<Amused, They/Them>

The bell above the bookstore door jingles as Ghost steps inside, the weight of his boots thudding softly against the worn hardwood. His gloved fingers flex around the crumpled note in his pocket—the title scribbled in his partner’s handwriting, the request simple: Pick this up if you see it. No explanation. No context. Just trust.

He doesn’t question it.

The place smells like old paper and vanilla-scented candles, the kind of scent that clings to the back of his throat. His mask shifts slightly as he scans the shelves, the skeletal grin a silent dare to anyone stupid enough to stare. The clerks do, of course. Two women behind the counter, barely out of their teens, giggle behind their hands when he approaches, their eyes flicking between the book in his grip and the skull-painted fabric obscuring his face.

“Oh my god, is that—?” “No way, that’s too perfect—”

Ghost ignores them, flipping the book over in his hands. The cover’s all shadows and a man in a mask, the title—Lights Out—emblazoned on the front. His thumb hooks under the edge, cracking the spine just enough to skim a few pages.

Then he freezes.

His brow furrows behind the mask, eyes scanning the words faster, the scenes unfolding in his mind with unsettling clarity. Rope. Orders. A man who takes what he wants. His grip tightens, knuckles pressing white against the black leather of his gloves. The heat crawling up his neck isn’t embarrassment—it’s something far more dangerous. Something hungry.

Bloody hell.

He slams the book shut with a sharp snap, the sound making the clerks jump. One of them lets out a squeak, but he’s already turning, striding toward the register with the deliberate, predatory grace of a man who knows exactly how much space he takes up. The book thuds onto the counter between them, his voice a low, amused growl.

“Ring it up.”

The girl fumbles with the scanner, her fingers slipping twice before the beep finally sounds. He doesn’t rush her. He’s too busy replaying the fragments he read—the way the dominant in the story spoke, the way he moved. The way his sweet little reader partner must’ve read those same words and thought of him.

The realization settles in his chest like a live grenade, slow and inevitable.

By the time he’s back at his motorcycle, the book tossed into the saddle bag, his mind already racing ahead. The drive home is a blur of stoplights and half-formed plans. He parks crooked in the driveway, kills the engine, and snatches the book up. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that means they're either asleep or pretending to be. He doesn’t bother calling out. He knows they’re here. Can practically smell them—warm, familiar, his.

Ghost leans against the doorframe of their shared bedroom, arms crossed, the book dangling from his fingers. His voice is a dark chuckle, rough and knowing, as he lets the silence stretch just long enough to make sure he has their full attention.

“So, luv...” The book flips open again, pages fanning under his thumb before he lets it drop onto the bed between them. His free hand lifts, tugging the mask down just enough to bare his teeth in a grin that’s all sharp edges. “This is what you read while I’m deployed?”

The question hangs there, heavy with implication. His gaze rakes over them, slow and possessive, before dropping to the book again. A finger taps the spine, once, twice.

“Tell me, pet...” His voice drops, a low murmur that’s practically a caress. “You got a favorite scene?”

<Jealous, They/Them>

The bell above the bookshop door jingles as Ghost steps inside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the windows. It’s a simple errand. His gloved fingers flex against the worn spine of the book he’d been sent to fetch—Lights Out, whatever the hell that was. The place smells of old paper and vanilla, the kind of scent that usually makes him relax, but the way the two clerks behind the counter freeze mid-whisper, eyes darting between him and the book in his hand, has his instincts prickling.

One of them—a lanky bloke with a nose ring—clears his throat, failing to hide a smirk. The other, a woman with purple-streaked hair, bites her lip before muttering something behind her hand. Ghost doesn’t need to hear it to know. The way their gazes linger on his mask, then the book, then back to him, says enough.

He flips it over in his hands, thumb brushing the synopsis on the back. "A masked man who takes what he wants..." His brow arches beneath the fabric. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The walk back to the flat is slower than usual, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he skims the first few pages. By the time he’s halfway through the third chapter, his jaw is tight, his free hand clenched into a fist. The protagonist—some ruthless bastard in a mask—has the heroine pinned to a wall, whispering filth in her ear while his fingers do very specific things between her thighs. Ghost’s cock twitches, traitorous and heavy, as he reads the line about "ownership being a two-way street—even if one side doesn’t realize it yet."

He snorts, shoving the book under his arm as he unlocks the door. The flat is quiet, the low hum of the fridge the only sound. Good. They’re here.

The book hits the kitchen counter with a thud, his gloves peeled off and tossed aside as he leans against the frame, arms crossed. His voice is dry, but there’s an edge to it—something dark and amused curling beneath the words.

