#toxic simon for life | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tojisteddy · 4 months ago

Text

Acknowledge Me

or: Simon finally gives you attention after you piss him off.

“The power it takes, to make me cry that way. Baby, I hate me when you get under my skin.”

cw: 3.6k words (lord), 18+ MDNI, Toxic!Simon/Meanie!Simon, smut with plot, daddy kink (daddy, pa), dubcon, p in v, dacryphilia, degradation (like hell), water park amusement, pvssy slapping, creampie, marathon!, intoxicated sex, pet names (lovie, doll, pup), overstim, orgasm denial, straight debauchery, after care, y/n visuals.

a/n: acknowledge me by doja cat was the big inspo.

Were you a fucking stupid brat?

Or were you simply itching for attention that you deserved?

If you told your friends, they wouldn’t call you a fucking brat. Stupid? Yeah.

For being with a man who didn’t hesitate to curse you out when you annoyed him. Simon Riley didn’t even flinch when you started hearing those hiccups over the phone, he could already picture your trembling bottom lip, huffed out cheeks and tears forming at your water line. If anything it pissed him off further.

“Don’t fuckin try it with those tears [+]. I fuckin told you, you tell me where the fuck you’re goin. Why the fuck did I have see you move to five different bars in three fuckin hours and you didn’t say a word to me about it till now!?” Simon yelled through the phone.

“You and your dumb ass friends are too fuckin reckless—“

“—Don’t call them that-“ you chided.

“-Oh, I promise you lovie, I don’t give a shit.” his voice with venom.

For fucks sake, it was supposed to be a fun night out and if you were one of your friends, it would’ve been. You and your friends loved bar hopping, enjoying the vibe wherever you went and free alcohol that men and women would order for you. You don’t remember how many bars ago, but your phone died somewhere in the middle and you did spend about five minutes at the last 6 bars trying to find an outlet before your friends dragged you away to the dance floor. That had to count for something, right? You did try to get some form of life on your phone for thirty minutes!

You’d finally gotten to an outlet, right next to the fucking bathroom. ‘15 missed called 4 new messages.’ A string of curses leaving your mouth once you dialed that memorized phone number. And there Simon was, talking to you out the ass while the music was booming in the distance, you had your phone in one hand and a finger in the other trying to hear him properly, the smell of only-god-knows from god-knows-what filling your poor nose all so you could attempt to fix your accidental boo-boo :( — but that bastard had to have you crying in the club.

Like you were thirsty for his attention. you were.

No, none of this was your fault. You didn’t need to update the 6’4, blonde, hunk of a damn brat, when he hadn’t even bothered to contact you in a month.

Yup, the ghost was actually known for ghosting you.

Purposely declining your calls, leaving your texts on read or worse: replying with a ‘k’ when you tried to meet up when you knew (least for the most part) he kept to himself. When he was stationed near by, he was at his own fucking house minding his own business. He was the worst. And the cherry on top?

The fucker had your location on.

You swore he did this to get a rise out of you, to see you teetering off the brink of sanity— and you had to attempt to reel yourself back in every. fucking. time. You weren’t his little plaything, you didn’t need him.

“Don’t fuck with me.” you mumbled, salty tears hitting your mouth. Those would be the last for the night, you swore it. It was like the liquor finally left your heart and went to your brain. Liquid courage.

“What’dyou just say t’me?”

Louder, “I said, don’t fuck with me! I’m sick of your shit Simon!” You snapped. You weren’t an angry person, you’d just hit an annoying wall you needed to get though. The annoying wall called Ghost Riley.

“You always- always come out of the fucking blue ‘nd think you tell me what to do! I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what the fuck I’m doin! Don’t be bitchy at me cause I like to have a little fuckin fun with my friends even when you’ve been ignoring me. Fuckin ignoring me instead of telling me what’s up! The fuck do I gotta do to get you off my dick?!”

“You like the messy shit, Si! You like seein me pissed at you just so you’re the one who has to come and fix it! I can’t stand it. You should go find a bitch who likes that shit because I don’t! I hate how I feel right now and I hate that you can’t be one of those kind boyfriends who’ll come and fuckin hold me nice and shit! Hell, maybe I’ll go find someone to hold me realll nice like since you fuckin won’t!” You spat, nose flaring, you were trembling with rage.

“Pup,” one word. Cut throat. Yanking you right back down to reality. “You take your pretty ass home, ‘nd I’ll go easy on you, yeah?”

You felt your chest rising and falling rapidly, you were frustrated that he clearly didn’t listen to your little rant but you felt your panties get damp. Just a bit. Just like always when you saw a punishment coming. You couldn’t help yourself.

“I-“

“—She’s busy right now please leave a message after the beep. Beeeeeeep.” Your friend, Sharon, has snactched your phone out of you hand, quickly interjecting your conversation with the man and hanging up. She hiccuped, nodding her head in satisfaction.

“You can’t spend the whoooole night by this stinky ass bathroom. Let’s go daaaaance, or-or drink.” She giggled, taking your hands. “Or both!” She squealed at her own words.

Fuck it.

You went out with your friends so you could have a good time, and that’s exactly what you were going to do.

Simon had such a nice way of breaking you down to your knees, so you were the one sobbing and begging then bringing you back up. He didn’t do it often, he wasn’t that fucking mean, but he did it when you really pissed him off. Simon needed you to understand— you weren’t in charge. He was. The man doesn’t remember exactly what you did to piss him anymore, it had been a long and grueling month for him anyway. But he had to follow through with something because he’d be damned if he had to actually apologize, you being with your idiot friends didn’t help your case. So he threw it in the melting pot of why he had a right to bully you.

The motherfucker couldn’t help himself.

When he entered your empty and annoyingly small studio apartment, he added another mark to his ‘reasons to fuck babygirl up’ list. He told you to take your sweet ass home, didn’t he? And where were you?

He’d make sure the neighbors knew exactly who the fuck he was.

It should’ve been easy for you to check in, no? He worried about your safety above all else, but it always seemed to fly out the window when you were with your friends who were notorious and extreme party girls while you just went with the flow. He didn’t not like them sober, it’s when you went clubbing you, for some reason, would get hard headed, defiant. It pissed him off, which would always lead to an argument. Usually he’d come snatch you up while you were tipsy, you’d have a cry in the car, mumbling something about how you just knew the man didn’t like you or take you serious.

