empyyre9n

[empyyre9n]

Hmmm thinking abt food aggressive simon and reader who likes to feed him.

He always grew up food insecure, not for lack of resources but because his old man deliberately withheld food. He learned to eat fast, became protective and aggressive over whatever food he was alotted before it could be taken away. Simon tries to hide it, and usually I works bc he is careful to eat alone.

But suddenly he has you, and you like to feed him constantly. You used to just share lunch spaces together bc u were insecure about eating around alot of people, but started to take note over how he would hunch over his plate, an arm slung in front as a barrier. Ur no stranger to eating habits caused by trauma, but you want him to feel comfortable.

So the next time you and simon eat together, you pack an extra bento box. Its rice, ham, and various veggies, same as yours. You silently slide it over when hes done eating his own meal, carefully casual about the whole thing.

It becomes a thing for u two. You begin to put some real effort into meal prep, researching how to properly balance macros and nutrients and everything else instead of just tossing together what u like. You also start carrying around granola bars and fruit strips, tossing them to the lieutenant whenever you happen to pass in the halls.

You wouldnt say he starts to fill out, but he definitely starts looking better, a bit plusher, more hydrated. His skin doesnt cling to his muscles anymore. Its nice. Feeding him, caring for him. It makes you feel warm that the guy you've grown so close to is doing better because of you.

He still clings a bit too tight to his plate, still hunches a bit, but hes slowed down to at least savor the food. Its fine, you still dont like eating in groups, but now you both can eat together.

Uhh...idk man I just wanna give him all the love he never had

[empyyre9n]

Dog hybrid!soap and dog hybrid!reader who are both insanely feral much to the agony of the rest of the team.

When u first met soap, you had to bite back the growl in ur throat. His posture just screamed aggression, and while u were in his territory u weren't a bitch, you dont tolerate being stepped on. You try to keep it mildly civil, you promised laswell as much, but the second u two are on the mats after a week of tense conversations? Blood. Lots of it.

You nearly rip his throat out and he breaks ur nose. The fight is only broken up by ghost literally scruffing you two, but the barks and growls dont die down. Price is at his wits end and is about ready to send u both off when gaz is like "hey, dude, maybe dont send off two of ur best soldiers?? Literally just get them used to eachother??" And thus u and soap are sent on a duo mission.

Somewhere between the gunfire and the smoke left in the humid air, you and soap find a truce. Then you find a bit more when u realize the fellow dog isn't all that bad, just fiercely protective of his pack. Now imagine the teams surprise when u two get back and are all over eachother. Happy little yips and wagging tails, ur inseparable.

Its nice for you two to get along. Gaz can finally sleep now that ur not growling at eachother well into the night. Any hopes of rest are soon destroyed when u and soap start making *other* noises well into the night...😔 poor gaz.

[empyyre9n]

könig and his girlfriend who runs the relationship. she wears the pants, she calls the shots. and honestly the big fella can’t complain. somebody has to tell the waitress he asked for no pickles, and it’s not going to be him!

[empyyre9n]

ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter Two: mouse

tw: non-con groping, dub-con, nudity, bathing, mouth kink, minor spit play

You stare at your palms the entire way to the bath house. 

Indentations still plague your skin, nettling deep into the thick tissue where it saves the memory of the brush you clutched in your hands. Sturdy wood and bristles thick enough to shed long rotting skin. You attempt to recall the last time someone had ever got your hands to curl, either out of indignation or panic, yet nothing comes to mind; not much phases you these days.

Ghost is sure to change this, you think. The tips of his toes nip at your heels as you lead him through the palace, and you’re certain you feel his breath huffing on the back of your neck. He looms. Lowering clouds kissing the horizon, promising a flood, promising lightning and destruction. You’d feel the wrath of the sky if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s already fallen upon your city. You see it in the changing of banners in the corridors; pristine white and silver cloth like wispy clouds are now replaced with red and gold, and an unfamiliar crest—the symbol of barbarians, of your new leaders. The storm has come and passed, and you’re wading through the aftermath. Through the lingering destruction that lies at your feet.

There is a detached bath house that lies away from the palace, past the garden and just before a steep trail that leads down to a placid cove. The building winks in your periphery as it stands outside the windows while your feet carry you further down the corridor. It is one that’s saved for servants and soldiers. Anyone expendable. Anyone deemed not important. Communal, and with a single pool, it’s a great source of socialization where people sit among the curved stone, lathering each other’s backs, or diving into the depths of the water. 

It is a place free from prying eyes. Free from judgement of the superiors, of the aristocrats, of the kings one step below the gods themselves. 

Once, you attempted to use the same water as the others when rain had punished your city for a near week straight. Voices echoing off of the stone walls, wet skin glistening in the shrouded sunlight, they all fell silent the moment you entered. They questioned what you were doing there knowing full well you could not answer, only point in the water that they shared with one another, but refused to share with you. 

I’d rather share water with a pig. 

Caenis. That was the name of the servant who spat at you, sneering at the way your feet uncomfortably tapped at the marble floor knowing there was nothing you could do to spit back. No one has ever been kind to you since you lost your tongue and your parents, but no one has been quite as cruel as her. Pristine skin left unmarred, laying with soldiers to get favors, living as an underground princess beneath Emperor Shepherd’s very nose, she always gets her way. 

But you do not take Ghost to the same place the servants bathe—to the very place where you were made a fool of—instead, you bring your new lord to the same chambers Emperor Shepherd used when he still drew breath. Private. Quiet. Held with the decorum expected to be given to a ruler.

It is a small room adorned with stone nestled far back in the palace, well away from foot traffic and echoing conversations. A round hole cuts deep into the floor with stairs to lead to the bottom, and a lipped ridge to sit on. It reaches deep enough to kiss your hips, and is wide enough for you to stretch your arms, but not much more. Private. Not meant for sharing. A hand lever pump that joins directly to the aquifer stands towards the back of the room, waiting to fill the carved tub to the brim. Grandiose, this bath is one of the single greatest wastes of drinking water, second only to the ever flowing fountains that peasants sneak sips out of when soldiers aren’t looking. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost murmurs. Stepping around you, he marches to the side of the tub, curiously eyeing the craftsmanship. Engraved in the stone are various creatures of the sea. Clams, gulls, schools of fish and animals from ancient stories—krakens, ship eating squids, merpeople luring unsuspecting men to shore. “All this artistry for a man who starved his people.”

Now, it’ll be wasted on you. A wretched and unkind way to think, but it springs to mind. The blood that taints his skin. The scrapes on his arms. How many civilians did he cut down for this one spoil? For a bath soiled by another wretched man? 

Ghost looks to you as if expecting an answer, but you instead direct him to a wooden table against the wall behind him that holds all of Emperor Shepherd’s old oils and soaps. There are countless ones with various scents, consistencies, and medicinal effects crafted by the best artisans. He only scoffs at them. 

“Need me clean and smellin’ like a pansy?” he grumbles. 

Still, he offers you reprieve in distracting himself as you work on filling the tub. Ensuring that the metal plug is in place, you begin to pump water from the spigot, allowing it to gush and wet the stone at your feet. You are grateful it is not designed like a regular pump. It flows long after you’ve stopped working it, water still gushing from the pressure, spilling and babbling as if it were a waterfall. What should take you hundreds of pumps only takes you fifty before it’s full enough to bathe in. 

Not bothering to wait for your direction, Ghost removes his chiton with a stiff grunt while his shoulders pop. Now that you no longer look at him in terror, you take note of all the wounds he’s gathered from the battle. There’s nothing of importance. Nothing that would take his life now or later when the wound goes bad and rotten. He shamelessly struts before you, flaccid cock swinging between his legs, broad shoulders swaying and knees groaning as he steps into the water, hissing at the way the frigidness kisses his skin, smoothing over each injury. 

When you realize he hasn’t pointed out a preferred soap, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe out your frustration before approaching the table yourself. Lavender. Lemongrass. Mint. Yes, mint will do. You grab the bar before you kneel at the ledge of the pool just next to Ghost, hands dipping in the water and lathering it as best as you can. 

“I don’t think you’ll be able to clean me from there,” Ghost deadpans. Pausing, you turn your attention to him. His elbows are on the ledge, head tilting to the side to look at you. “I’m a big boy.” As if to prove his point, he stretches his legs just as he rolls his hips. You try not to let the distorted image of his cock through the water distract you. “Gonna be hard to reach all of me if you’re sittin’ pretty by that ledge.” 

You freeze. Prey caught in the sights of a predator. If he wanted to, Ghost could gralloch you right here with his bare hands—nails digging through your navel, splitting you open, turning his bathwater pink. You clutch the bar of soap so tightly it nearly slips from your hands, and you opt to hold it against your stomach instead. 

“C’mon then,” he urges, not impatient but rather intrigued. “In the water, little bird.” 

Knowing better than to deny a powerful man his whims, you stand to your feet and pitifully trudge to the stairs. Ghost watches you like a vulture licks its beak over carrion, waiting to peck and tear flesh—to devour something rotten and whole. But you are a defiant creature to an extent. With no tongue to sing with, you hold onto what little power you have left. You do not shed your chiton before descending the stairs, cotton turning wispy in the algid water, hugging your body tight and tangling around your shins as you wade towards your relaxed warlord. The cold has your nipples hardening through the cloth, but you pay them no attention as you keep your chin high and your lips tight. 

He’s chuckling by the time you’re standing in front of him. Thick fingers tap against the stone at his back as he watches you wordlessly begin to wash him up. You start with his hands. His knuckles are split like grapes that are too ripe, but he doesn’t hiss at the sting. Meaty palms nearly devour your own hands, fingers and all, and you try not to pay too much attention to the way he seems to linger against you as you swipe the grime out from beneath his fingernails. 

Tendons pull taught in his forearms once you begin moving up. There are countless scars to trace. Deep ones that deform his skin, to lighter, silvery ones. Your knees knock against the sitting stone as you lean forward, reaching further along him, body bending at your hips. 

“D’ya always make things so difficult for yourself?” Ghost questions. Pausing, you look at his face for further explanation, brows nearly furrowing, but he seems to be waiting for something. On someone. For you. When you don’t respond, he sighs—then, he grabs. Hands slicing through the water, fingers digging into your hips, he pulls you towards him until your legs are spread wide around his thighs, rump resting in his lap. You gasp at the sudden movement, and a smirk pulls at his scarred lips. “Better?” 

Mind still spinning from the sudden movement, you attempt to distract yourself with your task only to realize that the soap has slipped from your hands. It floats along the surface, half buoyant and ready to sink, drifting further from your reach. You point at it, finger trembling too viciously to truly follow, but Ghost grabs your face. Thumb and forefinger digging into your cheeks, he turns your head towards him before releasing you. 

“I don’t care ‘bout the soap, little bird,” he says. His fingers drift from your face, down your neck, and to your collarbones. You pray to the gods that he cannot feel the way your heart thunders in your body. “Don’t care ‘bout the bath either. Just wanna hear you sing.” 

Dipping between your breasts, his hands grab your chiton and then pull. Thread yanks apart, linen ripping down your sternum, bosom on full display as the remaining tatters slip down your arms. Another gasp from you has him humming with pride as you look down at yourself, hardened nipples dancing with each shuddering breath you exhale. No one has ever exposed you like this—so scandalously on display before your lord like a whore.

“This is what you wanted, yeah?” Ghosts questions. His hands are on your chest now, palms cupping both your breasts, swallowing them whole with the ever growing cavern in his eyes until he drifts up to view your befuddled face. Despite the water, he’s warm. Too warm. Sweltering against your skin, the mixture of hot and cold threatens to undo you. “Or are you really expectin’ me to believe that a pretty thing like you would waltz into my room to serve me so willingly? Watched me conquer your city, now you want me to do the same to you, is that it? C’mon, pretty bird. Sing.” 

Ghost pinches you where you are soft and tender. The ripening bud of your nipple screams as he squeezes it between his finger and thumb, and it’s as if the sky is angry. Billowing clouds. Cracks of thunder and lightning rippling throughout your body. Your mouth opens enough for a squeak just as your body jolts, and he relents. Pauses. Eyes darkening, head tilting—Ghost looks at you with a fading smile and pursing brows. 

Then, he demands; “Open your mouth.”

The softest part of you. Ripe flesh around a peach pit. Teeth like brittle sand dollars waiting to crumble. You obey. You always do.

