dorabellingham · 9 hours ago
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Halloween
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warning: there are scares, but i don't think anyone gets scared like that
characters: jude x reader
summary: when you decide to have a little more fun on the night of the 31st but you're really scared
may contain spelling and translation errors!
On Halloween night, the streets of Birmingham were decorated with jack-o'-lanterns, fake cobwebs, and decorations that created a humorous atmosphere of terror. You had convinced Jude to go to a haunted house. It seemed like a fun idea, a way to relive the mild horror thrills of when you were kids. But as soon as you arrived in front of the dark, foggy building, you began to question your choices.
You held Jude's hand tightly, staring at the facade with wide eyes. The house seemed to be crumbling under the weight of years and neglect, but somehow that only made it scarier.
—Jude, are you sure you don't want to do something else? Like watch a scary movie at home?
Jude laughed, squeezing your hand affectionately.
—You said yourself you wanted to be scared, right? Are you scared?
You lifted your chin, trying to look confident.
—Scared? Me? I just want to make sure you can hold yourself together and not run away when something scary comes along.
He chuckled, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as they walked inside.
—I’ll be here, holding on to you. The question is… who’s going to run away first?
As soon as you entered, you felt the air grow thicker, stuffier, and a shiver ran through you. The place was very well decorated, full of visual effects, sounds of chains, sinister laughter, and here and there, actors dressed as ghosts, murderers, and horror figures lurked in the shadows. Each step seemed to echo in the darkness, making you jump at any movement that escaped the corner of your eye.
—See? Don’t worry.
Jude whispered, as if holding back laughter. But your hand was clasped around his so tightly that he could barely move it.
You walked through narrow hallways, where old dolls stared at the visitors with empty eyes. You were curled up tighter and tighter, hugging your boyfriend's arm, but trying to keep a straight face so as not to show panic. However, when a ghostly figure slid out of a wall with a shrill scream, you let out a scream and clung to Jude as if your life depended on it.
—Jude Victor!
You whispered, hiding your face in his chest.
He chuckled softly, holding you closer and lightly stroking your back to reassure you.
—I told you I'd be here, didn't I? They're just trying to scare you... but no one will come near you, I promise.
You lifted your face enough to look at him with an expression divided between fear and distrust.
—Babe, I'm not kidding. I think there are people behind us. They're following us!
He tried hard to contain his laughter, but it was clear that the situation was very funny to him.
—It's just a trick, sweethear. Look. —He said, gesturing to the actor who had crept further back, a man dressed as a zombie with expressionless eyes. —They're pretending, just so we can have a different night.
But you didn't calm down. With each step, the place seemed more claustrophobic, more sinister. The walls were decorated with terrifying images and, in the distance, the sounds of chains dragging seemed to come from a hidden room. At a certain point, a hooded figure appeared next to you, extending a skeletal hand, and you let out another muffled scream, clinging even tighter to Jude's arm.
—Okay, I can see you're taking it seriously. —He said, trying to hide how cute he found the way you clung to him. —Do you think you want to get out of here, or do you want to go all the way?
You looked at him, and your pride prevented you from asking to leave.
—No... I can.
But with each new hallway, each new sinister figure, you shrank back more, tightening your arms around him.
You reached a room full of distorted mirrors, and as you passed through the center, a figure appeared out of nowhere in the reflection, as if it were directly behind them. You let out a small scream and buried your face in Bellingham's shoulder, unable to face the situation.
—Babe. —He said, his voice cracking with laughter. —This is just a game.
He wrapped his arms around you, protecting you as if he were the only real thing there.
You finally looked up, feeling his reassuring touch on your back.
—You think this is funny, huh? Just wait until you get scared too. I'll laugh a lot when it happens.
Jude looked at you with a challenging smile.
—Me? Get scared? Never.
When they finished the route, they passed through one last dark hallway, and you felt a small wave of relief.
—Finally, it’s over…
But just as they were almost at the exit, a hooded figure appeared with a fake knife, screaming. You grabbed Jude so hard that he almost lost his balance, but he kept his arm firmly around you, laughing softly.
—Fuck, Jude! What's this shit?
You, still shaking, lightly punched him in the chest.
—See? You survived.
—You laughed the whole time! I don’t know how you manage to be so calm!
He pulled you closer, kissing your forehead.
—Because I knew nothing would happen to you as long as you were with me.
Still recovering from the shock, you smiled, leaning into his embrace. As scary as the haunted house was, the feeling of safety next to Bellingham was something that no ghostly figure could shake.
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huntfeld · 1 day ago
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Between Shadows and Silent Hills
Pairing: Angela Orosco x Fem!Reader
Summary: In Silent Hill, Reader sees terrifying creatures that Angela can’t. Despite Angela’s confusion, they form a quiet bond, facing the town’s darkness together and promising to protect each other.
@fallenvervain hope you like it. enjoy! :)
———
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Silent Hill lay before you, its streets shrouded in thick fog and a silence that felt somehow too loud. Each footfall was swallowed by the mist, yet every shadow seemed to pulse with life. You'd been in tough spots before — your muscles were a testament to the years spent honing yourself, fighting your way through hardships you’d rather forget. But Silent Hill was different. Here, the fight felt personal, like the town itself was watching, waiting for a reason to tear you apart.
Beside you, Angela clung to herself, arms wrapped tightly around her thin frame. You could see the lines of worry and pain etched deep into her face, but when you looked into her eyes, it was like looking into a mirror that reflected not just fear, but something broken. She’d been through her own battles, battles you couldn’t see but could feel in the way she kept her shoulders hunched, gaze darting to shadows that seemed to bleed out of her mind more than the mist.