And partially, Ghost didn’t. He brushed your insecurities away at first, thinking nothing of it as you went about your life. But you kept being on edge drunk or sober. So he would be right there, finger fucking you otherwise while the car was still in motion. And maybe you were right, maybe he wasn’t the sweet and soft boyfriend you wanted who’d hold your cute little hand when you made him angry. He wasn’t the type to coddle you, chicken peck your face with kisses when you felt down. Simon Riley was the gruff and overbearing man you needed to set you straight, keep you grounded when the world went to shit.

That’s what your cute little tantrum was about, least part of it was. Simon knew he was distant, you just needed a reminder he was yours and you were his. And only his. You craved him like you needed food, it was obvious to anyone who saw you two together. He chuckled, couldn’t believe you even suggested fucking some other man. As if they could handle you, as if they knew what you needed.

He’d set that attitude straight.

The shower was running when the front door of your flat closed behind you. There’s no way you left it on this whole time, did you? You didn’t remember. The night turned into a long one.

No, you didn’t get black out drunk like your friends suggested. You had another shot or two, deciding to stay on the sober side with your DD. You two did smoke a fat blunt before hitting another club though, that made you feel like you were starting to lose your hearing. But it mellowed you out completely. The anger you felt, all that angst and sadness? Gone like a snap of your fingers. The person who was yelling and crying earlier? Technically it wasn’t you, you just needed a little peace. A little medicinal help.

After singing and dancing as hard as you could, your drunk friends taking blurry photos and videos of you that you’d probably post later, you persuaded them it’d be best to get something to eat and head home around two am. It took thirty minutes to find a convenience store that was open so you could chow down on something, and fifteen to get home. With a basically empty bag of chips in one hand, purse slung over your shoulder like a duffle, a bag of junk food in your other hand, low red eyes and a small smile— you finally got home.

You’d deal with that asshole tomorrow. Or next week— maybe next month if you gave enough of a fuck like he did.

Who knows.

You sat the bag of food on the coffee table, right now the priority was your skin care routine, then eat, then zonk out till 2 pm. You still can’t believe you left the shower and the bathroom light on that was now blinding your eyes but whatever. You’d turn it off as soon as you were done since it was warm due to the slight steam.

Routine, routine, routin— you stumbled over a pile of clothes. Large male clothes— okay, maybe you were in the wrong apartment.

Not your first rodeo.

You’d just slowly back out and try looking for your apartment. No big deal.

But the shower curtain swung open and you tripped over the clothes, falling right on your ass with a yelp.

“Ya can’t be that fuckin drunk, can ya?”

Your eyes darted open, right at the familiar deep cockney accent— Simon Riley was right there in the flesh, water dripping down his scarred and large body, making him dazzle like a God in that fucked up bathroom light.

Now that was blinding.

“Hello? Are ya listenin?”

Oh, he really wanted an answer.

“ ‘M not drunk.” You said breathlessly. Intoxicated? Yes. But not drunk. The shots had worn off ages ago. Hell, maybe your high was too at the sight of this brute.

What the fuck was he doing here?

The blonde ignored the confused look on your face. Taking a towel that sat on the sink and drying his hair. No point in drying off anything else, he was about to sweat.

So were you.

Simon continued on, stepping past you and you quickly got up, following right behind him like a starved puppy. For someone who hated your apartment, he sure walked around like he owned the place. Nude, large cock swinging, and the look of annoyance written on his handsome unmasked face.

He sat on the bed, manspreading nonchalantly. Knowing you were looking at it, your eyes immediately went elsewhere.

“What do you want?” You mumbled out, shifting from foot to foot.

As if you didn’t know what was bound to happen.

The older man laughed, sarcasm dripping down his throat.

��Be good ‘nd strip, won’t repeat myself.”

“Si-Simon!” Your breath hitched once a large hand came down on your ass, once for good measure.

“Who?” He slapped his thick member on your ass, sliding it through the crevice of your cheeks.

“But- but Simon-“ another slap.

“You’re gonna make it worse for yourself, call me proper.” He smacked his cock over your glistening folds. So fucking wet.

“Daddy mmph,” You moaned.

“All this ‘b-b-but’ bullshit from ya. You’ve pissed me off more than enough. You’ll take all of it today.” Simon slipped inside your hole, filling you to the brim even with half of that girthy cock in you. You both hissed, fuck, it was always so good when he was inside your walls. Simon slowly started to rock his hips into you, slowly but surely making sure you took every inch if his manhood had to offer.

It was when he bottomed out, you knew you were in for it. Simon wasn’t talking to you, he forced your head down on the bed, forcing your back to arch further as he thrusted right at your spot. Over and over and over.

“Gonna cum pa, gonna cum.” You stuttered, feeling the pit in your stomach starting to turn.

“No you’re not.”

“—But—”

“I dare you [+]. I know you’d just looove seein how that turns out.”

You hiccuped, tears brimming as Simons pace got faster. You could feel him throbbing inside you but he wouldn’t cave. He was making the both of you suffer over a petty argument— a mistake that in any normal relationship wouldn’t be that serious.

“I- no- anngh— I need to cum—”

“-You don’t need shit you greedy. fuckin. bitch.” He grunted, swatting your ass with every thrust.

The man yanked you up by your tosseled hair, “You had your oh-so lovin Daddy fuckin worried about’cha so you can be safe then when I finally get a hold of ya ‘nd tell you to go home, you ignore me. Threatenin to go fuck some idiot, but he couldn’t fuck you like I can? Can he? Can’t keep you pretty ‘nd upright? Can he?” His hand trailed from your throat to the buldge at your stomach. He scuffed, “now you’re itching t’cum just because I have my cock right here in ya? Fuckin dumb bitch shit,”

“You a dumb bitch?” He asked, making sure you were fucking him back. Ripples forming on your ass with every thrust.

“Noooo.” You cried out, trying to get away but it only made the brute dig into you further.

“What?”

“No sir.”

“Thaaats right princess. You're my smart little girl, listen to me next time. Good on you- fuck— for tryin to salvage yourself.” He huffed.

You didn’t realize your own toes curling at that small praise, your body trembling as you reached your peak.

“Hold it, did you just fuckin cum? When I told you not to?” He growled, forcing you to look at his eyes that were practically red with anger.