Lips parting just enough to open, Ghost hooks his thumb into your mouth without warning where he finds purchase behind your bottom teeth, then pulls. Jaw wide open, you stare at him as he peers into your mouth, and you note when he sees it. You. How you were marred beyond recognition. Humming, his thumb dips lower into the space that would harbor the soft tissue beneath your tongue if it were still here. A phantom tells you that you feel it; him. Prodding beneath the wet muscle. A bitter memory of what you once had. 

“I see.” He fits two fingers into your mouth and rides them along the ridges of your teeth. You feel him count each one. He presses against the edge. Each point. Enough for your jaw to ache. Nearly enough to draw blood. “You’re no bird. You’re a little mouse, yeah?” 

Soft palate now. Dragging forward. Hard palate. Incisors. Then, cheek. Hook and drag, saliva gathering on the tips of his fingers, running over the smooth skin and the indentations left from your teeth. 

“I’d ask who did this, but I have a feelin’ I already know. It was that bastard Shepherd, yeah?” Ghost questions with a hum. With his fingers still in your mouth, you nod. “Dirty cunt. This isn’t fresh either.”

He pushes further towards the back of your throat where the mangled remnants of your tongue lie. A branch cut too short on a tree, too much scar tissue and no reach. The nub pushes against the back of your throat as you swallow, skin melting beneath Ghost’s gaze. 

This is the most bare you’ve ever been in front of someone. Breasts spilling from ripped cotton, mouth open, lips wrapping around a stranger’s fingers as he pokes and prods at your greatest source of shame—of the hellfire and scorn wrought upon you that still lingers as embers and the smouldering remains of your past. 

Eventually, Ghost retrieves his fingers from your mouth, pulling them out slow and steady, prodding at your front teeth before his own lips part. Then, they’re in his mouth. Tongue lapping at your saliva, humming content at the flavor you can no longer taste—a sapor long forgotten. A shaky exhale fans across his face as you watch his eyes dilate. He has kind eyes, you think. A stark difference from the ruggedness strewn across his body, scars like mountains, bruises like valleys. They are soft. Warm like the rocks you sunbathe on after cleaning yourself with the brine of the ocean. Warm like the heated iron used to cauterize your tongue. 

“This city was bequeathed to me,” Ghost says, fingers popping free from his mouth before placing his hands on your hips. His thumbs wander. Rubbing, repetitive and soft against your waist, sending water singing around your bodies. “Everythin’ here belongs to me. Includin’ you.” 

Perhaps in another life his words would make your stomach churn, but the prospect of being owned by yet another ruler does not phase you. It’s something you require, now. Someone to take care of. Someone to serve. His words prompt you to nod, but his fingers squeeze against you and you freeze—a rabbit ensnared, a doe catching scent on the wind, a little girl kneeling before a man playing god. 

“But unlike Shepherd, I take care of my things. I don’t go destroyin’ things that could be easily fixed or corrected. And you—” Ghost pulls you closer, body dragging across his lap and chiton bleeding around you in the bath, forcing your hands to brace against his shoulders to steady yourself as water sloshes around you “—might just be my favorite possession yet.” 

For the first time you can recall, something besides fear or contempt swells in your chest. It is not pride, nor flattery, but something deeper. A beast with its maw opened wide, waiting to swallow something—but what? You? Unsure of what to do—here, in your city’s usurper's lap—you nod. You cannot name if it’s because you are saying you understand him, or if you’re agreeing with him. 

You tell yourself it’s the latter, but each beat of your heart strangely sounds like yes please, let me be something, anything more than this, something of importance, let me be useful, please let me mean something. 

Either way, Ghost chuckles before he taps your hips, legs stretching out behind you. The added buoyancy of the water allows him to move you easier, weightlessness taking over your body as if you’re caught in some sort of dream. 

“C’mon, little mouse,” he prompts. “No prized possession of mine will walk ‘round wearin’ rags like these. I like to rip through somethin’ of substance before I eat.”

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*full story is currently up for early access, updates will be posted every sunday night (may be a different day depending on time zones)

[empyyre9n]

Tansy Tea With Honey

Part 1 found here. Bless @spookytragedyshark for having more angsty thoughts. I am a deity of angst for many a good reason, one of those is sacrifice.

The knock at the door surprised you. No one had your new address. Everything you owned—the sad collection of liquor boxes— sat in a neat pile no higher than Callum. You hadn’t even removed your shoes as Callum opened and slammed the kitchen cabinets.

Apprehension saddled your shoulders. Confirming that you had locked the deadbolt, you let your vision focus on the body beyond the peephole. Eyes that spoke of shared laughter and the dimmest memories of whimpering in the dark scan the hallway.

Johnny had come by after the awkward introduction to the whole of his team. Remembering how he had chosen Simon, Ghost as he had been introduced by Captain Price, you fortify your heart. This had to be about seeing Callum.

Unlocking and opening the door you invite him in with a wave of your arm.

“Twice in one day? I must be either supremely lucky or unlucky indeed.”

The laughter at your dry tone swelled your traitorous heart. He joined you and you shut and locked the door behind him. You had been a single mother for going on nearly five years; some habits became such for a reason.

“When you said you were moving for work I didn’t realize it meant you were landing in my backyard, Tansy.” Johnny slipped his hands into his back pockets as he took in the flat.

Only standing because of bureaucracy would be the kindest epitaph you could provide the building.

“I didn’t know you had a yard to claim, Johnny. Thought you shifted with the wind and the smell of explosives.” You can’t help but study his face as he does the same to the flat. A flash of the night that created Callum hit you when you stared too long at the scar on his chin. Drunk you sure had tried to wrangle every fantasy you’d ever had about him hmm?

“You look different,” Johnny’s head rolls to you, “without your signature heavy eyeliner look.”

Hot prickles of teenage angst tapped on your spine, tingling down your everything.

“Found keeping my makeup from streaking while training and pregnant was more effort than cared for. I instead invested in shop-appropriate spooky attire instead.” The silence of the flat slithered into your ears. “Where is Callum?”

The giggle sounded from the kitchen. Before you could start forward Johnny held out a hand. He crept forward, moving so silently you wouldn’t have believed it possible if you didn’t watch it. When he turned into the kitchen space he crouched and lifted a hand and swirled a finger at you.

Apparently, it wasn’t just your heart you needed to fortify, it was your fucking ovaries.

“Where could Callum be?” You ask the room, sounds exaggerated.

The giggle came again.

“Peek-a-boo!” Johnny’s voice dropped and so did your trust of your ability to keep your hands to yourself.

Callum screeched into a full belly laugh.

“Dada!”

“Hi, buddy! I missed you!”

Johnny rose, Callum in his arms.

“How did you find us? I don’t even know where we are!” He said this in his Callum way, the one that involves his whole body.

Laughter looked good on Johnny. “Your mom works on base with me now. I wanted to come by and take you two to dinner and discuss a few things.”

“Oh? Why didn’t you ask before I left base?” You fold your arms to keep from pulling your son into your arms.

“Are we getting fries?” Callum cut in before Johnny could reply.

“We can make fries happen bud, let me chat with your mum. Can you find your shoes?” Callum goes down and Johnny looks at you. You wonder if this is the feeling birds get before they stop singing. “Price gave a few of us specific warnings to leave you be while you settle. Can’t go against a direct order, so I pulled your employee file to see what address you had listed. When I saw the neighborhood you ended up in, I updated my paperwork to show Callum as my son and applied for a base house. Pulled a few favors due and will have a house ready for you two by the end of the week.” Johnny settled his hands in his front pockets.

He watched you absorb the plan he laid on you. This was not the boy who would let you rule the world and play right hand to god. Accepting this offer felt like taking a peach covered in spider silk.

Angry sounds from Callum pulled your attention to him. He struggled to put his shoe on fully. Kneeling, you ignore the offer that would pull you further into Johnny. You couldn’t be there, spitting distance, if it would land on Simon’s face instead of Johnny’s mouth.

“Almost buddy, we need to switch your feet but then you’ll have it,” you fix the problem as you narrate to your son.

Offering him a hand up you focus on standing up yourself. Johnny is at your shoulder, scooping Callum up. You doubt Callum would have learned to walk if Johnny had been around when he was an infant. Locking the door, you head to your car. Johnny wanted to treat you to dinner, but you doubted he had a car seat.

“What if I don’t want your charity?”

Charity as a child always came with stings. Adults made choices to make themselves feel better, a pat on the back for helping poor, little Tansy. No one asked what you needed. His face is in yours now, the hand not holding Callum pressing into your elbow.

“Tansy,” if an arc of electricity shot from Johnny’s eyes you wouldn’t be shocked. Well, you would have but for a plethora of reasons. “I’ve been in love with you since I was fourteen. Five years ago I had a night with you I can barely remember that has brought me an amazing gift and you back into my life. This is not a fight you will win. I can’t lose you again.”

The bits of you that want to get fucked through a mattress rear up. This was not the same Johnny that let you sob into his chest and kiss him until you both fell into a drunken mistake. This man? He will take charge and damn if you don’t want to stop playing Atlas for a night.

“What about Ghost?”

The whisper, half caught in your throat, hits him like water to hot grease.

“Simon would annihilate god for Callum.” Johnny steps back, “Keeping the two of you close, safe? He wouldn’t object to that.”

Objections would be had by Johnny’s massive lover, you just know it. The Christmas conversation, still so fresh in your mind, tasted of holly berries. Johnny had just admitted that he was still in love with you. You can’t do jack-shit about that statement. There is no way out of this. Every option is discarded for a myriad of problems. Fuck.

No step forward involves you being loved. No choice leads to you finding peace or comfort.

Johnny can say he is in love with you, but you aren’t the one he ran after that night on the porch. Winner takes it all, and par for the course, you never won.

“Okay.” Slipping your eyes shut you pull in deep, shuttering breaths.

“Why is mummy sad?” Callum’s sweet voice hits you in the chest like a sledgehammer.

“Mummy is having a big emotion bud. I’m taking deep breaths to help calm down,” clearing your throat at the end of your sentence you suck in another deep breath.

Looking away from Johnny, and the miracle that was Callum in his arms, you wipe your eyes.

“We can discuss what this is over dinner.” Another swipe of your thumb and you are as ready as you can be. “Ready to go?”

The hand lifts into your vision as slowly as one would offer it to a feral animal. Johnny’s thumb is poised to remove the last offensive tear that stains your cheek.

Your eyes close tight as your throat aches. The flinch is more reaction than choice. When you can see again Johnny has put a reasonable distance between the two of you—the space between your bodies speaks of co-parents, not of lovers. Dammit. Why weren’t you allowed to be loved?

Dinner with Johnny went well. Timing and visits with Callum were easily arranged, you wanted Johnny to be present, Simon too. Callum did well until he finished his food. At that point, he got a touch squirrelly. Your emotions, tender and bruised, would have had you snapping at him. Instead, Johnny pulled out his phone and propped up a video about dinosaur bones against his glass.

Watching from across the table you struggle to reconcile the man before you with the memories, shrines, built to him in your mind.

“What? Is he not allowed screens?” Johnny glances from his phone to you, concern rising with his brows.

“Oh, it’s not that. I try to be pretty low screen with him but this is his first time at a restaurant. I’m just not used to people helping so much with him,” stabbing your pasta is the excuse to not get caught in his gaze.

“Tansy, I’m not helping with him. I’m his dad, it’s my privilege to share the load.”

Morning sees you dark and early with dry eyes and an attitude not even caffeine can fix. Sobbing yourself to sleep would never be your preferred way to rest. After Johnny had placed a drooling Callum to bed, the wet spot on his shoulder slowly drying, he had taken a few loads of boxes you wouldn’t need to his car.

“I’ll keep these until the house is ready,” his boyish grin as he toted the box on his shoulder sat against your throat, a garrote.

“You really don’t have to do this, Johnny.” You had removed your boots after getting home, the only concession to comfort you would allow yourself before he left.

He took one large step, standing nose to nose with you. The heat of his breath on your lips stung.

“I can’t lose you again my little flower,” his husky tone sank into your bones.

Tansy wasn’t your given name but the one he gave you. You had kept it, liking the association with the bright yellow collection of flowers. They always made you think of summer. And of the summers with him.

Johnny smiled sadly as your lip started to tremble. As if remembering your flinch from earlier he took a step back. And then another, and another, until he turned and left your flat for the last time that night.

That brought you back to the dry, gritty eyes. Daycare would take care of feeding Callum, poor boy swayed on the toilet when you sat him down as you brushed your teeth. He knew the routine. You would be up and fully dressed when you woke him and then transferred him to the car. He would wake up fully for the day on a cot on base and you would join him at lunchtime.

Seven am saw you laying your boy down on a small cot and chatting with Serena at the front desk before you had to hoof it across the base.

