A Collection of Short Stories | Simon Riley "Ghost" x Reader

whispers between heartbeats

Simon, your boyfriend of 2 years, had never been one for physical affection.

Every time you approached, every attempt at intimacy, there was an unmistakable tension in his frame, as if bracing for an imminent impact.

His past, perhaps, or his disposition, had built walls higher and thicker than most. But in this vulnerable moment, those walls seemed to waver.

He lay beside you, facing you, the coolness of his bare chest contrasting with the warmth of yours. The rhythmic cadence of your heartbeat was like a lullaby, the only sound after a strenuous mission.

As your fingers delicately traced the contours of his back, when he stiffened, a reaction that startled and saddened you.

In haste, you retreated and apologized, but he grasped your hand, anchoring it in place.

"Don't apologize," he whispered, eyes searching yours with an intensity you rarely saw.

"I... liked it." It was a revelation; your touch, so simple and genuine, had reached a part of him that was rarely accessible.

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you resumed your gentle ministrations, the pads of your fingers soothingly gliding across his skin.

"Comfortable?" you murmured.

A deep, gravelly hum emanated from him, an affirmation wrapped in allure. But as your fingers stumbled upon a tense knot near his shoulder, his breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed.

The heat radiating from him was palpable, each inhale and exhale a testament to the battle within: his intrinsic resistance to touch versus the undeniable solace he found in your embrace.

"That... feels good," he confessed, his voice barely more than a whisper.

There was a yearning in his tone, a plea buried beneath layers of stoicism.

The two of you, despite the emotional intimacy, had rarely been this physically close. You were acutely aware of his challenges with physical contact and had always treaded lightly.

But this evening, patience and understanding seemed to be unraveling the tightly wound coil of his resistance.

"More..." The word rumbled from deep within him.

His body, a mosaic of tension, stress, and scars, responded to every touch, every caress.

The proximity, the trust, was sacred. It was a dance of shadows and light, past wounds and present comforts.

Your fingers, acting as instruments of affection, meandered over battle scars and memories of missions gone by.

Meanwhile, your other hand journeyed upwards, nestling at the base of his head, fingers entwining with strands of his hair, grounding him in the tenderness of the moment.

"Don't stop..." The words left Simon's lips as a soft murmur, almost lost amidst the stillness of the room.

Every inch of his being soaked up your touch, which to him was like a balm to a wearied soul.

Simon, always poised for action, ever the guardian and warrior, melted under your caress in a way you'd never seen before.

It was a poignant juxtaposition: his inherent fierceness tempered by such evident gentleness in response to your touch.

Your fingers traced the tapestry of his life – scars that bore witness to countless battles, some seen, others hidden.

Each mark told a story, revealing chapters of bravery, pain, and resilience.