“Wait, wait, wait.” You really couldn’t help yourself, you’d been holding it for how long? And you were still kinda high which made you feel the sensations ten fold, Simon was drilling into you like no tomorrow and then he gave you an inch of kindness after being so mean to you this whole fucking time.

Your body unconsciously took a mile.

“Nope.” He yanked you back to lay your back on him, the rest of his drenched length in you, and lifted your leg so it was over your head, legs parted like the red sea. The first smack on your cunt for the night had you screaming, water spraying out.

Simon gripped your chin, forcing you to look down at the mess you created while harshly rubbing your pearl, still thrusting into you from behind, “You wanna act like a greedy bitch and think with your pussy? Then you cum like a greedy fuckin bitch. Cum you dirty pup.”

And he kept smacking down on your poor cunt, unable to stop yourself from cumming and squirting. Completely creaming Simons girthy cock so that a ring of cum formed around the base of his length.

“Daddy I can’t-“ you keened.

The man scowled, “-Shut. the fuck. up. You never shut the fuck up, the only thing I wanna hear is how fucking wet that pussy is. Keep fuckin cummin like a dirty slut you are.”

And you did.

You were wetting the bed like a dog. Water flying everywhere with every thwack of Simons hand on your abused and misused clit. You didn’t even know how many times you had cum by that point. Words? What were those? You wouldn’t even be able to read a street sign or name your favorite color if asked.

You were seeing pure white, the only thing you could hear was the loud squelching of Simon pumped himself in and out of you. He pulled out for a second causing you to whine at the loss of him, but he slipped back into your tight walls, fucking you in a nice missionary.

He gave your face a few light smacks to the face, tutting “Ah, ah, ah, pup, don’t you fuckin pass out. Eyes on Daddy.”

You managed to pry those long lashes open, hooded and lower than they could ever get when you were high.

“Therrrre my pretty girl is. Look so good bein fuckin stupid on my dick doll. This is alllll my girl needed. A good lesson, yeah? Remind ‘er who’s boss, huh?” He smirked, dragging himself down to you so your legs were at your chest.

“Shit baby, feel you squeezing down on me. Wanna cum with me? Missed me given it to ya just like you always need?” Oh, you were crying again. Yeah, you did miss his mean ass.

And his mean beautifully scarred up face, the mean way his muscles flexed when he did anything, his stupid fucking mouth that had to say some stupid shit touching your full lips, his disgustingly sexy muscular yet pudgy stomach with a happy trail touching your stomach everytime he wrapped those arms around you. His massive presence when he stood next to you, mean brown eyes watching while you did your hair, your makeup, or got dressed. Heartless hands that rubbed your neck everytime he didn’t know how to comfort you because that asshole trying his hardest to understand you.

And that undeniably cruel, overly massive cock fucking you like you were the final girl getting a well deserved an award for making it out the trenches in a horror film.

Your head was full with the thought of daddy, daddy, daddy— you shook your head but you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. You hung on to whatever bullshit that man gave you. Only him. Always him.

“Wan- I wan it pa! Wan your cum in me.” you babbled through your sobs.

“Course ya fuckin do. Can’t do shit without me.” The older man crooned. He finally planted his lips on yours, you moaned at just the feel. Pink walls fluttering in ecstasy as he filled you to the brim. Slow thrusts making sure he pumped everything he had into your perfect cunt.

So much for not crying anymore.

The only sound you could be heard in that studio was you cries, like a fucking baby, bouncing off your thin walls. The headboard was finally able to rest, you knew for a fact your neighbors probably despise your being now.

“Why didn’t you- you come see me? I wanted- hicc- I wanted to see you. But- but- you wouldn’t come see me! Wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone,” You sobbed, tripping and falling through your words. “you must hate me.”

The older man rolled his eyes, “Didn’t ever say tha’. How can I hate’cha ‘nd your mine? Doesn’t make sense mama.”

“Didn’t call me though.” You were sprawled out on the bed now, fat tears escaping your eyes. The blonde was sitting on the bed, grabbing the bottled water that he kept in the nightstand, opening it and putting it to your lips to drink. You did, lifting just enough for a bit to go down your bound to be sore throat and flopping back on the bed.

“Was busy swee’art.” Half truth, half lie. Though it was habit, he was trying to keep you in the loop of his life this time. But old habits die hard. The man forgot to reply. His work schedule was fucked, and he was busy spending his free time moving house. The house he planned to give you, it just wasn’t ready yet. Simon was actually being good for you, for once.

“You’re not always busy Si, you just don’t like my annoying voice!” You whimpered.

It took everything in the older brute to not laugh, you were bein so fucking cute. Babbling nonsense but still clinging to him like a lifeline. Still wanting, still his baby girl.

“Told ya, you weren’t annoyin. Got a nice voice, so get it out silly skull.” He cooed, sitting you on your bottom to face him.

You sniffed, moaning and groaning in annoyance but choosing to accept those words. And only those though.

“Fucks sake, Stop it.”

“I caaaant.” You whined, profusely wiping your tears.

“No, dummy.” Simon pushed your hands off your own face, gently wiping the tears with his thumbs that continued to poor out, “Yer gonna throw a fuckin fit if your face ends up bein puffy cause you wipe your tears so damn rough. Take it easy.”

No one knew how to wipe your tears better than the man who created them.

“I wanna make up, you don’t want to?” That was as close to an apology you’d ever get. Always.

A proper Ghost apology was rare as is and you wouldn’t be getting that after your little tantrum tonight. So you ate up what you could get.

“I wanna- I wanna make up too Daddy.” You croaked, dragging out your words. Adorable princess.

“Pfft,” he ruffled your now messy, sweated out hair, “I gotcha.”

“Up you go.” Like a feather, Simon lifted you from the bed, walking to the bedroom you too had been at who knows how many hours ago. He gently sat you on the counter of the sink,

“Let’s get you all ready for bed, yeah?”

a/n: I really love meanie!Simon the most. Let me know what you think about him.

6K notes · View notes

sillyswriting · 1 month ago

Text

: ̗̀➛ 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.

©sillywriting, 2025

2K notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 25: June 2024 - Part 6

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was quiet. Soft. Safe.

It always felt that way here — a small haven away from the noise of circuits and media storms, from the sharp edges of being forgotten and the new weight of suddenly being seen. The window let in filtered afternoon light, and Simone’s office smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

Belle sat curled in her usual corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea she hadn’t yet touched.