“I need to add two approved people to the pickup list if you don’t mind.” You tapped the counter as you waited, fingers anxious as the rest of you.

“Absolutely, who are we adding?” Serena’s face that spoke of safety to children looked at you and paled when you named both John MacTavish and Simon Riley.

“Uh..are you sure?” The tightly leashed concern that connected women in danger shone in her eyes.

With a deep sigh, you confirm. “Yeah, I’m sure. If they aren’t on the list they are going to bother me while I’m working.”

Serena tucked her concern into a pocket like a rock slipped from a child’s hand to drop back into the garden.

“Okay, they are both added. Is there anything else you needed?”

“No. I should be back around lunch to take him for a while. I will be doing that most days,” you glance at your phone. “You’ve got my phone number and the number to the shop. If I don’t answer my cell call the shop and someone should be able to grab me. Thanks, Serena!”

You wave and push through the door into the dawn. Taking off at a brisk pace you make it halfway to the shop before Simon “Ghost” Riley, the name that makes everyone concerned for your safety falls into step with you. He doesn’t say anything. That might be the hardest part.

When the familiar door to the shop pops into your vision you turn to confront the mass of man at your side. That was a mistake. He had worn a soft balaclava at Christmas. This one? A hard plate shaped to be a skull is stitched to his full face mask. All though flees your brain as you realize you need a new pair of underwear.

Johnny used to laugh at how you would cart around animal bones while wearing a flower crown. You would paint your bone wall a bright cheery yellow. You had always been drawn to the sun and the darkest places where she cannot reach. Johnny had pulled you back into his bright light and dangled bones and darkness before you.

You couldn’t have either of them—they already had each other.

“I tried to talk him out of base housing. But we both know how pigheaded he can be.”

The only reply you get is a shifting of Simon’s gait to match yours as it slows down.

“Why are you here?” Swallowing hard, because you will be damned if you start your first day with tears on your cheeks, you wait for his answer.

“Callum.”

“You can pick him up. Johnny, too. He’s in base daycare. I check him out to have lunch. No explosives, if you are anywhere with loud noises put him in ear protection.” You stopped on a heel, turning and pointing up into the face that would titillate you in your dreams. “Keep him safe. And if he asks for any knives tell him no.”

The man had the audacity to laugh, a huff, before one of the soldiers assigned to the shop cleared his throat.

“Ma’am?” Grant, if you remember his name right, looks between you and Simon. Concern is etched in each flick of his gaze.

“Grant right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Alright two things; he,” you point a thumb at Simon whose menacing aura is doing nothing to help dry your panties, “won’t hurt me. Second, quit calling me ma’am. Tansy will do or boss if you’re feeling apologetic.”

Shifting back to Simon you find him glaring at Grant.

“Shoo, I know you are supposed to be doing something that doesn’t involve bothering me.”

Simon stares at you for a heartbeat longer than you expected before turning and walking away, silent as the grave.

Grant let out a choking noise. When you glance at him he is staring at you like you streaked bare-ass and flapping tits in front of the base commander.

“Got something to say?” You lift both brows in a challenge.

“No, ma—” He corrects himself, “Boss.”

“Good. Now come and tell me about where all projects are at currently and go over the timeline of who needs what and when.” You step into the familiar sounds and smells of a machining shop.

What you didn’t know, could have had no way of guessing, is that yesterday was the last normal day you would have in a long-ass time.

Masterlist | Taglist

[empyyre9n]

Cruel (Ghoap)

Summary: Soap narrows his eyes, juts out his chin, and Ghost almost thinks he’s going to disobey a direct order. He waits, gloved fists clenching at his sides, ready to meet Johnny’s anger with his own if he has to. Looks forward to it, even. It’s only over these past few weeks that Ghost has realized how addicted to the other man’s attention he’s become. That he’ll greedily take any scrap of it, hoard it all like a dragon hoards gold. The irony isn't lost on him. Word Count: 4265 Warnings: complicated relationship, heavy angst, mean!Ghost, angry!Soap, they love each other but jesus christ are they bad at it (Additional warnings at the bottom of the post! They very much ruin the suspense of the fic, which is why I put them there instead of at the top.) Notes: You need to have read the first fic in this series to understand what's going on here, and the dynamics at play. If you choose to read this continuation, know that it recontextualizes the last fic greatly. So if you like the ambiguous nature of the other one, I'd suggest skipping this. All SPAG and consistency errors are my own, feel free to point them out. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! (*** means POV switch, and -*- means timeskip but no POV switch) AO3, Masterlist

Ghost doesn’t see Johnny again for three days.

The first is spent brooding in his room, taking advantage of the day off Price had given the team to avoid the younger man. The second, he holes up in his office, working on paperwork and trying not to think about the gaping, Johnny-shaped hole in his chest. It’ll close with time. It has to.

He’s not so lucky the third day, stuck training recruits with both his Sergeants. Ghost focuses on the rookies, and doesn’t let himself look at Johnny despite how badly he wants to. Doesn’t think he can handle it.

It doesn’t matter, in the end—Johnny’s in such a foul mood his presence is unignorable (it is always unignorable), biting off the recruit’s heads at the slightest of mistakes. He’s like a Drill Sergeant on steroids, and for once, Ghost isn’t the most feared man on the field.

“Fuckin’ eejits, the lot o’ ye! Gads! Cannae fuckin’ believe ye dobbers ever made it in tae SAS selection! Pathetic!”

“Alright, Tav, they get it,” Garrick says quietly, stepping closer to Johnny and laying a hand on his shoulder. “What’s got you so—”

Before he can finish speaking, Johnny whips around, smacking Garrick’s hand off of him and shoving him hard enough to make the other man stumble. His face is full of rage, lips curled in a snarl, teeth bared.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” He hisses, eyes flashing dangerously. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Garrick stares at him, stunned, and so do Ghost and the recruits. What the hell?

“Sergeant!” He barks, the superior officer in him rising to the forefront of his mind, taking control of his mouth. Johnny looks at him for the first time in three days, his furious gaze like a balm to Ghost’s soul. For a split second, he basks in it. Then, reality sets back in. “My office. Now.”

Soap narrows his eyes, juts out his chin, and Ghost almost thinks he’s going to disobey a direct order. He waits, gloved fists clenching at his sides, ready to meet Johnny’s anger with his own if he has to. Looks forward to it, even. It’s only over these past few weeks that Ghost has realized how addicted to the other man’s attention he’s become. That he’ll greedily take any scrap of it, hoard it all like a dragon hoards gold.

The irony isn't lost on him.

But the only thing that happens is Johnny giving him a sharp nod and turning on his heel to stomp away.

By the time they reach his office, Johnny’s fire has been redirected. The cocky grin he shoots at Ghost—painful in its familiarity, in the warmth it once held but now lacks—and the way his eyes brazenly rake over his form tells him exactly what Johnny is thinking.

“Absolutely not,” he says, the words heavy with regret for how much he wants to say yes. To feel Johnny’s bare skin against his again. Hell, he’d even let Johnny top like the man’s been whining about for ages, now.

“Naw? Dinnae call me in here tae fuck the attitude oot o’ me? Been awhile,” Johnny goads, moving closer to Ghost. He places a hand on his chest, letting it slowly slide lower, and Ghost knows he shouldn’t but he leans in anyway, his own hands settling on Johnny’s hips, gentler than they ever have been before.

Johnny’s touch falters, and Ghost sees a jagged shard of something scared, something desperate in his blue eyes. It pierces Ghost through the heart. He feels his resolve crack along with it. He’s going to give in, pull Johnny back, break him apart all over again. Ghost is going to destroy him.

He can’t let that happen.

“If I wanted whatever disease that prick from the pub gave you, I’d go fuck a hooker and skip the drama.”

The words are distant and flat, but they tear at his throat coming out. The pain only worsens when he pushes Johnny away harshly, denying himself the man’s blissful warmth.

But that’s nothing compared to the pain of Johnny’s reaction.

Ghost watches in real time as the cracks in his eyes widen into canyons, the jagged shards shattering into a million pieces.

“What?” He croaks, more devastated than Ghost has ever heard him. He didn't even sound like this in Las Almas, when he was bleeding out and surrounded by hostiles, watching death and destruction reign down upon dozens of innocents, helpless to do anything to stop it.

“You heard me. Really, Soap—if you thought whorin’ yourself out would make me jealous, you’re more delusional than I thought.”

Even as he says it, he knows it's too much, that he’s not just pushing Soap away anymore, that he’s punishing him, that the cancer that is Simon Riley has come to the surface to spew his hate and destroy everything in his life that’s good. Because Simon is jealous. He’s furious that someone else touched Johnny, that Johnny wanted someone else to touch him. That Simon isn’t enough, will never be enough for anyone.

And as always, it's his own bloody fault.

He wants to apologize, to tell Johnny he doesn’t mean it, any of it. That he's just a hateful, broken shell of a man too scared of being seen to let himself be loved. That Johnny is everything he’s ever wanted, that him pulling away these past few weeks hurts worse than Roba's torture ever did, that Ghost is a coward that never lets himself acknowledge what he has until it’s gone. He wants to beg Johnny to give him another chance, a chance to prove that he’s worth Johnny’s love, that he can change, that he can be better, he swears it—

Instead, he’s silent, choking on all the things he wants to say. The little light left in Johnny’s eyes dims until it’s gone completely, not a single spark left.

Johnny looks dead now, his face hollow. Even as he closes the distance between them and socks Ghost in the jaw so hard he knocks a tooth loose, the fire is absent. Ghost’s mouth fills with blood and Johnny punches him again. Ghost’s dodge is too slow, unable to look away from what he’s done, but he catches Soap’s fist in his own when he tries to land a third hit.

“Soap!” He yells, and he’s not sure if it’s a reprimand or a plea. Johnny's not even breathing hard, that same emptiness still haunting his expression, and Ghost wants it to go away more than anything. He needs to see those flat, blue irises grow stormy, needs to see Johnny’s lips turn down in a snarl. But none of that happens. Johnny just sneaks a hit up under Ghost’s guard, straight to his gut. Ghost grunts, twisting the sergeant’s wrist and then shoving him backwards. The small of Johnny’s back hits the edge of Ghost’s desk, but he doesn't even wince in pain. He doesn't even seem to feel it. He just straightens up, standing there and looking at Ghost, hands curled into loose fists like he could keep going or not. Like it doesn't really matter to him either way. And Ghost— Ghost has no fucking idea what to do with that.

Soap doesn’t react, just stares at Ghost for a long moment before he marches past him, his shoulder knocking against Ghost’s on the way out. Ghost sees it for what it is—the last time Johnny will ever touch him. And as he sits down in the creaky, old office chair behind his too-small desk, cradling his busted nose, he mourns.

***

Soap goes to the pub.

He doesn’t remember deciding to go, nor the walk there, but between one blink and the next, he’s sitting at the bar, a drink in hand. The wood is sticky, pulling at the hair on his bare arms. Seems he forgot a jacket.

Would explain why his fingers are numb, folded stiffly around his pint. He’s not sure that he could let go even if he wanted to.

Good thing he doesn’t want to.

As he lifts the glass to take another sip, a vaguely familiar voice calls his name.

“John?”

Soap turns, looking the speaker up and down. She’s a wee thing, pretty as a peach with wide, innocent eyes. The type of bird he’d jump into bed with, before.

Before. Before Ghost. Before Soap lost the heart he wore on his sleeve to that big, mean bastard. Before Ghost crushed it to dust beneath his heel.

“Naw interested, lassie. Sorry,” he says, voice flat. He turns back to his drink, stiffening when the girl sits next to him anyway. He opens his mouth to tell her off, but she beats him to it.

“Do you remember me?”

Soap’s brows furrow, and he glances at her again, taking the time to really look at her. Brown eyes, reddish hair, pale skin… something tugs at the edges of his memory. Something that makes him shiver and break into a cold sweat.

“How do ye ken mah name?” He asks, unsure why he’s only just asking now. Why a stranger calling him by name didn’t set off alarm bells instantly. “Who are ye?”

Things are starting to feel unreal again (again?), and Soap stands up, dropping his glass. It thuds against the bartop and falls overing, spilling his drink everywhere. His heart is racing and for some reason, he’s struck with the overwhelming urge to get away, to get outside, he just has to get outside, if he gets outside then maybe he’ll wake the fuck up—

He’s in the alley behind the pub, now, once again with no memory of how he got there. The little lass is next to him, hand hovering over his back as he vomits, but not quite touching, and he’s so grateful for that that he feels tears sting his eyes. But he doesn’t know why.