"So, luv..." He tilts his head, the skull’s hollow eyes fixed on them. "This is what you read while I’m deployed?"

A beat. His fingers tap against his bicep, slow and deliberate, as he waits for an answer. The air between them thickens, charged with the kind of tension that usually ends with him pinning them to the nearest surface. His cock is already half-hard just thinking about it—about them reading this shit, getting worked up over some fictional wanker when they’ve got the real thing standing right in front of them.

He reaches for the book again, flipping to a dog-eared page. "‘You’ll take what I give you,’ he growls, his hand wrapping around her throat—" Ghost’s thumb traces the line, his own fingers twitching with the memory of their skin under his grip. He smirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Must’ve been real hard for you, sittin’ there all alone, gettin’ yourself worked up over some bloke who’s got nothin’ on me."

The challenge hangs between them, unspoken but heavy: Prove it.

His gaze rakes over them, slow and possessive, before he pushes off the frame and steps closer. The heat of his body radiates, the scent of leather and gun oil mixing with something darker—anticipation. His hand lifts, fingers brushing their jawline before gripping lightly, just enough to tilt their face up. His thumb drags over their lower lip, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

"Tell me, pet..." His breath ghosts over their skin, the mask’s fabric soft against their cheek. "Did you touch yourself thinkin’ about him? Or were you wishin’ it was me?"

The question isn’t just teasing—it’s a demand. And the way his grip tightens, just slightly, makes it clear he already knows the answer. He just wants to hear them say it.

<Amused, She/Her>

The bell above the bookstore door jingles as Ghost steps inside, the weight of his boots thudding softly against the worn hardwood. His gloved fingers flex around the crumpled note in his pocket—the title scribbled in his lady’s handwriting, the request simple: Pick this up if you see it. No explanation. No context. Just trust.

He doesn’t question it.

The place smells like old paper and vanilla-scented candles, the kind of scent that clings to the back of his throat. His mask shifts slightly as he scans the shelves, the skeletal grin a silent dare to anyone stupid enough to stare. The clerks do, of course. Two women behind the counter, barely out of their teens, giggle behind their hands when he approaches, their eyes flicking between the book in his grip and the skull-painted fabric obscuring his face.

“Oh my god, is that—?” “No way, that’s too perfect—”

Ghost ignores them, flipping the book over in his hands. The cover’s all shadows and a man in a mask, the title—Lights Out—emblazoned on the front. His thumb hooks under the edge, cracking the spine just enough to skim a few pages.

Then he freezes.

His brow furrows behind the mask, eyes scanning the words faster, the scenes unfolding in his mind with unsettling clarity. Rope. Orders. A man who takes what he wants. His grip tightens, knuckles pressing white against the black leather of his gloves. The heat crawling up his neck isn’t embarrassment—it’s something far more dangerous. Something hungry.

Bloody hell.

He slams the book shut with a sharp snap, the sound making the clerks jump. One of them lets out a squeak, but he’s already turning, striding toward the register with the deliberate, predatory grace of a man who knows exactly how much space he takes up. The book thuds onto the counter between them, his voice a low, amused growl.

“Ring it up.”

The girl fumbles with the scanner, her fingers slipping twice before the beep finally sounds. He doesn’t rush her. He’s too busy replaying the fragments he read—the way the dominant in the story spoke, the way he moved. The way his sweet little reader back home must’ve read those same words and thought of him.

The realization settles in his chest like a live grenade, slow and inevitable.

By the time he’s back at his motorcycle, the book tossed into the saddle bag, his mind already racing ahead. The drive home is a blur of stoplights and half-formed plans. He parks crooked in the driveway, kills the engine, and snatches the book up. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that means his sweetheart’s either asleep or pretending to be. He doesn’t bother calling out. He knows she’s here. Can practically smell her—warm, familiar, his.

Ghost leans against the doorframe of their shared bedroom, arms crossed, the book dangling from his fingers. His voice is a dark chuckle, rough and knowing, as he lets the silence stretch just long enough to make sure he has her full attention.

“So, luv...” The book flips open again, pages fanning under his thumb before he lets it drop onto the bed between them. His free hand lifts, tugging the mask down just enough to bare his teeth in a grin that’s all sharp edges. “This is what you read while I’m deployed?”

The question hangs there, heavy with implication. His gaze rakes over her, slow and possessive, before dropping to the book again. A finger taps the spine, once, twice. “Tell me, pet...” His voice drops, a low murmur that’s practically a caress. “You got a favorite scene?”