Simone sat across from her with her notebook closed, eyes kind, waiting.

“I think the worst part,” Belle said softly, after a long pause, “is that I didn’t expect it to feel so loud.”

Simone tilted her head slightly. “The public knowing?”

Belle nodded. “It was quiet for so long. Just ours. Just… safe. But now—one photo, and suddenly everyone’s watching.”

“Does it feel like a loss of control?” Simone asked gently.

“Yes. And no.” Belle looked down at her mug. “I wanted people to know. Eventually. I chose to walk into the paddock. I chose to kiss him. I posted the photo. It wasn’t an accident. But now everyone has an opinion. People I’ve never met are dissecting my life like it’s a press release.”

Simone let the silence settle for a moment, then asked, “What grounded you when it started to feel overwhelming?”

Belle smiled faintly. “Max. He always knows when I’m spiraling — even before I do. He’ll just take my hand or touch my back and everything feels quieter.”

There was a pause.

“I told Arthur,” Belle said, voice softer now.

Simone’s brows lifted slightly. “How did that feel?”

“Better than I expected,” Belle admitted. “He didn’t defend Charles. He didn’t make excuses. He just showed up. And he listened.”

“That’s progress,” Simone said gently.

Belle nodded. “But it’s only him. I haven’t spoken to anyone else.”

“Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet for a long time. Then: “I don’t know.”

Simone didn’t press her. Just waited.

“I think part of me still wants them to reach out. To say sorry without being prompted. To see me on their own. Not because they’re embarrassed or because the media caught on. Just… because they miss me.” Her voice cracked just slightly on that last word.

Simone’s tone was careful, but warm. “It’s okay to want that.”

“I know. I just don’t know if they’re capable of it.”

“And if they’re not?” Simone asked gently.

Belle looked up. “Then I move forward without them.”

Another pause.

“Can I offer a thought?” Simone asked.

Belle nodded.

“If you do choose to let them in again — not now, not even soon, but eventually — it might be helpful to bring those conversations into a neutral space. Somewhere safe.”

Belle’s gaze flicked toward her. “Like here?”

Simone gave a small smile. “Like family therapy. With boundaries. With someone to help hold the structure while you explore whether rebuilding is even possible.”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t want to excuse what they did,” she said. “Or pretend everything’s fine because I married someone famous and suddenly they care.”

“I would never ask you to,” Simone replied gently. “You’ve already built a life. A marriage. Soon a family of your own. The question is whether you want to let them try to earn a place in it.”

Belle’s eyes shimmered, but she blinked them clear. “I think I might be open to the idea.”

“That’s enough for today.”

Belle let out a slow breath.

And for the first time since the Parc Fermé kiss and the global chaos that followed, the silence in her chest didn’t feel like pressure.

It felt like peace.

***

It started with a dress.

Just a simple, pale blue linen one — a favorite of hers. Soft. Easy. Forgiving in the waist. She’d worn it to coffee with Emilie two weeks ago and felt fine in it. Pretty, even.

Now, it wouldn’t zip.

Belle stood in the center of the bedroom, barefoot on the rug, hair still damp from the shower, the zipper stuck halfway up her back as she twisted and strained and tried not to cry.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a flood of hormones and tears and shouting. It was quiet.

A soft, sharp ache of realization.

Her body had changed overnight.

She turned slowly toward the mirror. Pressed a hand to her stomach. What had once been the faintest suggestion now had shape. Curve. Weight. Not enough to scream pregnant to the world, but more than enough to make her clothes sit wrong. To make her feel like a stranger in her own skin.

The zipper finally gave up entirely, and Belle stepped out of the dress with more frustration than grace.

She tried another — a black cotton shift. Still no. Then a flowy skirt — fine at the hips, but suddenly too snug at the waist. A button-down she’d always liked? The buttons across her chest strained so badly it looked like they were preparing for launch.

One by one, the pieces fell to the floor around her.

When she finally dropped into the edge of the bed, she was surrounded by the soft wreckage of what used to fit. A fabric battlefield. Her hands rested on her knees, her breath shallow, her chest tight.

She hadn’t expected to feel sad.

This was supposed to be beautiful — the beginning of something. The miracle. The glow.

But all she could think was: Nothing fits anymore.

And Max wasn’t there.

He’d left for the race two days ago — a back-to-back weekend with media, meetings, track walks. He’d kissed her forehead before leaving, pressed a palm gently over her belly, whispered something about texting her after every session.

But he wasn’t here.

Not now, when her body had changed without warning and she didn’t know how to dress it. Not now, when she just wanted someone to look at her and say, you’re still you.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it without hope — then saw his name.

Max: Morning, Schatje. I just got out of briefing. I miss you. How’s our co-pilot today?

Belle’s throat tightened. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second before she typed back.

Belle: I miss you too. Co-Pilot seems to be growing faster than expected. Nothing fits. At all. It’s ridiculous. I feel like a puffed pastry with a heart rate.

The reply came almost instantly.

Max: That is the most adorable description of pregnancy I’ve ever heard. And also: please stop being mean to my wife. You’re beautiful. You’re growing our baby. I’m buying you stretchy things. All the stretchy things.

Belle let out a quiet, helpless laugh — one that cracked right through the tightness in her chest.

Another message came in:

Max: Also I demand a photo. Even if you’re in my hoodie with no pants. Especially then, actually.

Belle shook her head, smiling through the sting in her eyes.

She stood, padded over to the wardrobe again, and pulled out one of Max’s hoodies. It swallowed her whole, but it didn’t pinch. It didn’t judge. It just fit — in the way that mattered.

She took the photo. Hair damp. No makeup. Hoodie halfway down her thighs. The bump was there. Soft. Round. Theirs.

She sent it to him with one line:

Belle: This is what “nothing fits” looks like.

A minute passed.

Then Max replied:

Max: That’s my favorite person with my favorite future inside her. Perfect. P.S. I’m coming home the second this race is over.

And somehow, in that moment, even with her body unfamiliar and her closet defeated…

Belle didn’t feel alone anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Slightly odd question. Do you remember what you wore when you were trying to hide your pregnancies?

Victoria: Hahaha Has the bump arrived?

Belle: It ambushed me. Overnight. I woke up and suddenly nothing zips and my jeans are threatening to report me to the authorities.