“What— what happened tae me?” He whispers, voice wet and as fragile as the bombs he works with. One wrong move, and life as he knows it explodes. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about crying in front of a stranger, too disoriented.

“If I wanted whatever disease that prick from the pub gave you…”

“...if you thought whorin’ yourself out would make me jealous…”

Ghost’s words ring in his ears, and Soap—

Soap remembers.

-*-

Four Days Ago

Soap knows he should get up. He’s laying on the floor of a public washroom, he’s fairly sure, and it’s fucking filthy. There’s something wet on his face—toilet water, maybe. He’s probably going to catch cholera or some other nasty disease if he doesn’t move.

Instead, he stares up at the dusty ceiling. It’s painted black, and there are cracks and cobwebs spinning above him. They look like constellations, if he squints.

A spider dances across the stars, and winks at him with all eight eyes.

He thinks that maybe he’s dreaming.

The thought fills him with relief. Yes, he’s dreaming, that must be it. None of… that… actually happened. It was all just a nightmare, and he’ll wake up soon, snug in his crappy bed back on base.

Soap closes his eyes. Maybe if he falls asleep in his dream, he’ll wake up faster.

Time passes.

He’s not sure how much, maybe hours, or maybe just seconds. The stench of vomit, booze, and piss burns his nostrils, making his stomach turn. He forces himself to roll onto his side so he doesn’t choke on his own sick if he throws up.

Something wet drips down his thighs, and Soap retches.

He lays there in a puddle of his own bile for more seconds-minutes-hours, and he realizes his eyes are open again when he sees that same fat, black spider scuttling across the floor towards him. He tries to ask it how its trip to space was, but lets out a single, ragged sob instead.

Pull yourself together, MacTavish, he thinks, or he tries to think. He loses the words halfway through—they swirl around and out of his head like water circling a drain. It makes him want a shower. He feels dirty.

He’s also fucking tired of waiting to wake up. With great effort, he gets his leaden limbs to cooperate enough to pull his trousers back up. He fumbles dumbly with the fly for what feels like forever before giving it up as a bad job. Then, using the disgusting toilet for leverage, he drags himself up to his knees. It takes a while, he’s pretty sure, even though time feels like it’s racing by and slowing down all at once.

His arms shake as he pushes himself to his feet, and he immediately crashes hard into the stall’s wall, barely managing to stay upright. It feels impossible to make it across the washroom, let alone the bar and then back to base, but he’s made it out of worse situations, and he’ll make it out of this one, too.

Besides, it’s just a dream, right? Just a bad fucking nightmare. He doesn’t have to exfil himself all the way back to base. He just has to wake up.

He wants so badly to wake up.

When he opens his eyes again—when did he close them?—he’s outside. He doesn’t know how he got here, doesn’t remember anything past the monumental task of standing up. But the cold, crisp air feels good against his heated skin, and he leans his head back against the solid bricks behind him, uncaring of the way they scrape roughly over the shaved parts of his scalp.

He’s laying down again, slumped over in the alley next to the pub (probably). He must look like an absolute pillock, a greenboy that can’t handle his alcohol. He snorts wetly at the thought and realizes he’s crying.

Just a dream, John, he tells himself, ignoring how real everything is starting to feel. How he can’t wake up no matter how hard he tries. Don’t go bawling over a bad dream.

Suddenly, there’s hands on him, and Soap is swinging before he even really registers the touch. His aim is clumsy and stunted, and his arm just flops limply, fist thudding against the concrete. He hears a soft gasp, and then a murmured apology as the hands retract. He’s shaking as he rolls his head to look up at his attacker, squinting through a haze of tears and alcohol.

“I’m sorry,” a woman says, features blurred beyond recognition, voice sounding like she’s underwater. “I didn’t mean to scare you… I saw you stumbling through the pub, you looked in a bad way. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Soap stares at her for a long moment as he tries to make sense of what she’s saying, his thoughts painfully slow. He finally thinks he gets the gist of it, and though this might be a dream, on the off chance it’s not, he decides to accept her help, much as it rankles at him.

“Gho… Ghost?” He mumbles, gaze sluggishly moving over her shoulder, looking for his Lieutenant.

“No, I’m not a ghost,” the woman replies, and he can hear the frown in her voice. He groans, frustrated she’s not understanding him but knowing it’s his fault since he can’t get his mouth to fucking work, lips and tongue feeling numb but his throat burning like he’s gargled glass. “You’re not dead… but I’m going to call you an ambulance, okay? I’ll stay with you until it comes.”

Soap lets out a painful sound of protest, and distantly feels his arm move again, clumsily slapping her phone from her hands. He doesn’t have it in him to feel guilty, even if he’d only meant to grab her hand to stop her. He got his message across, that’s all that matters.

“No ambulance, then,” the woman says, sounding a little further away, a little more wary. But she doesn’t leave. She’s nice, Soap decides. She doesn’t have to help him, but she is, even though he’s not making it easy for her. It’s more than Ghost would do for him, he thinks. Maybe he’s lucky this girl is here instead of him, though he can’t help but wonder where his Lieutenant went. Or Price, or Gaz. Why is Soap all alone? Why did they leave him? Did he do something wrong? Do they not want him anymore? “Do you remember your address? I can call you a car.”

Soap tries to tell her the name of the military base, but all that comes out is another pathetic sob as the truth dawns on him. This is real. That really happened. Christ, maybe his team knows. Maybe that’s why they left him. Disgusted that Soap let it happen, that he didn’t fight back. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even move…

“Shhh, it’s alright,” the woman says, closer now, closer than she’d been even before. Soap opens his eyes—once again, he doesn’t remember closing them—vision clearing briefly as fat tears roll down his cheeks. She’s young, bonnie, with big brown eyes and reddish hair. But what gets him is the gentle concern on her face, and fuck, but Soap’s not been looked at like that in so long.

He wants Ghost to look at him like that. Like he cares.

The tears don’t stop no matter how hard he tries to keep them in, knowing he looks weak, knowing that soldiers don’t cry, that real men don’t cry. Soap hasn’t cried since the day he got kicked out of home at sixteen years old. Hasn’t begged since that day, either. He’s been tempted, though. Tempted to beg Ghost for more, for something, anything to show him he’s more than just his colleague, or a convenient hole to fuck.

But that’s all he is, isn’t he? Tonight proves it.

“It won’t always hurt this badly,” the woman—girl, really, she looks barely old enough to even be in a pub—says softly, and Soap hiccups, does his best to keep his eyes on hers even as his vision swims. Her form shifts, movements blurry, but then she reaches out for him again, slow enough that even his lagging brain can see it coming. “Can I put this under your head? It’s just my jumper.”

Soap blinks at her, sniffles like a bairn, tries to nod but just end up dipping his chin a little. She seems to understand anyway. Her palm is warm and soft where it cradles the back of his head, but he still flinches violently. She slides her jumper underneath him like a pillow and carefully sets his head back down, letting go of him immediately after.

“It won’t always hurt this badly,” she repeats, and his mind latches onto it this time. She must see that he’s listening, because she continues, voice achingly gentle. “The physical pain will be gone soon enough. And the memories… you learn to live with them. The sharp edges dull, little by little. They’ll never go away entirely. But they won’t cut as deep.”

Soap feels a flash of anger, wants to lash out at the poor, sweet lass that’s helping him when no one else will, when his own fucking team has left him. Wants to tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, that nothing happened to him. Wants to run and hide, go lick his wounds in private and never, ever tell a single soul about this night from hell.

But his lips won’t form the words and his throat’s too sore to say them anyway.

And the tears don’t stop.

“I won’t leave you,” the girl says, and Soap’s anger disappears just like that, sucked away by the words he so desperately wants to hear—just not from her. Not from a stranger. But she’s the one who’s here, the only person he has right now, and isn’t that fucking pathetic? It is, but he doesn’t care right now, can’t care right now, so he latches onto them, onto her, fingers gripping her skirt weakly, body still not his own. He’s not sure it will ever be his own again.

Time passes.

Soap thinks he’s unconscious for some of it, but he’s not sure. Can’t really tell if he’s awake or asleep, if his eyes are open or closed, because the spinning never stops. But neither does the girl’s voice.

She talks, sometimes, but there are moments where he’s lucid and she’s just humming. She doesn’t touch him, doesn’t press him for information he can’t give, doesn’t scold him for hanging onto her skirts like she’s his fucking mam, either. She tells him stories, he thinks, doesn’t catch most of what she says but is pretty sure she mentions a pet bunny at some point. It doesn’t really matter—her voice, soft and steady, helps to keep him grounded, to remind him that someone is watching his six, even if it's not the someone he wants.

Eventually, he feels solid enough to push himself onto his knees again, using the skinny limb the lass offers him for support. He hates himself a little more for needing help from a damn civvie, but isn’t too proud to refuse it. Not right now. He’s got no pride left.

No dignity, either.

“Car,” he slurs, pats his chest until he finds the chain of his dog tags around his neck, grips them with stiff, cold fingers and pulls them out of his shirt, holding them out for her to see. “Base…”

“You live on the military base?” She asks, not protesting when he leans more and more of his weight on her, unable to support it. She must be a saint, because he’s pretty sure he’s covered in vomit. “Credenhill?”

He nods weakly, shoulders sagging, body trembling. What a sight he must make, a hardened soldier, tall and muscular, relying on a tiny lass to hold him up. No wonder his team left him. He’s a pathetic excuse for a soldier.

“Alright,” she says, sliding an arm around his waist, letting him hook his own over her boney shoulders. He shudders at the closeness, but doesn’t pull away. “Okay. Let’s get out of the alley, and I’ll call you that car. Do you think you can stand?”

He’s honestly not sure, but he has to stand, doesn’t he? Has to keep going, make it to exfil. It’s just another mission, and he has to complete it. There’s no other choice.

So he nods again, so very, very tired, and braces himself to stand. Pushes up when she does, stumbles to his feet, leans on her so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t knock her over. She’s a little thing, but stronger than she looks, and she half drags him out of the alley and around the corner, sitting him down on the kerb just outside the pub. He hisses as a sudden, terrible pain shoots up his spine, grips her wrist so tightly he feels bones grind under his hand as black dots dance across his vision. He lets go the second the pain fades a bit and he realizes what he’s doing, slurred apologies tumbling from numb lips, lava in his throat. She just shushes him again, sits next to him and wraps her tiny jumper around his broad shoulders.

“It’s alright,” she reassures him, her kindness seemingly endless. He wonders if she’d be so nice to him if she knew the things he’s done, the people he’s killed. He wonders at the fact that he’s experienced both the best and the worst humanity has to offer in one night. He wonders why he didn’t die on his last mission, so he didn’t have to.

He wonders what that prick slipped into his drink.

Between one blink and the next, the car pulls up, and the lass gets him into it, his limbs still heavy—but at least he can feel them again. He doesn’t realize he’s still holding onto her skirt until she tries to leave, and he coughs wetly and lets go.

“Get home safe, John,” she says, laying her jumper over him like a blanket. He breathes in as she trades words with the cab driver, murmurs that he can’t make sense of. The jumper is soft and small and it smells good, floral and sugary. He wishes it was Ghost’s massive, threadbare hoodie instead. The one that reeks like the fags Ghost smokes, the peppermint tea he drinks, and the dye-free detergent the base supplies them with. It’s a terrible combination of scents—nauseating, really.

Soap hates that he loves it.

By the time he gets back to base, he’s regained enough control of his body to make it back to his room, if barely. The guards at the gate are friends, and promise not to tell on him for getting wasted. They congratulate him on getting laid after spotting his disheveled appearance. He nearly decks them for that until he realizes there’s no way they could know what really happened—they probably just think he just picked up some bird at the pub. He huffs an awkward, forced laugh and continues on his way.

He collapses onto his bed when he gets back to his quarters, face first. He wants to shower, feels fucking filthy, but whatever drugs he was given are still in his system and he’s ninety percent sure he’ll slip and crack his head open if he tries. He contemplates doing it anyway. Won’t have to live with the memories if he dies.

He passes out before he can decide.

Additional Warnings: graphic depiction of the effect of roofies, rape (NOT between Ghost and Soap) aftermath (no onscreen rape), dissociation, temporary minor memory loss

[empyyre9n]

Behind Enemy Lines Pt.3

CW: swearing, injuries, medical inaccuracies Summary: You were a friendly medic, captured years ago and held prisoner, forced to do do the bidding of your captors. Years later, a man by the name of Ghost is dragged in and changes the trajectory of your life. A/N: I had severe ADHD, and i am unmedicated rn, and it makes it really hard to work on things unless I get the hyperfocused drive for it, so I'm sorry I'm so bad at making the other parts to my fics. Know that I will never abandon them. it just might take me a while. Edit: Fixed Pronoun continuity 1.1k words(I figured out word count on google docs) Idea Playlist Part 1 Part 2

"It's not the simple." The nurse says calmly, "do you see how their skin has grown over the stitching? The thread has fused to their skin. We can't just 'pull it out'."