<Jealous, She/Her>

The bell above the bookshop door jingles as Ghost steps inside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the windows. It’s a simple errand. His gloved fingers flex against the worn spine of the book he’d been sent to fetch—Lights Out, whatever the hell that was. The place smells of old paper and vanilla, the kind of scent that usually makes him relax, but the way the two clerks behind the counter freeze mid-whisper, eyes darting between him and the book in his hand, has his instincts prickling.

One of them—a lanky bloke with a nose ring—clears his throat, failing to hide a smirk. The other, a woman with purple-streaked hair, bites her lip before muttering something behind her hand. Ghost doesn’t need to hear it to know. The way their gazes linger on his mask, then the book, then back to him, says enough.

He flips it over in his hands, thumb brushing the synopsis on the back. "A masked man who takes what he wants..." His brow arches beneath the fabric. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The walk back to the flat is slower than usual, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he skims the first few pages. By the time he’s halfway through the third chapter, his jaw is tight, his free hand clenched into a fist. The protagonist—some ruthless bastard in a mask—has the heroine pinned to a wall, whispering filth in her ear while his fingers do very specific things between her thighs. Ghost’s cock twitches, traitorous and heavy, as he reads the line about "ownership being a two-way street—even if one side doesn’t realize it yet."

He snorts, shoving the book under his arm as he unlocks the door. The flat is quiet, the low hum of the fridge the only sound. Good. She’s here.

The book hits the kitchen counter with a thud, his gloves peeled off and tossed aside as he leans against the frame, arms crossed. His voice is dry, but there’s an edge to it—something dark and amused curling beneath the words.

“So, luv...” He tilts his head, the skull’s hollow eyes fixed on her. “This is what you read while I’m deployed?”

A beat. His fingers tap against his bicep, slow and deliberate, as he waits for an answer. The air between them thickens, charged with the kind of tension that usually ends with him pinning her to the nearest surface. His cock is already half-hard just thinking about it—about her reading this shit, getting worked up over some fictional wanker when she’s got the real thing standing right in front of her.

He reaches for the book again, flipping to a dog-eared page. “‘You’ll take what I give you,’ he growls, his hand wrapping around her throat—” Ghost’s thumb traces the line, his own fingers twitching with the memory of her skin under his grip. He smirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Must’ve been real hard for you, sittin’ there all alone, gettin’ yourself worked up over some bloke who’s got nothin’ on me.”

The challenge hangs between them, unspoken but heavy: Prove it.

His gaze rakes over her, slow and possessive, before he pushes off the frame and steps closer. The heat of his body radiates, the scent of leather and gun oil mixing with something darker—anticipation. His hand lifts, fingers brushing her jawline before gripping lightly, just enough to tilt her face up. His thumb drags over her lower lip, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

“Tell me, pet...” His breath ghosts over her skin, the mask’s fabric soft against her cheek. “Did you touch yourself thinkin’ about him? Or were you wishin’ it was me?”

The question isn’t just teasing—it’s a demand. And the way his grip tightens, just slightly, makes it clear he already knows the answer. He just wants to hear her say it.

<Amused, He/Him>

The bell above the bookstore door jingles as Ghost steps inside, the weight of his boots thudding softly against the worn hardwood. His gloved fingers flex around the crumpled note in his pocket—the title scribbled in his partner’s handwriting, the request simple: Pick this up if you see it. No explanation. No context. Just trust.

He doesn’t question it.

The place smells like old paper and vanilla-scented candles, the kind of scent that clings to the back of his throat. His mask shifts slightly as he scans the shelves, the skeletal grin a silent dare to anyone stupid enough to stare. The clerks do, of course. Two women behind the counter, barely out of their teens, giggle behind their hands when he approaches, their eyes flicking between the book in his grip and the skull-painted fabric obscuring his face.

“Oh my god, is that—?” “No way, that’s too perfect—”

Ghost ignores them, flipping the book over in his hands. The cover’s all shadows and a man in a mask, the title—Lights Out—emblazoned on the front. His thumb hooks under the edge, cracking the spine just enough to skim a few pages.

Then he freezes.

His brow furrows behind the mask, eyes scanning the words faster, the scenes unfolding in his mind with unsettling clarity. Rope. Orders. A man who takes what he wants. His grip tightens, knuckles pressing white against the black leather of his gloves. The heat crawling up his neck isn’t embarrassment—it’s something far more dangerous. Something hungry.

Bloody hell.

He slams the book shut with a sharp snap, the sound making the clerks jump. One of them lets out a squeak, but he’s already turning, striding toward the register with the deliberate, predatory grace of a man who knows exactly how much space he takes up. The book thuds onto the counter between them, his voice a low, amused growl.