Victoria: God, I remember that phase. I once cried in a Zara changing room because a wrap dress betrayed me. So yes. I remember it well.

Victoria: Okay. Hiding-the-bump tips from a three-time pro:

Flowy dresses

Button-downs + high-waisted trousers unbuttoned and safety pinned

Distracting accessories (big earrings = nobody’s looking at your belly)

Never underestimate a good scarf

Belle: You’re terrifyingly prepared. I love you.

Victoria: We all cope in our own ways. Mine is emotional support designer handbag. Also. You’re glowing.

Belle: I’m sweating and panicked.

Victoria: That’s pregnancy, darling. And when in doubt, steal Max’s clothes, throw on lipstick, and pretend you’re doing it on purpose.

Belle: I’m texting you before every outfit now.

Victoria: I expect nothing less.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Everything I own has turned against me. I just tried on five dresses. None of them fit. One popped a button and hit me in the face.

Emilie: i’m sorry but this is the funniest tragedy i’ve ever read

Belle: I’m going to have to start wearing Max’s hoodies exclusively. Like some sort of tiny, emotionally unstable Formula 1 driver.

Emilie: you say that like it’s not THE aesthetic of the season also: pls send a pic immediately

Belle: No makeup. Wet hair. Hoodie down to my knees. I look like if depression bought a scented candle.

Emilie: okay that’s going in your baby book "week 16: mother described herself as a sad candle in sportswear" you’re glowing, aren't you?

Belle: No. I’m sweating and mildly offended by cotton. But thank you.

Emilie: you are perfect and your body is doing literal magic and i will be there tomorrow with snacks, tissues, and an emergency haul of ethically-sourced maternity leggings

Belle: I don’t deserve you.

Emilie: no but you’re stuck with me anyway

***

The house was glowing.

Not literally — though the late afternoon sun poured golden light through the open shutters like a blessing — but in the way old homes do when they’ve been cared for. When someone’s loved them back into themselves.

Belle stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pencil tucked behind one ear, as Daniel and Jules stepped inside.

“Mon Dieu,” Daniel breathed. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Jules let out a soft, stunned sound and turned in a slow circle, eyes catching every detail — the reclaimed beams overhead, the soft plaster walls in a mineral-washed hue, the original tile floor gently cleaned and sealed instead of replaced.

“I can’t believe this is the same house,” Jules said.

“I can,” Daniel murmured. “Because she did it.”

Belle smiled, cheeks warm. “It’s almost done. A few details left — hardware, window treatments, the stone for the kitchen counters is coming Tuesday.”

“Don’t rush,” Jules said. “We’d sleep on the floor if we had to.”

“No need,” Belle said, leading them deeper into the space. “The guest room is fully dressed. Just in case.”

They passed through the arch into the main living room. The old fireplace had been restored, the stone gently cleaned but still mottled with history. Belle had designed built-in shelves on either side — painted in a soft green-grey that picked up the light without swallowing it — and filled them with old books and ceramics she’d sourced from local artisans.

“Belle,” Daniel said softly. “This is… art.”

She smiled at that. Not flustered. Just pleased.

They moved into the kitchen, where Belle had reimagined the space entirely without losing a single antique tile. A large farmhouse sink had been inset into a custom cabinet she’d designed herself, and the walls were finished in limewash — textured, tactile, alive.

The wide French doors at the back opened onto the courtyard. Once crumbling, it was now a soft, green heart of the home. The old fig tree remained, but Belle had added lavender, herbs, and climbing jasmine that was already threatening to devour the wall.

Jules stepped outside. “You saved the soul of this place.”

“I didn’t want to change it,” Belle said. “Just… listen to it.”

Daniel glanced over at her, smiling. “It’s rare. What you do. Most people walk into old houses and want to erase the past. You made it feel like time had layered into the house instead of over it.”

Belle blinked. Something caught behind her ribs — not pride, exactly, but something deeper. Recognition.

“It’s the first full project I did under my name,” she said quietly. “No firm. No partners. Just me.”

“And it shows,” Daniel said. “There’s nothing generic here. Every choice feels personal. Considered.”

“There are still a few finishing touches. Light fixtures in the guest room, and one of the shutters needs repair. But everything else is… as planned,” Belle explained.

Jules looked around again — eyes slightly glassy now. “It’s more than we imagined.”

Daniel stepped beside Belle and nudged her gently. “You didn’t just design this. You gave it a soul.”

Belle swallowed around the sudden ache in her throat.

“I just listened,” she said. “To what the house wanted to be. And to what you needed it to hold.”

“You do realize this is what great designers say when they’re being modest,” Daniel said dryly.

But Jules only smiled and took Belle’s hands in his. “You made us a home.”

And somehow, that landed more than any award ever could.

As they sat down at the table with lemonade and cheese and fresh bread Jules had insisted on bringing from their favorite bakery, Belle let herself relax into the moment.

The laughter was easy. The compliments genuine. There was no shadow of someone else’s name over her work, no sense of borrowed validation.

Just sunlight, and two clients-turned-friends, and a house that now breathed.

And for the first time in her career, Belle didn’t feel like she was working to prove anything.

She had already done it.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: wanna tell me what the actual FUCK that was between max and lando????

Belle: Define “that.”

Emilie: THE AGGRESSIVE WHEEL-TO-WHEEL “ARE WE ENEMIES NOW” SLAP FIGHT THE DEATH STARES THE POST-RACE NON-HANDSHAKE I’M SORRY, IS THE BRO MANCE DEAD??

Belle: Ah. That.

Emilie: YES. THAT. YOUR HUSBAND WENT FULL FINAL BOSS MODE AND LANDO LOOKED LIKE HE WAS ABOUT TO BITE HIM

Belle: They’ll talk. Eventually.

Emilie: ARE THEY BREAKING UP DO I NEED TO GET THE DIVORCE LAWYERS DO I GET YOU IN THE CUSTODY BATTLE DOES LANDO GET VISITATION WITH THE BABY

Belle: 😂 You are so dramatic. And yes, obviously.

Emilie: you joke but i’m FUMING i just spent six months convincing myself they were soft-launch brothers-in-arms and now max overtakes like that and lando’s giving “you were supposed to love me” after the race

Belle: It’s called racing, Em.

Emilie: it’s called betrayal he made him crash he gave him a puncture he RUINED HIM i’ve read enemies-to-lovers with less sexual tension than that post-race stare

Belle: Do you want me to ask Max for his side?