"Well then what do you have to do?" Price snaps, "We need them to talk."

"They won't be 'talking' for a good long while. Their jaw is dislocated, and shows signs of having been that way for years. No matter what we do it keeps falling back out of place. It will be wired shut for the next few months. Besides," The nurses crosses his arms, " I wouldn't be surprised if they never talk again. The level of trauma they've sustained is..."

"I don't give a fuck about their 'levels of trauma'." Price runs a hand over his face, "They are the only source of information we have on this group. We need answers."

"Yeah well, you released them into my care. And I say they need rest and rehabilitation. You can't talk to them yet. And if you keep arguing with me, I won't let you see Ghost either."

"You can't-"

"Oh I can. You maybe be large and in charge out there, but once you enter these doors? This is my house. And I say you need to leave. So go."

"Go, John." Price whips around as Laswell rounds the corner. She looks haggard, a look in her eyes that tells him there's something more going on.

"Kate-"

"You can't do anything right now. Go. there's a file in my office you need to read." Price huffs, spinning on his heel and stalking out.

" i want update's on their condition." Laswell tells the nurse, "You have my full permission to do whatever is needed to get them healthy again. Treat them as you would a friendly, not an enemy."

"Yes ma'am." Laswell dismisses the nurse, watching as he walks back down the hallway and out of sight. She lets out a long sigh, running a hand through her hair. It was gonna be a looooong week.

~~~~

"You're alright luv, we ain't gonna hurt you." The nurse says, gently pulling your hair out of your face and tying it back, "We're just gonna take a look at your injuries, mkay?"

You nod warily, eyes blown wide. This scene is familiar to you in more ways than one. You know that tone, those words, they are things you said countless times before your capture, your hands smoothing back hair, wiping away tears.

But those memories are tainted with fear. The antiseptic, the white coats, the needles, the tools. All things that got you to your current state. The fact that you are handcuffed to the bed doesn't help.

"We're gonna start with getting an IV set up. mkay luv? it's just gonna be some pian meds and some hydration." The nurse says as she inspects your arms, grimacing at the track marks on them.

You let soft a soft whine, shaking your head as another nurse approaches you with the IV.

"You're extremely dehydrated luv, we need to get some fluids in you. It'll only hurt for a moment." The nurses grabs your arm, tying the tourniquet around your bicep.

You close your eyes, trying to breathe through the panic. In through the nose, out through the mouth. except you can't breathe through your mouth.

"Breathe, luv." The nurse says soothingly, "Slow down." But you can't. you can't you can't you can't you can't you can't. Oh God what if they follow through? They said if you couldn't obey they'd out your tongue out next. You want to protest, but you can't. They took that away from you.

You lets out another distressed whine, tear sliding down your cheeks. You can barely breathe, your nose filling up with snot. You strain against the handcuffs at the feeding tube is yanked out your nose, the burning sensation barely noticeable over your panic. Something new is shoved in, a cannula to force oxygen into your body.

"Lets push some ketamine, we need them complaint for the tests."

"Can someone restrain their legs, they keep kicking!"

"This tube is disgusting, they did not maintain things properly. Lets book 'em for a J-tube."

"Oh God, their mouth."

"It'll be okay luv, we'll have you right as rain soon." The nurse from before smiles kindly at you before everything goes dark.

~~~~~~~

The first thing Ghosts notices is that he's no long restrained. He feigns sleep, straining his ears to listen for the signs of anyone in the room. All he hears is the whir of air conditioning and the beeping of a heart monitor. The air smells of antiseptic. A hospital then.

He opens his, blinking hard to clear his vision. His muscles relax as he realizes he's back on base, safe at last. it's then that his brain registers the pain. It's dull, probably because of the pain meds coursing through his system, but its there.

Everything hurts, a dull ache pulsing through his muscles. His side hurts the worst, and as he looks down at his hospital gown, he remembers.

"Fucking fix him." The medic stumbled into his cell, their eyes wide as they stared at him. he cried out, straining against his bond ss the medic stuck their hands in the gaping wound on his side.

His vision blurred, black dots dancing in front of his eyes. Fuck. he was going die. He didn't want to die. Not now. not when he'd finally found people worth fighting for.

He blinks, and suddenly Soaps face is above his. Oh God, he really was dying, wasn't he.

"-We'll shoot you." Shoot him? Why were they going to shoot him? To put him out of his misery? He moaned as thy started moving, the motion sending burning pain through his body.

And the medic. the medic was still there, their stupid masked face next to Soaps as he was carried away.

