothing.

He’s talking to the officiant. Laughing at something you can’t hear. That same laugh that used to gut you on nights you shouldn’t have cared.

You should look away.

But then he glances over—and this time, it’s deliberate.

His eyes catch yours.

And for one long, breathless moment, neither of you move.

No nod. No smile. No acknowledgment at all.

Just something weightless and sharp, flickering between you like a match never quite struck.

He looks away first.

And your lungs finally expand.

But the ache in your stomach—the one that’s been dormant for years—It returns.

Low. Persistent.

Familiar.

It’s the same ache that started the first time you looked at him and didn’t look away.

The one that never really left.

Not entirely.

You don’t remember excusing yourself.

Just the slow pressure building in your ribs—the kind that makes your necklace feel too tight, your dress too fitted, your very skin too obvious. One toast too many. One laugh from the wrong person. One glimpse of him across the tent and your balance tipped.

So you left.

Out past the bar. Past the music and string lights and curated perfection. Past someone’s grandmother crying over the first dance.

Out to the edge of the venue, where the manicured lawn gives way to stone steps and low hedges and a garden no one’s bothering to look at this late in the evening.

You wait for your pulse to even out. It doesn't.

You tell yourself you just needed air. That you’re not hiding.

But the second you hear footsteps behind you, slow and deliberate, you know—

You weren’t fooling anyone. Especially not him.

Jack doesn’t say anything right away.

You feel him before you hear him. The heat of him. The way the space folds in tighter, heavier, just from his presence.

“You still have a habit of disappearing.”

You stare ahead, voice even. “You still have a habit of following me.”

A pause.

Then: “Only when I’m not ready for you to go.”

You inhale.

Slow. Measured. Dangerous.

When you finally turn to face him, he’s closer than he should be. Hands in his pockets. Tie gone. Shirt open at the collar like he’s trying not to look like a man unraveling.

But he is.

You know it.

“You came back,” he says.

You lift your chin. “So did you.”

“Not the same.”

“No,” you agree. “Not the same.”

He studies you like he doesn’t want to miss anything. The curve of your jaw. The way your lipstick’s fading at the corners. The way you’re still holding yourself like someone waiting for the next impact.

“You didn’t tell anyone,” he says.

You arch a brow. “Tell them what?”

“That you’re back.”

“I’m here for work.”

He smiles, humorless. “That’s all?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

You watch the flicker cross his face. Just a flash of something—hurt, maybe. Or knowing.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

You shake your head, voice quieter now. “When have I ever?”

Jack exhales. Looks down for a second like he’s choosing his next words carefully.

Then he steps forward.

Just enough that you can smell him—clean, warm, a hint of whatever soap he’s always used that lingers even after he's gone.

“You ever think about that summer?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

But your silence is enough.

He sees it.

“All that time we spent pretending we didn’t want it,” he says, voice low. “And all the ways we failed.”

“You left,” you say.

“I had to.”

“You didn’t have to leave like that.”

“I know.”

The air is thick now. Too thick.

You shift your weight, but your feet don’t move.

And then—

He leans in. Not to kiss you. Not even to touch.

Just to be there.

“I think about it every time I come home,” he murmurs. “Every time I walk past your street. Every time I go into work.”

Something stirs behind your ribs.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Just once.

You see it.

And it wrecks you. It shouldn’t feel like anything. He’s not off-limits anymore. Not technically.

But your body still responds like it’s a secret.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” you say.

He lifts a brow. “You are.”

“I needed air.”

He watches you. “Funny. Thought you needed distance.”

You cross your arms. “And yet here you are.”

“I wasn’t planning to be.”

“Neither was I.”

That sits between you for a moment, heavy and unfinished.

You reach for your phone without thinking, just something to do with your hands.

It buzzes the second you unlock it.

“Welcome to Allegheny General. Your orientation begins Monday at 6:00 AM.”

You flinch.

Jack sees it. Of course he does.

“What?” he asks.

You hesitate. Then shrug, trying to pass it off.

“Work stuff.”

“What kind of work?”

You shoot him a look. “Since when do you care?”

“I’m just—surprised. You never said what you were doing back in Pittsburgh.”

You pause. The words come slow.

“I matched. Emergency medicine. It’s… a residency.”

His expression doesn’t change. Not exactly.

But something settles behind his eyes. Something heavy. Knowing.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You really don't know.”

“Don't know what?”

“I work there,” he says.

The world tilts.

“What—”

“Attending. ER.”

You go still.

Dead still.

And he sees it hit you.

The blood draining from your face. The calculation behind your eyes. The memory of every line you just crossed tonight.

You start to speak. You don’t.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

He just looks at you.

Soft. Dangerous.

And then he leans in—not touching, not even brushing—but close enough for you to feel the heat of him against your skin.

“See you Monday, rookie.”