Emilie: no

Belle:For the record: Max says he “defended hard” And Lando “should’ve backed out sooner.” He also muttered something about “this is why I don’t have friends.”

Emilie: tell him that’s the most dramatic thing he’s said since “I’m not here to make friends” in 2015

Belle: He is the drama

Emilie: and you married him god i’m proud of you

Belle: Would you and Lando like to come for dinner tomorrow?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME??

Belle: Max is sulking. Lando is brooding. You’re screaming in all caps. I’m fixing it.

Emilie: YOU THINK A CHICKEN PARM IS GONNA FIX A BROKEN BROMANCE

Belle: Yes. That and a homemade lemon tart. Also, you’re bringing wine.

Emilie: oh my god you’re staging a peace summit this is monaco-based diplomacy you’re literally brokering a ceasefire

Belle: We’ve avoided a Red Bull–McLaren cold war so far. I’d like to keep it that way. Also Max gets weird when Lando’s mad at him.

Emilie: i’m bringing rosé and a truce playlist

Belle: Perfect. Tomorrow. 7 PM. We’re serving forgiveness with a side of grilled vegetables.

Emilie: you’re a queen a legend a domestic diplomat

Belle: Good. See you tomorrow. Also, if they refuse to make eye contact, we’re putting on a two-player Mario Kart match and leaving the room.

Emilie: excellent. passive-aggressive gaming therapy. you’re a genius

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Congratulations on the podium 🧡 You were phenomenal today. Clean, calm, clinical. (And you looked very smug on the podium. It suited you.)

Oscar: Thank you 😊 It’s always nice when Max and Lando are too busy crashing into each other to notice I exist.

Belle: Speaking of which... Care to tell me what that was?

Oscar: Which part? The wheel-to-wheel drama? The parc ferme tension? The complete emotional collapse of an F1 friendship?

Belle: All of it. I’m trying to prep for tomorrow’s “spaghetti and feelings” dinner.

Oscar: I’d recommend garlic bread. And helmets.

Belle: Are they talking?

Oscar: Define “talking.” Max said “he’ll get over it.” Lando said “he can bite me.” So, no.

Belle: Excellent. Nothing like emotional maturity from two men who drive at 300km/h for a living.

Oscar: Incredible athletes. Emotionally 14.

Belle: We’ve having dinner tomorrow. I’m staging a ceasefire over lemon tart.

Oscar: Bold of you Godspeed Let me know if I need to be on standby for emotional support

Belle: You might. If they refuse to speak, they’re playing Mario Kart until one of them cries.

Oscar: So, normal Verstappen conflict resolution. Got it 👍

Belle: Exactly.

***

Belle pulled the lemon tart out of the fridge at exactly 6:58 PM.

It was perfect. Glazed, golden, topped with thin slices of candied lemon and just enough powdered sugar to look effortless without trying too hard. Not unlike her strategy for this entire dinner.

She heard Max pacing somewhere near the front hallway again. That made lap four. Five, if she counted the loop past the cat bowls.

“Max,” she called gently. “It’s dinner. Not an FIA hearing.”

“They’re late,” he muttered, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

“They’re two minutes late.”

Max crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Maybe we should cancel.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Because Lando didn’t arrive early to apologize like a teenager with flowers and a mixtape?”

Max looked away. Belle handed him the salad tongs.

“Go toss the greens and remember you’re a grown man with three world championship titles and a mortgage,” she said sweetly.

He muttered something in Dutch and obeyed.

The buzzer rang at 7:03.

Belle opened the door to find Emilie in her best peacekeeping sundress, holding a bottle of rosé in one hand and a smug smile on her face. Lando trailed behind her, suspiciously quiet, clutching a bakery box like it was a bomb.

“We brought peach galette,” Emilie announced. “And emotional tension.”

Belle stepped aside. “We already have both.”

Dinner began civilly enough.

The pasta was well-timed. The wine poured freely. The cats were temporarily bribed into not launching themselves onto the table.

Max and Lando, however, exchanged exactly four words in the first twenty minutes:

“Hi.” “Hi.” “Water?” “Sure.”

The eye contact was brief. The fork clinking was aggressive.

Belle and Emilie carried the conversation like diplomats on a sinking cruise ship. They talked about weather, Monaco construction permits, the absurdity of a $400 baby monitor Belle had returned on principle. They laughed. They smiled.

The boys sulked.

At one point, Max stabbed a roasted carrot like it had insulted his ancestors. Lando sighed in a way that could've shattered glass.

Belle met Emilie’s gaze across the table.

Time for the nuclear option.

“Okay,” Belle said, standing up. “Dessert in a bit. But first—living room.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” Belle said, already walking, “I’m not hosting a three-course cold war.”

Emilie followed with the wine glasses. “We’re resolving this like adults.”

“In Mario Kart,” Belle added.

Max groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m married to you. I’ve never been more serious.”

Lando slumped onto the couch. “This is ridiculous.”

Belle handed him a controller. “And yet you’re already holding the remote.”

Max hesitated—just long enough for Belle to raise an eyebrow. “Afraid to lose?”

He sat down next to Lando like she’d physically shoved him. “I’ve beaten him in real life. I’ll survive Rainbow Road.”

“Your funeral,” Lando muttered.

By the second race, Max had stopped muttering under his breath.

By the fourth, he and Lando were arguing about blue shell etiquette.

By the sixth, Belle and Emilie had abandoned the couch entirely and were watching from the kitchen doorway, with Emilie sipping rosé and Belle snacking on lemon tart, like it was theatre.

“I give it ten more minutes before they forget they were mad,” Emilie whispered.

“Seven,” Belle said, just as Lando shouted, “That’s what you get for punting me off in Austria!”

Max howled. “YOU STARTED IT.”

Belle smiled. “And… there it is.”

By the time dessert hit the table, Lando was retelling the story of Max drunk in a night club and accidentally running into a wall while sneezing. Max was defending himself with increasing indignation. Emilie was crying with laughter. And Belle?

Belle sat back in her chair, hand resting gently over her stomach, watching her husband finally laugh again.

And she thought — this is what peacekeeping looks like.

A lemon tart. A glass of wine. A video game and a well-timed eye roll.

And love.

Always, love.

***

Max hadn’t meant to wake up early.