Ghost blinks, shaking the memory off. The medic was here. The medic was here. He didn't think to much on it though, as the cocktail of drugs he is on drags him back under.

~~~~~~~

Price stared at the file on Laswell's desk, a sick feeling in his stomach. It contained all the dossiers on a team that had been K.I.A, 4 soldiers...and a medic.

It was you, no doubt a bout it. You had a light in your eyes that was gone now, your hair was short, your skin unblemished. But it was undoubtedly you.

8 years. You had been presumed dead for 8 years. 8 years you had spent in an enemy base, being tortured and broken. It made Price sick.

"Well?" Laswell leans against the door, " You gonna take them?"

"What?" Price spins around, staring hard at her.

"You've got a thing for strays, John. You don't want this one?" Price huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

"I don't think I'm the only one with a thing for strays, eh Kat?" With that, he dumps the files into a printer and make 3 copies, one for each of his men.

"Ghost is gonna love this."

A/N: yay! Part 3 is here! Hope yall enjoy :) Ghost and the medic will actually get to interact in the next part. Sorry about the medical stuff, I'm not a nurse or anything so the interacions might sound weird. Also sorry, this one is also kind of short lol tags: I definitely didn't get them all, I'm sorry there was just so many of you @smile6890 @cricricorner @unclearblur @redzluvvesage @just-a-harmless-potato-05  @vesna-the-spring @princess312 @norsehorseofcourse-blog @bonniperinktrance @soggywafflezz  @littlebunie @sirbonesly @havoc973 @mommymilkers0526 @thegreyjoyed @pinkiliciousgunp0int @poopoobuttsy @darcellethedreamer @kamote-kuneho @z-wantstowrite @i-ate-ur-fries @fakeguysarehot @shitrandom @yunho-leeknow @idontreallyexistyet @smile6890 @thesehandsarerated-e

[empyyre9n]

Blowing a kiss to Johnny “Soap” MacTavish is like pulling the pin on a glitter grenade—you never know where the spark’s gonna land.

It’s always a gamble.

You think you’re being cute.

You think he’ll catch it with a wink, maybe tap his heart like a gentleman.

One moment he’s beaming, catching it mid-air with dramatic flair like it’s a bloody dove, eyes glinting like he’s just intercepted enemy comms. Smacking it dramatically onto his chest with a proud “Ach! Right in the ticker! you spoil me, bonnie.” he’ll murmur, staggering backward like you just shot him with a Cupid .50 cal.

The crowd swoons. Children cheer. Birds sing.

The next time?

Public place. Full squad around. Briefing room. You blow that kiss and he catches it with two hands… locks eyes with you… then—with full confidence and zero shame—plants it straight on his crotch. Smack. Hands on his hips. Grinning like a menace. “That’s where I felt it, lass. Don’t lie.”

Everyone turns.

Gaz groans. Ghost doesn’t even look up. Alejandro claps. And Price? He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters, “For the love of bloody God, Soap…”

Soap just winks at you across the room like he did you a favor.

It’s 50/50 chaos. You blow that kiss, you’re playing Russian Roulette with your dignity.

[empyyre9n]

busy as fuck and haven't drawn anything, but here's Ghost from an older patreon piece as a treat for you 💝

[empyyre9n]

you’re sittin’ on the porch in your little sundress, legs crossed just like he likes, that soft breeze kissin’ your skin while you sip sweet tea like a proper southern belle. phillip’s watchin’ you from the truck, arms crossed, aviators on, smirkin’ like he knows exactly what you’re tryin’ to do.

“mm-mm, baby, don’t go sittin’ out here like that, all cute n’ clueless. i ain’t tryna start nothin’ ‘fore dinner.” his boots thud heavy on the steps as he makes his way over, drawl thick, eyes hot as they trail over your thighs.

you bat your lashes, lips all glossy and pouty. “i was just waitin’ for you, phillip.”

“i bet you were,” he mutters, hand slidin’ up your bare leg like he owns every inch. “always waitin’ on me to come home ‘n tell ya what to do, huh? that’s my good girl.”

he tugs your chin up so you're lookin’ right at him. “ain’t no reason for you to worry that pretty lil head with nothin’ complicated. i handle the thinkin’. you just keep lookin’ sweet ‘n keepin’ my house soft ‘n warm.”

“but—”

he cuts you off with a slow kiss, palm heavy on your throat. “no buts. don’t go actin’ like you got opinions now. ‘less they’re about what color lace you’re wearin’ under that dress.”

and you do have opinions. but he’s already got you pulled into his lap, callin’ you “darlin’” and “sugar” and “my dumb lil wife” like it’s a compliment. and maybe it is the way he says it—slow, drawlin’, possessive.

“what am i gonna do with you, huh?” he whispers against your skin, nosin’ at your collarbone. “married a baby doll who don’t know a damn thing ‘cept how to keep me wrapped ‘round her finger.”

[empyyre9n]

If you're heading to a protest tomorrow, it's important to know your rights. Consult this information from the ACLU. Be peaceful. Be safe. Be careful. Be strong.

[empyyre9n]

Through Me (the Flood) Simon Riley/female reader

Something is wrong.

He can see it, feel it as he slips beneath the covers and pulls you into his arms, your face finding the warmth of his neck, cheeks damp.

"Hey mama." Nix's birthday is always hard. After the party and the cake and the cleanup, after everyone has gone home, after the kids have gone to sleep-

the pain that lurks in the back of your mind finally forces itself forward.

Her second birthday was the worst. You held it together so well, so determined to make sure everything was perfect, the cake and decorations and gifts. Everyone came, clapped and sang, celebrated.

He watched you like a hawk the entire time. Waiting. Ready to catch you. And when you fell, you fell hard.

"Sorry I didn't help with clean up." You croak, and he rubs your back.

"It's alright sweetheart. How are you feeling?"

"Tired." Your voice is distant, and though you're right here, tucked against his chest, in bed, in the house, he knows you're somewhere else as your thumb absentmindedly strokes over the scar tissue of what's left of your ring finger.

It never goes away.

"She had fun today." You don't ask, but he knows you're seeking reassurance, he tightens his hold.

"She had a great time. Everything was perfect." You nod, and silence lays like a blanket over your shoulders until he breaks it, carefully trying to coax you. "Talk to me."

"I can still smell it." His stomach twists. "The blood. My blood. I thought that would go away, you know? I mean, I know it all doesn't go away but I thought... I thought the smell would."

"Certain things stick with you longer." He closes his eyes, kisses your forehead and holds it there, trying to block out his own memories, the image of you in that chair, the smell of the hospital room. "But no matter what you smell, or see, or feel, you're still here. With me, and our kids. Our family. You're here, and you're safe." It's a mantra he finds himself repeating, now even years later. You're here. You're safe.

"I want to forget." You whisper.

"I know sweet girl, I know. I wish I could take it from you." He's never wanted something so badly, except for maybe that night he saw you in the bar, never wanted to turn back time so desperately so he could protect you. Keep you safe.

It was his failure. A mistake never to be repeated.

"I love you." You murmur, tipping your head back to gaze at him, eyes heavy and sad. He never tells you not to be, never tries to redirect your emotions. You have to feel it, to recognize it, process it. His own experience taught him burying the pain, avoiding it does no one any favors, so he sits in the grief with you, holds you through it. "I'm sorry I'm so weepy." You look away, embarrassed, and he gently turns your chin.

"Hey. Don't hide from me." Tears gather in your eyes, and he kisses the first one that spills over. "You don't apologize, sweetheart, not for this. Never for this."

"I'm weak."

"You're strong. You're so strong mama. After everything you went through, you're still here, you're perfect, every little part of you. I'm so lucky, we're so lucky you're ours. My wife, their mom, you're everything." You sniffle, but the tension in your bones, your muscles, starts to ebb. "I love you so much mama. I couldn't live without you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," you roll onto your back as he follows, propped up on an elbow, cupping your cheek.

"Be weepy, or angry, or sad, I'll still be here. "

"Eternity." You echo his words from years ago, and he covers your mouth with his in a long kiss, only pulling away to reaffirm his vow.

"Eternity with you."

[empyyre9n]

Turning Page

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! Simon Riley & Librarian! Reader

tags | alpha! Simon Riley, Omega! Reader, mentions of abusive relationship, noncon, forced mating

ch. 4 | masterlist | ao3

Birthdays.

Birthdays meant absolutely nothing to Simon; they were just another day to celebrate a life not worth living.

That was before his bundle of citrus and sunshine, before May 15th. After her, birthdays became sacred, another year of his baby being healthy and safe, another year of his baby growing.

Previously, her birthdays weren’t difficult, but now when he sees his pup, curled up in her fuzzy blankets and plushies, he feels it in his heart. He can see the growth, how much taller she's become, how much she’s stopped relying on him for certain things, how easier it is for her to communicate with him.

He’s proud of her, obviously, by an immeasurable amount. His smart girl, so big and brave. He loves who she’s become, but it still makes his throat a little tight. Afraid of the moment she won’t need her dad anymore.

He won’t lie, the first time he threw a birthday party he was a little overwhelmed, didn’t realize how much went into planning such an event. He likes to think he has it down just a little bit more, it’s been five years; he has quite a bit of experience under his belt by now.

Still, he’s up at the crack of dawn preparing the food and decorations, laying out Mint’s princess outfit, wrapping all the last-minute gifts he’s bought her so she can have just the day she’s imagined. He thinks he might’ve gone a little overboard considering it’ll just be a few of Clementine’s friends from the library and the rest of his pack, but Clementine spent all yesterday making tiaras and flower crowns for everyone.

Tiaras that she presents to Johnny, Kyle, and Price when they arrive with a proud smile, pulling them down to their knees so she can place them atop their heads with a giggle. He’s already got one of his own pinned in his hair.

It’s almost comical how Clementine has a pack of alphas wrapped around her tiny fingers. She doesn’t know the second life they live, the life he used to live before her. A cruel world that didn’t have room for innocence such as her and she’s got them in hand-made tiaras, a bundle of gifts in their arms, and all their devoted attention.

The preparation almost makes Simon forget you’re coming. That your mate who left those shallow indents on your neck will be on your arm, but Johnny doesn’t let his mind stray too far.

“And whose mom is that?”

Simon glances up, following Johnny's line of sight. It’s you, walking through the gate, who seemed to take the fairy princess theme quite seriously. You’re wearing a milkmaid sundress, floral cloth billowing around your heavenly figure.

Maybe Simon’s been deprived of pretty flesh for so long, but the slope of your breasts makes him feel a little crazy, mouth watering at the sight like his alpha is preparing to devour you whole. It doesn’t help that your hairs pinned up, leaving your collarbone and shoulders bare, mating bite on full display, but there’s no mate by your side.

“Clementine’s.”

Johnny laughs, smacking him on the shoulder, “Ye dirty dog!”

Simon ignores him, walking over to prolong introducing you to the rest of the 141 men. You smile that same smile that makes his teeth ache when you see him, waving as he makes his way to you.

“You made it.” Simon says, stopping once he reaches you, massive frame towering over your smaller one.

“I did!“ You respond, beaming up at him.

“I see you took the theme to heart.” He teases, doing a dramatic once over of your outfit.

You laugh, doing a twirl to show it off, “Well, do I look like a princess?”

The act has him biting his tongue, inhaling deeply because the whirl sends a thick whiff of your jasmine scent straight to his head, making him a little dizzy.

“You look beautiful.” He breathes the words like he fucking means it.

You pause, heat rushing up your neck and cheeks, “You’re one to talk with that get up.”

“Mint insisted anyone can be a princess, so she made all of us tiaras.” He replies, placing his hand on the small of your back, slowly guiding you to the gift table.

A chuckle leaves your lips, falling into place next to him like it’s normal to have his palm on your warm skin, “Well, you make a very pretty princess.”

“So do you.”

He’s putting it on a little thick, but he can’t find it in himself to care. There’s no mate by your side and he has every intention to take that empty place.

Clementine runs over at that, doesn’t give them much room to dwell in the tension he’s built, gasping in shock when she sees you, “You look like a princess!”

You lean down to speak to her, “You are a princess! Happy birthday, sweetheart!”

Clementine giggles, holding out the skirt of her dress, “Do you like my dress? Daddy helped pick it out.”

“Of course I do. You look so pretty!” You agree, nodding your head earnestly.

Clementine drags you away at that, animatedly showing off the decorations and the massive birthday cake she’s been waiting all day to eat, placing a crown on your head as well. Simon just watches from afar, rolling his tongue over his teeth to hide the smile threatening to spread on his lips at the sight of you and his girl.

Eventually, Johnny manages to pry you from Clementine’s death grip on your hand, doing his own dragging of sorts to the rest of them. It’s not easy to face four alphas at once as an omega, especially his pack, colossal and threatening. You have to crane your neck to look at them, fluttering your eyes to diffuse their pungent scents.

It’s not as bad as he expected; you exchange small talk with them, laughing along with their exaggerated banter. You’re behaving quite brave, confidently poking back at their teasing, but he can see the hidden anxiety veiled behind your pinched bottom lip and clenching fists. Though, he supposes it’s pretty easy not to take any of them seriously when they’ve got princess tiaras on.

The party goes by in a bit of a blur, eating turns into singing happy birthday while cutting the cake turns into opening gifts. There’s an abundance of gifts for Clementine to open, a range of books, toys, and clothes, but she bursts at the seams when she opens your gift, a teddy bear. A teddy bear just like Corduroy.

Clementine exclaimed loudly when she realized it was Corduroy, hugging the bear to her chest tightly. It’s the loudest reaction she’s given the whole night, the brightest smile smeared across her tiny face. She doesn’t let it go the rest of the party, carries it with her while she walks everyone out until it’s just you, him, and her.

“Papa?” Clementine says, pattering her way to his side while he cleans the mess of all her opened gifts.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can we read my bedtime story?” She asks, small paws rubbing at her eyes.

“Of course we can, Mint.” He turns towards you, “I’ll be right back.”

You nod in understanding, giving both of them a small smile before you wish Clementine a good night. It’s been a long day for her, running every which way with her uncles and friends, so he isn’t surprised she’s drained, crashing out from all the sugary frosting she’s stuffed her face with.

“You tired, pup?” He hoists her in his arms, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, “Hard work being a princess?”

She just yawns a hum in response, snuggling deeper into his hold. He chuckles, maneuvering both of them onto her bed.

“Corduroy?” He proposes, because it’s been their routine for a month now, the books already at her bedside.

She shakes her head, “Angelina Ballerina.”

“Ohh, our new birthday book from uncle Kyle, huh?”

He doesn’t finish the story, doesn’t even get close to the ending before Clementine is asleep in his arms, hand fisting his shirt, the other holding Corduroy snug against her chest. He stays after she’s fallen asleep, dwells in the warmth just a little longer, stamping a kiss on her forehead, clinging on to the last few moments he gets of her birthday.

When he returns you’re in the kitchen, back facing him as you wash the excess dishes in the sink. He stares for a second, storing the image of you in his home after he’s put Clementine to bed like it’s where you belong, fit into their life’s so perfectly.

“You don’t have to do any o’ that.” He says walking over to shut the water off.

“Oh— it’s okay!” You start, shaking your head “I don’t mind helping.”

He leans against the counter, positioning himself in front of the sink so he’s staring up at you. “She already loves that damn bear. She’s not gon’ want to go anywhere without it.”

“Yeah?” You laugh, drying your hands with a towel because he’s blocking you from doing anymore unnecessary labor. “I’m glad she likes it.”

“So,” There’s a long pause, the real question he wants to ask you heavy on his tongue, “You didn’t bring your mate.”

You inhale, glancing at him, “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t,” You stop, fingers fidgeting with the towel in your hand like you’re thinking of the right words to say, “I don’t have one.”

