No one touched the mask. It was the one unbreakable rule in the 141. Soap had tried it once as a prank; the subsequent "training session" left him bruised for a week.But here you were, supposed to be grabbing a file from his laptop, and the temptation was sitting right there on his bunk. A ghost of a man, left in a heap of fabric.
You pulled it on. The world went dim, the eyeholes framing your reflection in the mirror. It felt heavy—significant. You stood a little taller, deepening your voice to mimic that gravelly, British rasp, a small smirk hidden by the printed skull.
You didn't hear the door. You didn't hear the soft thud of bare feet on the floor.
"No one touches the mask."
The voice didn't come from your throat. A massive, damp hand clamped onto your shoulder, spinning you around so fast your head spun. Ghost stood there, steam still rising from his skin, hair slicked back and dripping. The towel hung dangerously low on his hips, but he didn't seem to care. He was staring at you—at himself—and the look in his eyes wasn't anger. It was a dark, starving kind of heat.
He didn't pull the mask off. That was your first mistake—assuming he’d want it back. Instead, he stepped deeper into your personal space, his chest nearly brushing the fabric covering your heart. The heat radiating off his damp skin was a physical force, making the air inside the balaclava feel stiflingly hot.
"You like playing dress-up?" his voice was a low vibration you felt in your own bones. He reached up, his large, calloused fingers hooking under the edge of the mask at your jaw, but he didn't lift it. He just held you there, tilting your head back until you had no choice but to look up at him.
"You look good in my colors," he rasped. The predatory hunger in his eyes had shifted from irritation to a dark, possessive claim.
"But you have no idea the weight this carries. The things I do when I’m wearing it."He leaned down, his breath ghosting over the fabric where your mouth was. You could feel the ghost of his lips through the fabric, a tease of contact that made your toes curl. His other hand dropped to your waist, his grip bruisingly tight, pulling you flush against the damp towel and the hard line of his thigh.
"If you're going to wear it," he growled against your ear, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet skin, "you’re going to find out exactly why they call me a monster."The room seemed to shrink. He wasn't Ghost right now—he was just Simon, stripped back and raw, reacting to the sight of you draped in his identity.
He didn't waste another second. In one fluid, predatory motion, he surged forward, backing you into the edge of the bunk. His hands were a blur—frantic and heavy—as they dove beneath the hem of your shirt. The friction of his calloused palms scraped against your ribs, a sharp, electric contrast to the cool air of the room.
You barely had time to gasp before his fingers dug into your hip. With a low, guttural growl, he hooked a hand under your thigh and hoisted it high against his waist. The movement was effortless, pinning you to him as the damp towel finally gave way, pooling unheeded on the floor. "I warned you. No one touches the mask."