The apartment was still hushed in the pale-blue light of morning, curtains shifting faintly with the breeze from the balcony doors. Monaco always felt quieter before eight — like even the yachts were still asleep.

He stretched, one arm blindly reaching for Belle’s side of the bed.

Empty.

The faint sound of running water met his ears, and then the rustle of a drawer, a closet door sliding open.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his hand over his face, and padded barefoot into the hallway.

What he saw stopped him completely.

Belle stood in front of the mirror in the closet, turned slightly sideways, her back to the door. She was barefoot, her hair in a loose braid, wearing nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and one of his white tank tops — the thin kind she always stole from his drawer without asking.

And her bump — their bump — was there. Real. Rounded. Glowing in the soft morning light.

Max felt something in his chest shift.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her. Watched the way she ran her fingers over her stomach, gently, reverently, like she still couldn’t quite believe it.

Like it had finally hit her, too.

Belle caught his reflection in the mirror and startled. “God, Max—say something before you scare me to death.”

But she didn’t move to hide.

Didn’t reach for a robe or yank down the hem of the tank top.

And Max… Max couldn’t look away.

“I didn’t know it was like this already,” he said quietly.

Belle turned toward him, one hand resting low on her belly. “It kind of… popped overnight.”

He crossed the room slowly, his eyes never leaving her. When he stopped in front of her, his hands came up automatically — one to her cheek, the other hovering just above her bump.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Belle nodded, her eyes warm.

He placed his hand against her skin. Warm. Soft. Alive.

A small intake of breath escaped him — almost a laugh, but softer. “You’re really in there,” he murmured.

Belle smiled, tired and radiant all at once. “Surprise.”

He kissed her, slow and steady, his hand never leaving her stomach.

When he pulled back, his voice was a little rougher. “How long until you can’t hide it anymore?”

She exhaled. “A few weeks, maybe. Less if they keeps growing like this.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Do you want to keep hiding it?”

Belle leaned into his chest, resting her forehead there. “I don’t know. Part of me likes having it just for us. But… part of me wants to stop hiding. Stop pretending nothing’s changed when everything has.”

Max nodded slowly. “We don’t have to post anything. Not unless you want to.”

She looked up at him. “Would you be okay with the media knowing? With the fans knowing?”

“I’m okay with them knowing we’re building a life together,” he said simply. “They’ll say things. They always do. But they don’t get to have this. Only see it. And only what we give them.”

Belle’s throat tightened. “What if they say I’m just—what if they think this is why we got married? That it wasn’t about us?”

“They can think whatever they want,” Max said firmly. “But I know. You know. And this baby—” he pressed his hand gently to her stomach again, “—will grow up knowing they were born from love. Not gossip.”

Belle nodded, slow and quiet. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I think…” She paused. “I think when it feels right, I want to share it. I just want to do it our way. Not through a headline. Not through some PR leak. Just… something honest. Something small.”

Max smiled. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

She leaned into him again, and he held her there — the two of them wrapped in early morning quiet, one heartbeat becoming three.

***

He didn’t mean to play for hours.

But his hands moved without thought, without permission — soft notes tumbling out one after another, half-finished melodies bleeding into each other, no structure, no rhythm. Just the ache in his chest, transposed into minor keys.

Charles stared at the keys without really seeing them.

Everything since the Spanish Grand Prix had felt like that. Blurred. Half-lit. Shame washing over him in waves until it was hard to tell what day it was.

Fred’s voice still rang in his head.

"He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters."

It should’ve made him angry. Months ago, maybe it would have. But now?

Now it just made him tired.

The front door clicked open quietly.

Charles didn’t stop playing.

Alexandra stepped into the room, keys in hand, sunglasses pushed into her hair. She paused just beyond the piano, watching him. Listening.

He shifted into something sadder without realizing it.

She said nothing for a long time. Just let him play.

Finally: “That’s new.”

Charles nodded, fingers barely brushing the keys. “I didn’t write it down. I won’t remember it.”

Alexandra sat on the armrest of the couch across from him. “That bad, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Alexandra watched him a beat longer. Then: “You haven’t said anything since Fred tore into you.”

“He was right.”

That surprised her.

Charles didn’t look up. “He was right about everything. About Belle. About Max. About me.”

Alexandra folded her arms, softening slightly. “Charles—”

“I forgot her birthday,” he said, voice flat. “I forgot where she lived. I didn’t know she moved. I didn’t know she quit her job. And I found out she was married with the rest of the world.”

A pause.

“I used to be the person she told everything to.”

His voice cracked on used to.

Alexandra shifted closer. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.” His hands stilled. “And I don’t blame her.”

“She’s your sister.”

“I forgot how to act like her brother.”

It wasn’t said for sympathy. It was just… fact.

He pressed a key. Dissonant. Hollow.

Alexandra exhaled. “You know what I think?”

Charles didn’t answer, but his silence invited it.

“I think you’re not upset she married Max,” she said gently. “You’re upset she didn’t tell you. Because it forced you to realize how far away you let her drift.”

That landed deep.

Charles looked at the keys like they might offer him absolution.

“She stopped waiting for me,” he said, barely a whisper.

“She had to stop,” Alexandra replied. “You never showed up.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Charles admitted.

“You can’t,” Alexandra said, standing. “Not completely. But you can start by owning that it’s not about you. Not her silence. Not her love. Not Max. You don’t get to demand a place in her life just because you regret not earning it before.”

That hurt more than Fred’s words.

Because it was the truth.

Alexandra stepped forward and kissed the top of his head, just briefly.

“Let her choose if you belong,” she said softly. “But maybe, for once, don’t try to race your way back in.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

Charles sat at the piano, still and quiet, and let the silence press in around him like a tide.

He looked down at his hands.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure they knew how to fix anything anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Arthur Leclerc

Arthur: hey just wanted to check in how are you?

Belle: Hi That’s a surprise A nice one

Arthur: yeah well i figured it was my turn to show up you always did that for me even when i didn’t deserve it

Arthur: so you okay?

Belle: I’m good. Quiet days. Work. Sleep. Max. He’s home this week, which helps. I’ve been reading again.

Arthur: you always read when you feel safe i remember that

Belle: I do. Books are still better than people sometimes.

Arthur: not going to argue there i just wanted you to know i think about you a lot even when i don’t say anything

Belle: I know. I think about you too.