He tilts his head, eyes darting to the bite on your neck in confusion.

“Well, I mean I did, obviously.” You explain, gesturing to the bite, “I just— not anymore.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, brows furrowing.

“It’s a long story,” You sigh, turning your attention to your hands, “It’s from some shit alpha I was dating at the time. Helped me through my heat, but I told him not to bite me no matter what. Wore a bite guard and everything.”

“And the asshole just did anyways?” He scoffs.

“Well, I don’t remember all of it. I was in heat, everything was hazy up until I felt his teeth.” You huff a laugh, but it’s anything but humorous, “You know, they say you’re supposed to enjoy it, that it creates this unexplainable bond between the pair, but it just fucking hurt. Hurt so bad that I blacked out, woke up in a hospital bed.”

You stop to catch your breath, eyes fluttering shut to work up the courage to continue. He doesn’t push you, lets you take your time to form the thoughts swirling around in your mind.

“That was it. I didn’t have a choice after that, I was bonded to him. What was I going to do? Walk around with a bite on my neck and pretend I’d ever find another mate?”

You’re picking at the seams of the towel now, licking your lips between sentences anxiously.

“And my family— my pack, insisted I stay with him despite it all. Told me I’d be shunned from the pack if I did leave, he was my mate, bonded and signed. So, I stayed, even though he was a shitty alpha, treated me like shit, didn’t let me nest, didn’t help me with any other heat after that, didn’t even let me bite him back.” You fist the towel, words spat with anger, “I was forced to walk around with a claim, this bite that I didn’t even want while he got to walk away bite free from the situation.”

“Why did you finally leave?” He asks, wrangling the towel from your grasp, so he can smooth his hands over yours.

“My mom.” You answer, finding his eyes and swallowing thickly, “I stayed in the pack for her. The moment she passed, I packed my bags and left. Never looked back.”

You give him a sad smile, doesn’t quite reach your eyes like it usually does, “It’s fading, clearly, the bond severed and fraying after being apart for so long, but it hurts. The bite stings every day, like my body is rejecting it and purging it from my skin.”

“I’m sorry.” He says it for multiple reasons, for being a proper ass, behaving possessive towards you, pointing the bite out multiple times when he didn’t know your story, “You didn’t deserve that, any of that.”

“Sorry, kind of just dropped all of that on you.” You chuckle, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“No don’t be, I’m glad to know. You shouldn’t have had that right taken from you.” He brushes his thumb over your knuckles soothingly, dipping his head to make direct eye contact with you, “You deserve a better alpha than that.”

You flip your palm over, tangling your fingers in his. “I do, don’t I?”

You deserve him.

@weeping-treee @lumilily @tessakate @shitaaba @lucienofthelakes @nocturnal-nyx @aphinthestars @muraaaaaa @night-shadowblood-writes2 @thetastewassweeter @eremika104 @animegamerfox @oaksgrove @dawnnightshade666 @chaieanne @trulovekay @appalachianecho @grossitsluca @noonespecial2347 @spidersuneee @ihe4rtme @lunamoonbby @iaozuyiling @aggiesramble @novthewolf @irondreamerface @callsignpxnguin @flowerluvr @whatdoyxumean @sleepybunnygirly @cd-mr @cod-bin @crackheadwithtoes @diasnohibng @bookies16

[empyyre9n]

ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter One: fall

tw: historical au, not specified ancient greece/rome aesthetics, violence, threats of rape, murder, ancient forms of torture/execution

There are whispers in the wind. 

It arrives as a susurrus so faint that it nearly slips between your fingers like ocean water, leaving behind nothing but grains of sand for you to read. A vague redolence of smoke wafts on the early morning air where it burns your nostrils as you walk to fetch water, yet when you turn to face the sky you’re met with nothing but the same pale blue as you always are. It hangs high above you as you lower a wooden bucket into a well to fill your pitcher until it nearly overflows. It sloshes on your feet, but you can’t feel the discomfort over the sound of the gale swirling by your ears. 

You’re not sure what the whispers say, you only know how it makes you feel. It leaves you with singing blood and twitching fingers. Something roars in the distance—it bellows loud enough to shake the earth like a mighty lion, forcing your bones to rattle with it. There’s something vaguely familiar about their words. Terribly sagacious, they know more than anyone living ever could, and though you have always been a good listener, their omen is something you simply can’t translate. 

So you continue with your morning chores. Bare feet against smooth stone, you travel back to the palace with your arms occupied with your water pitcher while you focus on not tripping on your oversized chiton. Still shaking the fatigue from their bones, the other servants move lazily throughout the halls. Their eyes blink heavily, and their mouths open wide with yawns, but they still have the capacity to send grievous glares your way. Narrowed eyes and sly smirks, they ask you how your morning is. 

You cannot answer. 

But you are not petulant. There are no words left for you to speak, and even if there were, it would have no effect on your status. On the fact that you are a terrible creature—something meant to only be regarded with distaste. Your head stays high as you traverse through pale, cavernous hallways until you arrive at the chambers that house your emperor and lord. 

His name is Herschel Shepherd and he sits at the edge of his bed waiting for you with sizzling patience. Half clothed and greying, he is not as virile as he used to be when you were a child. Soft around the edges, he stares at you with pale eyes while awaiting your services. You utter no greeting as you retrieve a small bronze water basin from beneath a mirror on the far side of the room—a thick bristle brush already sits in the bowl waiting for you. Emperor Shepherd says nothing as you place both the pitcher and bowl at his feet before kneeling in front of him. 

He sighs. “Well. Go on, then.” 

You fill the bowl with water from your pitcher, and then swirl the brush through the liquid before beginning to clean your emperor’s feet. This action has long since lost its humiliating connotation for you. When you were younger, the action left you feeling soiled, just as intented. Now, it is simply a chore; taking care of this man who can hardly bother to look at you with disdain anymore. Scrubbing his heels, rinsing his toes—nothing but a simple assignment. 

You’re halfway through washing his left foot when he speaks again. “I’ll be dead by the end of the night.” 

Pausing, you look up at your emperor with questioning eyes. There’s no bemusement to be found in his features; in fact, there’s nothing at all. Just those same stoic eyes that seem to stare right through you. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” he humors blandly. “You’re mute, not deaf. I know you’ve heard the whispering and seen the wounded. I know you’ve heard that Emperor Price and his barbarians are closing in on the city, breathing down our goddamn necks for the last few months trying to suffocate us. I’ve seen you lingering where you shouldn’t be. I’d punish you for it if I was worried you’d go blabbering about it. Well, they’re here. We’re on our last breath of air.” 

A wicked callosity quickly seeps into the pores of your skin as you stiffly return to your task. You’re not sure what to make of his words. This promise of destruction—of his death. A part of you wouldn’t care if this empire burned to a crisp with nothing but the memory of bones to whisper about its existence. Something to be studied by intellects of the far future. No one in this city has ever done you any favors. Though, you would miss your schedule, you think. Chores and all, you crave consistency. The routine. 

As you move to clean his right foot, you think you might even miss this. 

Though you would not miss him—Emperor Shepherd, so oddly named. Never has he shown the kindness and humility of someone nurturing a flock of sheep. He has only proven himself to be a butcher. No, worse than a butcher. A huntsman. Someone who slaughters and poaches just for the sake of seeing that sweet vermillion ichor. He maims. He shreds. He’s built his empire upon nothing but bone. It’s laughable to think he’s surprised that the corse is finally rotting and giving away beneath his feet. 

“Tell me, girl, do you miss your tongue?” he questions. 

You freeze. 

You were only ten years old when he ripped it from your mouth. Even after over a decade you can still remember the way the marble flooring of the throne room dug into your knees as soldiers forced you to the ground. They had killed your father first. It was said he had spread perfidious propaganda and false accusations against Emperor Shepherd. His punishment?—to be tied to a horse and dragged along the streets. Both you and your mother were made to follow behind him as the bindings dug into his wrists, skin ripping from his flesh as the unforgiving streets tore into him. People threw rocks into the street for him to be dragged over, as if the stone wasn’t punishment enough. He died before you reached the palace—he gasped his last breath just at the base of the stairs—but they refused to cut him free. They kept dragging his mangled corpse until Emperor Shepherd could see your father for himself. Nothing but a limp pile of meat. 

Next was your mother. Her punishment was worse—one that you never got to see, but you could hear plenty well. Shoved inside of a brazen bull, her screams contorted until she sounded like a dying animal as they slowly roasted her to death. Superheated bronze and charred flesh—you don’t think there was a body left to bury when they were finished. For someone they so desperately wanted to silence, the citizens reveled in her blood curdling cries until death ultimately consumed her. 

Then, there was you. A trembling child who could hardly hold back her pules, Emperor Shepherd took pity on you. At least, he claimed as much. It didn’t feel like mercy when his blade cut through the wet muscle in your mouth while tongs pierced the tip of your tongue to hold you steady. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were forever seen as an outcast and forced to work as a servant to the man who stole your autonomy. It didn’t feel like mercy when you were made to wash his feet every day as if you should have been grateful for the second chance at life—as if your life was ever his to take in the first place. 

Shaking your head, you continue to wash his feet. He chuckles at your claim. It’s dry and acidulous, just like he always is. 

“You show such intrepidness for someone so pitiable,” he huffs. Suddenly, he snatches his foot out of your hand, forcing your neck to crane to view him. He does not wait for you to dry him off before placing his soles on the stone floor. “I’ll once again take pity on you, girl. Take today as a day of rest before this city is overrun. Emperor Price trains nothing but beasts. Do yourself a favor and sacrifice yourself before dusk, lest they rape you to death or sew your skin into their clothes. Not unless you’re brave enough to face those barbarians alive. Are you, girl? Courageous enough to face those brutes?” 

Your teeth bite into the side of your cheek as you once again shake your head. 

“Didn’t think so,” he hums. “Go. Let this be my last good deed.” 

When you step foot back outside—far enough away from your emperor that you feel like you can finally breathe again—you realize the wind is still whispering. It’s louder now. What was once a gentle hiss in the air has now grown into small chatter. It chirps like a swarm of birds ready for migration; but they choke on the attar of smoke that hangs like a noose over this city. 

How arrogant of Emperor Shepherd to think he commits a good deed by allowing you one day of freedom. As if he has any other choice than to cut you loose with John Price breathing down his neck. 

The only sound strong enough to drown out the wind is the crashing waves of the ocean. 

Brackish mist kisses the heels of your feet as you sit at the edge of the escarpment, legs dangling above the void. The palace has sat upon this cliff for what’s felt like eons; as if it was created when the world was. Always high upon a precipice, always looking down on the vast city that grovels at its feet. It’s given the impression that this building is important. Towering marble columns, statues of long lost gods and goddesses with forgotten names—the palace is fit for a king, and acts as a brutal reminder that it will always remain out of reach. 

Or, that’s what it used to be seen as. Now, with you sitting behind the garden and staring out at the vast sea that crashes against the palisade below, it feels like a dead end. A terminus. Nothing but a corral to cage in the flighty livestock Shepherd has curated over his countless decades as ruler. The people feel it too. You see it in wide eyes and trembling hands; it lurks in rumbling stomachs that beg for food yet can’t seem to hold it. 

The crying starts around midday when John Price and his warlords breach the edge of the city. They come with long pikes and horses strong enough to trample stone into gravel. The army is baronial and clad in a mix of leather and bronze armor that you can see from the palace—the glint of their swords is nearly enough to drown out the sun. Every man within their ranks roars and you swear you can feel the reverberation echo in the soil. They’re nothing but brutes. Animals. Barbarians. Your emperor had said as much himself, hadn’t he? 

All defences crumble into fine dust within hours. The soldiers stationed at the city environs find themselves skewered like a hog on a spit, painting the road to the palace russet with blood and soot. They cut through the city like a hot knife through butter, rarely bothering any citizen; many of whom are locked inside of their homes as if a door would save them from an army. You watch them close in—from a distance they look like nothing but a line of ants. But those ants grow larger, and their marked prey couldn’t be anymore obvious as they slice directly towards the palace. 

Shepherd does not bother with the theatrics. There are no grand speeches or lordly actions, he does not fight alongside the men who fruitlessly attempt to protect him—he simply sits upon his throne and waits. A dead man walking, he slumps as if he’s already in decay. Pallid and thin, you hardly recognize the man who stole your tongue from you all those years ago. You suspect he’s already been dead for quite some time; marked by John Price, there’s no room left for him to run. 

When dusk hits, and the ocean mist has grown too cold for you to bear, you wander back into the marble palace while your heart is plagued with incertitude. Stepping foot into this building while an army marches towards it isn’t a good idea, but your curiosity pulls at your limbs. It whispers don’t you want to see the end? The end of this empire, the end of him? 

Your mother always said your curiosity would be the death of you someday, but the promise of satisfaction is too great for you to ignore. 

Chaos soaks every inch of the palace as servants flutter through the corridors like flighty birds from a forest fire. They’re nothing but wide eyes, quiet sobs, fists clutching valuables and loved ones—they pay you no attention. They never do, unless it is to sneer. You travel through the halls uninterrupted until you reach the throne. A lordly construct, a large chair carved out of marble sits upon a peak of stairs rising well above the floor. A dying emperor is slumped forward with dull eyes, and if he hears you enter through the side door, he does not show it. 

You hide behind a pillar, obscured by numbra and poor torch light, hands against the cold stone, gaze peering around the curve of the structure just as the main doors burst open. Without guards to protect your hunted emperor, his life is cut short, quick and easy. There is no fanfare of conversation or shouting, or anything else that the old songs would have you believe. There is only a man—John Price—and his knife in Emperor Shepherd’s stomach. 

The old man falls, frail body sliding down the stairs, hands gripping the blade in his gut and yanking it free. Ichor pours from him like the fountains in the garden and the city square. It spews like rust in the light, but he makes no effort to stunt the bleeding. Instead, he looks around, dull eyes soaking in the view of his once great empire, until his attention lands on you. Hands still against the marble, head peeking around the curve of stone—it is the first moment since the knife made its bed in his stomach that he looks upset. 

“Stupid girl!” he spits, throat closing, airway blocked by terminal secretions. “I told you to run!” 

These are the last words he speaks before a new knife runs along his throat, kissing the tender flesh, marring his vocal cords beyond recognition—then, he falls forward, face flat against the floor, his last breath left sputtering in the blood. 

Despite the body at their feet, all eyes in the room turn to you. Pathetic little thing, you can only stare back. Countless men clad in armor with swords clutched in their fists look at you with bored curiosity, but none of them strike fear into your heart quite like him. 