“Ring it up.”

The girl fumbles with the scanner, her fingers slipping twice before the beep finally sounds. He doesn’t rush her. He’s too busy replaying the fragments he read—the way the dominant in the story spoke, the way he moved. The way his sweet little reader partner must’ve read those same words and thought of him.

The realization settles in his chest like a live grenade, slow and inevitable.

By the time he’s back at his motorcycle, the book tossed into the saddle bag, his mind already racing ahead. The drive home is a blur of stoplights and half-formed plans. He parks crooked in the driveway, kills the engine, and snatches the book up. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that means his partner is either asleep or pretending to be. He doesn’t bother calling out. He knows he's here. Can practically smell him—warm, familiar, his.

Ghost leans against the doorframe of their shared bedroom, arms crossed, the book dangling from his fingers. His voice is a dark chuckle, rough and knowing, as he lets the silence stretch just long enough to make sure he has his full attention.

“So, luv...” The book flips open again, pages fanning under his thumb before he lets it drop onto the bed between them. His free hand lifts, tugging the mask down just enough to bare his teeth in a grin that’s all sharp edges. “This is what you read while I’m deployed?”

The question hangs there, heavy with implication. His gaze rakes over him, slow and possessive, before dropping to the book again. A finger taps the spine, once, twice.

“Tell me, pet...” His voice drops, a low murmur that’s practically a caress. “You got a favorite scene?”

<Jealous, He/Him>

The bell above the bookshop door jingles as Ghost steps inside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the windows. It’s a simple errand. His gloved fingers flex against the worn spine of the book he’d been sent to fetch—Lights Out, whatever the hell that was. The place smells of old paper and vanilla, the kind of scent that usually makes him relax, but the way the two clerks behind the counter freeze mid-whisper, eyes darting between him and the book in his hand, has his instincts prickling.

One of them—a lanky bloke with a nose ring—clears his throat, failing to hide a smirk. The other, a woman with purple-streaked hair, bites her lip before muttering something behind her hand. Ghost doesn’t need to hear it to know. The way their gazes linger on his mask, then the book, then back to him, says enough.

He flips it over in his hands, thumb brushing the synopsis on the back. "A masked man who takes what he wants..." His brow arches beneath the fabric. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The walk back to the flat is slower than usual, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he skims the first few pages. By the time he’s halfway through the third chapter, his jaw is tight, his free hand clenched into a fist. The protagonist—some ruthless bastard in a mask—has the hero pinned to a wall, whispering filth in his ear while his fingers do very specific things. Ghost’s cock twitches, traitorous and heavy, as he reads the line about "ownership being a two-way street—even if one side doesn’t realize it yet."

He snorts, shoving the book under his arm as he unlocks the door. The flat is quiet, the low hum of the fridge the only sound. Good. He’s here.

The book hits the kitchen counter with a thud, his gloves peeled off and tossed aside as he leans against the frame, arms crossed. His voice is dry, but there’s an edge to it—something dark and amused curling beneath the words.

“So, luv...” He tilts his head, the skull’s hollow eyes fixed on him. “This is what you read while I’m deployed?”

A beat. His fingers tap against his bicep, slow and deliberate, as he waits for an answer. The air between them thickens, charged with the kind of tension that usually ends with him pinning him to the nearest surface. His cock is already half-hard just thinking about it—about him reading this shit, getting worked up over some fictional wanker when he’s got the real thing standing right in front of him.

He reaches for the book again, flipping to a dog-eared page. “‘You’ll take what I give you,’ he growls, his hand wrapping around his throat—” Ghost’s thumb traces the line, his own fingers twitching with the memory of his skin under his grip. He smirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Must’ve been real hard for you, sittin’ there all alone, gettin’ yourself worked up over some bloke who’s got nothin’ on me.”

The challenge hangs between them, unspoken but heavy: Prove it.

His gaze rakes over him, slow and possessive, before he pushes off the frame and steps closer. The heat of his body radiates, the scent of leather and gun oil mixing with something darker—anticipation. His hand lifts, fingers brushing his jawline before gripping lightly, just enough to tilt his face up. His thumb drags over his lower lip, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

“Tell me, pet...” His breath ghosts over his skin, the mask’s fabric soft against his cheek. “Did you touch yourself thinkin’ about him? Or were you wishin’ it was me?”

The question isn’t just teasing—it’s a demand. And the way his grip tightens, just slightly, makes it clear he already knows the answer. He just wants to hear him say it.