Arthur: and I’m sorry for forgetting the little things for thinking you’d always be there whether I showed up or not I hate that it took losing you to notice how much I missed

Belle: You didn’t lose me. You just stopped looking. But you’re here now. That counts for something.

Arthur: thanks for giving me the chance to do better i won’t waste it

Belle: I hope you don’t. Because I missed my little brother.

Arthur: still here still annoying just a bit slower to grow up

Belle: You’re getting there One awkward text at a time

Arthur: baby steps

Belle: 😉

***

They were sitting at the dining table, Belle with her laptop open and a very stubborn government website loading at glacial speed. The overhead lights were low, the cats were asleep on the windowsill, and the apple tart from dinner was reduced to a pair of crumbs and a fork that Max kept stealing bites with.

“I need to go to the town hall next week,” Belle said, frowning at her screen. “It’s ridiculous how many steps it takes to change a last name. I have to book an appointment just to show them I’m legally married.”

Max looked up from where he was balancing a spoon on his finger. “Want me to come with you?”

She smiled. “I think I can survive bureaucracy alone.”

“I don’t know,” he said, mock-serious. “You’re pregnant and emotionally allergic to slow websites.”

“Barely showing and mildly inconvenienced is not the same thing,” Belle replied, nudging his foot under the table.

He grinned, then leaned back in his chair. “We should change your credit card too. It still says Leclerc.”

She groaned. “One paperwork nightmare at a time.”

Max tilted his head, thoughtful now. “And we should probably set up a meeting with our lawyers.”

Belle paused mid-keystroke. “Why?”

He shrugged, casual. “Just to go over everything.”

“Max,” she said gently. “What kind of everything?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers were still playing with the fork, but his gaze had drifted — focused, serious in that quiet way he got when he was thinking too far ahead.

“I want to make sure things are in place,” he said eventually. “For you. For the baby. If something happens to me.”

Belle’s heart pulled.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” she said softly.

“If something happens to me — if I crash or something stupid happens off-track — I want everything set up. No grey areas. No questions.”

Belle set the mug she was holding down carefully on the table and turned fully toward him.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not planning on dying,” Max said, managing a half-smile. “But I also know how this works. I’ve seen it happen to other drivers. One second, you’re invincible. The next…” He trailed off. “I don’t want you or the baby in limbo if the worst happens.”

She reached out slowly, threading her fingers through his. “You think about that?”

“Every time I get in the car now,” he admitted. “Not in a panicked way. But it’s there. You changed the way I calculate risk.”

“I’m not planning to die,” he added, a wry smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. “I’m just planning in case. I want to make sure you’re protected. That the house is in your name too. That there’s no confusion. That if I can’t speak for myself, you can. Not my father. Not my mother. You.”

Belle sat very still.

Not because she was scared. But because it hit her, suddenly and all at once, how much he was already carrying — not just the weight of fame and expectation and fatherhood, but this fierce, unspoken drive to shield her from the storm.

“I married you because I love you,” Max said. “But I also married you because you’re my person. And I want to make sure you’re not left sorting through a legal mess if the worst ever happens.”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Let’s make the appointment.”

Max exhaled — a little like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

And Belle, looking at the man who had been so many things to the world — champion, rival, myth — realized that this version of him, the one quietly planning a will while stealing bites of lemon tart, was the one she loved most.

The one who knew the risks. And stayed anyway.

The one who chose her. And kept choosing her.

Even in the fine print.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Lorenzo: We need to get ahead of this before she cuts us out completely. We’ve let it go on too long.

Charles: What do you want me to do, Lorenzo? I said I wanted to talk to her. She doesn’t answer.

Arthur: Because she’s not ready. You don’t get to demand a timeline for forgiveness.

Pascale: I sent her a long message last week. I said I missed her. She didn’t even react to it.

Arthur: Because she’s hurt. Because for years, we made her feel like she didn’t matter until she disappeared.

Charles: I’m trying to make it right.

Arthur: You’re trying to make it comfortable for you. Not better for her.

Lorenzo: Okay, enough. We need to approach this like adults. Arthur, you said she talked to you?

Arthur: Yeah. Because I apologized without making excuses. Because I didn’t act like she owed me anything.

Charles: So what, we just do nothing? Sit around and hope she decides to forgive us?

Arthur: Or we ask her what she needs instead of assuming we know best. Maybe try that.

Pascale: If she’d just sit down with us—if we could talk properly—I know we could fix it.

Charles: She won’t even look at me in the paddock.

Arthur: You yelled about her being married like the whole grid personally betrayed you.

Charles: Well it felt like that.

Pascale: Can we not assign blame? We all made mistakes. I sent a message. She didn’t respond.

Lorenzo: Because your message said, “I meant to text you, but I sent it to Charles instead.” Which we all know is a lie.

Pascale: It was a white lie. I didn’t want her to feel worse.

Lorenzo: She didn’t need you to protect her feelings, Maman. She needed you to show up. That’s what none of us did.

Charles: I’m trying. But every time I think about texting her, I hear Fred’s voice telling me I don’t deserve to.

Arthur: That’s because he’s right.

Pascale: So what do we do? Invite her to dinner? Send another letter?

Charles: I could try calling again.

Lorenzo: No. No more performing care. She’s not stupid. She sees through all of it.

Pascale: We have to fix this. She’s our family.

Isabelle: You could start by remembering I’m in this group chat.

Isabelle: I’ve seen every message. Every strategy. Every “how do we make her forgive us” as if forgiveness is a button to push, not something earned.

Isabelle: Arthur apologized. He listened. He didn’t make excuses. That’s why I’m speaking to him. Not because he said the right thing. Because he meant it.

Isabelle: The rest of you? You keep asking how to fix me. You never once asked what I need.

Isabelle: So here it is: If you want a relationship with me again, we start with family therapy. With a neutral third party. No justifications. No guilt-tripping. No “but we’re your family.” Just honesty. Hard conversations. Boundaries.

Isabelle: You want me back? You come sit in a room and prove it. Not with flowers or dinners. With work.

Isabelle: I am not your emotional support sibling. I’m not your afterthought. And I’m not going to pretend this didn’t hurt just because it’s inconvenient for you.

Isabelle: Therapy. Or nothing.

Arthur: …I told you.

Lorenzo: Family therapy it is.

***

1K notes · View notes