You recognize him instantly only due to the hushed stories you’ve heard from guardsmen. Taller than any man or beast, twice as broad as a working horse, and face obscured with a human skull—they call him Ghost. Eyes darker than the night itself pierce through you from the empty shell of the faceplate of bone as scarred lips grow tight beneath the decaying teeth. It’s held against his head with leather straps, and though it obscures his cheeks, you can still see the keloids that dance along his jaw, hairline, and chin. 

They say he’s slain a battalion by himself. That he’s moved boulders three times his own size to cut down his enemies. Conversation alone would not have you believe such claims from the mouths of garrulous soldiers, but now that you behold him yourself, you think they may have been telling the truth after all. Even his hands are large—long, thick fingers that would make quick work of your skull, squeezing it tight, popping you like a melon. 

Just as your heart leaps into the tightness of your throat, fearing the worst is about to fall upon you, you realize these men are just like everyone else—they look away from you without so much as a second thought. 

It is then that the empire that you loved—the one that never loved you back—falls. Brick by vicious brick, John Price and his Ghost dismantle the order of things until all men loyal to the deceased Emperor Shepherd are either dead, or have re-sworn their allegiance to a new host. You watch them stomp around the palace, swords heavy on their hips, gazes hard and stony as they redirect servants and bark at soldiers to do their bidding. The city transforms overnight. New flags are hung upon homes. Strange men demand order. 

But for you, nothing changes. The death of your emperor does not regrow your tongue. It does not make the other servants respect you. At the end of the day, you are still in your room—one so small it hardly houses a mattress on the stone floor, with a single small window for lighting—alone with nothing but the distant sound of the waves and new shrieking to lull you to sleep. 

And in the morning, the sun still rises. 

A blood orange hue seeps through your small crack of a window, faint smoke still lingering in the air, rusting the gold rays into something macabre. The stench of death hangs heavy over the city as you rise, peeking out into the garden. Untouched, the plants still thrive and the fountain sputters a prismatic spray of water as it always has. Birds play in the basin. Seagulls squawk in the distance. 

Since nothing else has seemed to change, you begin your day like you always do. A trip through the garden, bare feet hitting against the smoothed stone, curious eyes that flicker to you only to avoid your gaze the next moment—if it weren’t for the different uniforms covering the soldier’s bodies, you could almost be convinced as if this was just another normal day. Dip a bucket into the well. Fill your pitcher until it’s overflowing. Tread the path you always have. 

It isn’t until you reach Emperor Shepherd’s chambers that you realize something has shifted. Once pure white linens made of the finest cotton now lay strewn on the floor, marred with darkened bloodstains—red fading to hazel. Bronze and leather armor sits by the foot of the bed, laying against the wooden frame next to a sheathed short sword; the wooden handle is stained with fingerprints. In place of proper bedding, there are now animal pelts. Soft deer hide, wolf pelts, and other creatures you can’t quite name. 

When you see the hulking beast curled up beneath these trophies, you freeze. 

Laying on his side, back faced toward you with no chiton or blanket to cover the pallid skin, you blink as if that will get the figure to vanish. You tread carefully, hands clutching the pitcher so tightly the stonewear nearly shatters beneath your grip as you drink in the lines of scars that pucker on roughened skin. He glows too much to be your dethroned emperor. His skin is full of life and vigor—strength radiates from him with each rise and fall of his shoulders, breaths silent and even. 

You’re nearly at the edge of the bed now. Quiet sunlight illuminates patches of dried blood on his skin. Speckles of high impact splatters dot the side of his bicep, even going as far as to curl over his shoulder before it trails toward his spine. His calf peeks out from beneath the swathes of blankets, revealing dried mud and gore along the ridge of his foot and up his shin. He is sordid. Messy. The antithesis of Emperor Shepherd. 

Still, this act is brazen even for one of John Price’s famed barbaric men. Soiling a dead man’s bed with gore and filth, making the most intimate of spaces his own. But it isn’t until you recognize the skull face plate and leather straps sitting next to the yellowed pillows beneath the beast’s head that you realize just who lays before you. 

Ghost. 

“You’re more quiet than the others they’ve sent in the night.” He speaks like thunder. Not a crack, but a rumble. Deep in the sky, dancing between clouds, chasing the birds from their nests and people into their homes. You jump at the sharp tone to the point water sloshes out of your pitcher, running down your chiton, forcing the cotton to stick to your legs. Unable to clean yourself, you watch in horror while Ghost turns to face you, legs swinging over the side of the bed as he rises, opaque eyes piercing through you like an onyx blade. “Are your people so desperate to be rid of me that they sent a whelp like you to drown me in my sleep?” 

His face is curious, and for a moment you find yourself lost as you look at him. A deep scar carves into the prominent but crooked curve of his nose, reminding you of the cliff that looks out over the coast by the garden. Somehow, without his mask, you do not find yourself capable of being truly terrified of him. He is a man, like any other. The same breed that stole your tongue and your parents—there is not much left to be taken from you. 

“Well?” Ghost stands. Blankets and animal pelts slide off of him, revealing his naked body, but you’re too entranced by his eyes to look anywhere else. He stalks forward, forcing you to take a step back as you shake your head. “No? Then what’re you here for?”

You swallow, thick and clumpy, saliva like sand turning to mud in your mouth. With no tongue to speak with, you opt to show Ghost instead. Gingerly, you retrieve the water basin and bristle brush that you always used when washing Emperor Shepherd. He watches you, eyes glinting with enough curiosity to allow him to hold back his clenching fists as you pour your pitcher into the basin. Then, you carry it. It settles by his feet with a dull thud as you kneel, sitting on your haunches, heels digging into your rump as you wet the brush.

You look up at him, uncomfortably aware of the heavy cock hanging between his legs as he stares down at you. Fables have told you of the way men ravage women in war. How spearing men isn’t enough for them, that they desire the blood that drips between trembling legs after they’ve been torn apart with a meaty cock. If Ghost wanted to, he could do the very same to you. You wouldn’t fight. You rarely do anymore these days. 

It has been made painfully clear to you what happens to people who fight. 

“You think I’m dirty? Is that it? Bet Shepherd told you all ‘bout us. Called us beasts. Barbarians. Do you think I’m not capable of cleanin’ myself up?” he asks. Once more, you shake your head. Scoffing, Ghost turns, attention now drawn by his own chiton laying across the foot of the mattress—he snatches it, and lazily begins to dress himself, uncaring about the gore that still stains him. “You’re quiet compared to the others. Your people like to bitch ‘n moan ‘bout everythin’ beneath the sun.”

Though he doesn’t know it, he’s talking to himself. Or rather, a wall. That’s all you are. A statue brought to life by a cruel artist—one who forgot to give you the muscle to speak. You can only continue to sit there and watch as he pulls the cotton over his body, stained cloth obscuring plush muscle and rigid scars. When he brings his attention back to you, you’re exactly where he left you; hands gripping the brush, water dripping from the bristles, eyes focused on him, soaking up his words. 

“I’ve just insulted your people. Do you still have nothing to say? Are you that pitiful?” he questions. When you shake your head again, he chuckles this time. It’s tense, like a rope pulled too tight, fraying in the center, ready to snap. “Maybe you just like hearin’ me talk.” 

Though his tone is jocular, you can hear the tremors of something different in the vibrations of his voice. He’s frustrated; or maybe curious. An accomplished warrior, he’s gotten everything he’s ever desired. The death of his enemies, valiant conquests where he can pillage anything he wishes—but he hasn’t gotten you. Your voice. Your words. 

His determination seeps from him as he paces around you, knees bumping against your back as he reaches down. A firm hand grasps your throat and then presses, forcing your head backwards, chin pointing toward the ceiling. You recall watching a servant’s throat being slit like this before—head held high, skin going tight so that it may kiss the blade properly. 

“Shame. Always love makin’ the pretty birds sing in the night. Gonna miss that ‘bout home. Now, I’m stuck ‘ere, leading the lot ‘o you. Somethin’ tells me it’s not so easy with you though, yeah? Gettin’ you to sing nice and pretty for me?” His hand wanders, palm rising from your throat up to your chin, thumb pressing against your closed lips. When you make no attempt at replying, he pushes further, the pad of his thumb hitting your teeth. There is no taste. Still, you make no sound, and he huffs; bored. “Do you truly wish to bathe me?” 

You blink, then nod as best as you can with your head knocked against his body. For a moment, you think you see him smile—or perhaps it's just the trick of the light. The odd angle your eyes are forced to view him through. Either way, he seems content with finally getting something worthwhile from you. Something besides a denial. 

“Then you’ll do it properly. None of this sponge bath bullshit. I thought I was supposed to be the barbarian. Don’t you people have a proper bath house?” When you nod again, he pulls his thumb away from your teeth, allowing your chin to drop until you’re looking back at your lap. Your hands are curled so tightly around the brush it mars your skin with indentations—the faint dreams of lacerations. “Good. Take me there. Then we’ll see to it that you sing properly f’me.”

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[empyyre9n]

uhm incorrect mumbling

Soap bringing his best friend (you) to base to hang out with, and the rest of the team knowing immediately that you were head over heels for Soap, but just had to sit back and watch him get with countless other girls

they all help you make him jealous (and realize his own feelings) by literally all of them fucking you and leaving Soap out

[empyyre9n]

Simon accidentally eating an edible for the first time…

Reader making a batch of gummies, and placing them in a regular sweets tin in their nightstand. Assuming they wouldn’t be touched due to the variety of other snacks squirreled away in nooks and crannies around the shared flat.

Usually nightly routine consisting of a shared shower, a movie and maybe a light snack before bed. Simon leaning over the side of the bed to grab the closest packet of sweets, simply to avoid making another trip to the kitchen after already making both of you a cuppa to have as night cap of sorts.

The two watching said film in bed while snuggled up, you take notice of the sweets tin on the bed and open instead of tucked away from a certain someone. The slow glance upward to a way too relaxed Simon propped up against the headboard.

“Love are you feeling okay?”

Simon actually turning his whole head down to look at you with a lazy smile on his face, using his closest hand to brush hair on your forehead to the side slowly.

“Right as rain, how ‘bout yourself?”

Reader giggling and grabbing the tin, before closing it and putting it back in the night stand drawer. Turning back to look at Simon to see he’s slumped down into the bed slightly and leaned his head back into the wall.

“I think you might have eaten some of my sweets love.”

Simon just stares at the ceiling for a few moments before looking back down at you , blinking slowly as he processes what you just said. Before pulling you closer to his chest and settling down into bed, pushing his nose into your hair from behind mumbling.

“ ‘ll have to phone Price in the morning.”

He presses himself closer to you before slowing his breathing and quietly falling asleep, keeping you tucked in his arms. Film be damned.

[empyyre9n]

FISH ON A HOOK

simon riley x reader

never would have guessed your father's right hand is your taste in men. you have a problem. really.

cw: age gap and my bad english lol, fluff

“Yo, lass, drink your beer.”

The sudden coldness in your hand makes you joint out of whatever daze you were in. Soap, who is sitting on your left, leisurely turns over a meat skewer on the bbq stove and squints his eyes at you:

“I know that look when I see one.”

“You’re the one doing the weird look.”

The sentence comes out more defensive than you anticipated. Seeing you took the bait, he presses on with a knowing grin:

“He’s gonna break your heart, kid.”

You down the beer in one go, hoping Soap sees your agitation and drops whatever he’s saying(that you already know), also to shove the uncomfortable truth to the back of your head where all the junks go. You should not act like this. You are an upstanding daughter raised by an upstanding citizen in a nice suburban town, not some college dropout with daddy issues looking at men who are old enough to father them with hearts in their eyes, crossed legs on the bar stool, split dress. If anything, that fits you more than you like. Because in the heat of the summer, god decides to test your faith by having Simon Riley sitting shirtless, just dangling there in front of your eyes, grilling meat on your father’s signature bbq stove. The dad look suits him well. 

You decide to take interest in the neat grass beneath your feet instead, neat and freshly mowed by your father. Your father. John Price. You find it hard to look at him in the eyes these days, not without the guilt creeping up on the back of your neck, spilling out to your eyes. His little bundle of joy, who used to ravage his pockets for candies, still relying on him when sleep is hard to find, is now interested in a middle-age man, one of his men of all things, scars and crooked nose, ugly in all the right ways of all things . Inconceivable. I raised you better than this. Still, you bite the apple and never look back.

“Oi, come help your old man clean up.”

   ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •✸•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

He’s taking you out for ice cream. You’re sitting in his car. Britney Spears on. Window down. Leather jacket thrown onto your shoulders. A grumble about getting sunburn. His thighs spread out comfortably on his seat-

“Don’t want you curled up in your room all summer.”

That’s it. Simple as that. Going over to fix the leaky pipes for your father when he’s not home, opening the passenger door for his daughter after eating her sliced watermelons with sweaty hands, maybe you missed that smirk when he climbed in because he’s going to fix his boss’s daughter too. Normal. Casual.  Meant to be. For better or worse.

“Old Price always complainin’ ‘bout you kid not going out enough.”

A kid. That’s what you are to him. Taking his sulky nephew out for some sun. Tragic. 

“He complains about me to you??”

The realization soon hit. You can feel the embarrassment flare up on your face, making that ugly shade of red. Taking a bite of the chocolate chip ice cream (extra topping, half mixed with strawberry flavour - you excitedly stood on your pointy toes, him bending down a bit to hear your order), your eyes narrow a bit as you talk, instinctively fixed on the table where his and your ice cream cups are placed next to each other:

“What else did he say?”

Simon seems to sense your uneasiness because he also takes a spoon full of ice cream, feigning nonchalance. Vanilla and strawberry with sprinkles. You take note of that.

“He’s just always worried.” 

Your pout doesn’t disappear.

“But you’re a good lass. Really.”

   ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •✸•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

You never tell your father about that hang out. You don’t know why. You don’t know why you feel like a criminal either. Your brain automatically logged that piece of memory into the deepest, loneliest corner. It’s only for you to remember, to relive. The conversation, images of his car, two cups of ice creams, spoons facing each other, thighs almost touch- Your mind cruelly flashes them before finally shutting up. Every damn night. 

The ringing of the telephone downstairs pulls you out of your daydream. Your father is on deployment. With Simon. You remember telling him he could talk to you whenever he needed to after you learned just how lonely a middle-age man can be after the conversation in the small ice cream shop alone (also out of your own selfishness). But that is merely your wishful thinking. Stupid girl. How can a man like him confide his mid-life crisis to someone who hasn't even had her diploma yet. Still, your heart yields.

Creeping downstairs, sitting in the dimly lit living room, you almost knocked the telephone off the table when you yanked it off too eagerly. Wait, if it were Simon why would he call you on the family phone-

“Hey.”

You jerk slightly in surprise. 

“Simon!”

“Hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“Nah, you’re good. Next time you need to stop calling on the family telephone though.”

“You didn’t give me your number.”

“Oh. Right.”