Your guard was up, senses hyper-attuned, when you spotted the first one — a figure crawling low to the ground, all limbs and jagged movements, its skin a twisted lattice of wounds. Without hesitating, you raised your weapon and fired. The sound tore through the fog.
Angela flinched, her head whipping around to you, eyes wide with confusion and fear. “What—what are you shooting at?” she asked, her voice trembling as she backed up, wary.
You kept your eyes locked on the creature, but it was gone, like it had melted back into the mist. “There was something there. It came out of the alley.” You pointed to the place it had been, flexing your fingers as you lowered your gun. The lingering adrenaline made you tense, like you could face ten more of those things if you had to.
Angela just shook her head slowly. “I didn’t… I don’t see anything,” she whispered, brows furrowed as if you were suddenly more frightening than the fog around her. "Are you seeing something different?"
“Maybe.” You glanced down at your hands, the strong, scarred hands that had pulled you through plenty of dark places, but this felt different. “Silent Hill — I’ve heard it shows people things. Personal things. The monsters, the… the nightmares. They’re different for everyone.”
Angela’s gaze dropped, her arms tightening around herself as she looked away. “Then… what are you seeing?” She sounded small, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache. She clearly had her own ghosts, ones she might not be ready to face. But still, she didn’t walk away, even as you tried to put words to the horrors you were seeing.
You swallowed, lowering your voice. “It’s hard to explain. They’re like… people, but broken. Twisted bodies. Faces, sometimes. Ones I know.” You hesitated, wondering how much you should say. “It’s like something wants me to remember. Or to pay for something.”
Angela nodded, her eyes dark and shadowed as if she understood all too well. Her fingers dug into her arms, nails pressed hard enough to leave marks. “I think… this town, it pulls things out of people. Things we try to forget.” She glanced up at you, her gaze both hesitant and probing. “Why are you… I mean, what’s keeping you here?”
The question caught you off-guard, but you shrugged, the tension making your muscles flex instinctively, like your body was primed for another fight. “I came here for someone. Someone I lost a long time ago.” Your eyes softened as you looked at her, and you almost let down your guard before you felt something lurch out of the shadows again.
This time, it was a grotesque figure, thin and tall with arms stretching down to the ground, the fingers like clawed, skeletal branches reaching out for you. It was wearing an expression, almost mocking in its familiarity — it looked like someone you’d failed before. Heart pounding, you took aim and shot twice, the figure reeling back before dissipating into the mist.
Angela gasped, taking a step back, her hand going up to her mouth. She blinked, looking at you as if waiting for an explanation.
You let out a shaky breath, lowering the gun. “I told you,” you said, voice a bit quieter now. “I’m seeing things. My things.”
Angela looked at you for a long time, the fog swirling around you both as she took in your tense stance, the fierce set of your jaw, the strength of your body — like you were made to face these monsters head-on. “I can’t… I can’t see them,” she whispered, almost apologetic. “But maybe that’s a good thing.”
You stepped closer to her, letting your broad shoulders block some of the fog around her. “Maybe. But if they’re not coming after you, I’ll make sure they don’t get to you. You don’t have to see them to know they’re here.”
For a moment, Angela’s hand reached out, hovering near your arm before she finally placed it there, her fingers brushing over the solid muscle, grounding herself. She seemed comforted by the strength you carried, as if she knew that it could keep the shadows at bay.
“I don’t know why you’re helping me,” she murmured. Her eyes were full of memories, each one a wound that hadn’t healed, and in her gaze, you saw a hint of admiration, of wonder at how you could face the things she couldn’t see. But maybe, to her, your presence was a reminder that she didn’t have to face them alone.
You gave her a small, reassuring smile, even as you kept an eye on the darkness around you. “Because no one should have to go through this alone.” And in that moment, despite the horrors that lurked beyond your vision, you both found a quiet understanding — a promise to keep each other from being swallowed whole by the shadows that lingered in Silent Hill.
———
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quirkyfries · 4 months ago
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uuuh filigree eclipse time
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jennycatmystique-fr · 2 years ago
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I wish flight rising would adopt satisfactory’s opinion on clipping. Which the devs explained as (I’m paraphrasing here) “we let the player have full control and clipping is completely fine. The players that care about clipping won’t let things clip, and the players that DONT care can do what they want.”
Which is perfect for FR cus. Like. If some of the smaller tert genes like skeletal existed for modern breeds, the people that dont want clipping issues with apparel will not use it, or just not dress their dragon (which PLENTY of users don’t really like or care about apparel anyways), and those that don’t will do whatever. Or it makes a fun new challenge of finding apparel that WORKS with line breaking terts. We love finding funky new combos for apparel already.
Also tangentially related- you think we will ever get line breaking primaries and secondaries? Like a secondary gene that turns a dragons wings into, like, smoke? Man that would be cool. I’ll keep dreaming lol
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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago
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First off I LOVE your writing, I’m so happy you’re taking requests again so, may I please request something with Ghost? Like the reader is part of the 141 and Ghost has a soft spot for her and is very protective of her and both having feelings for each other but not saying anything bc both think the other one deserves better or just something like that🥹😮‍💨💖🙏🏻 feel free to keep practicing smut for this one!👀✨
You’re awesome 🥰💞
Blood Was Its Avatar
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PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader
SYNOPSIS: Getting close to you was never his plan, but when he can't stop his self-protective instincts from pushing you away, will he be able to repair your strange friendship? Or will his body have to speak for him? (18+)
WORD COUNT: 8.9k
WARNINGS: Angst, blood, wounds, stitches, death, smut, p in v, throat f-ing, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, implied pain kink, hair pulling, hate sex? but not really?, semi-clothed sex, vulgar language, fluff at the end, etc. just pure filth.
A/N: This is sub-par because I was up until 4 in the morning today and didn't have the energy to edit in-depth lmfao, but enjoy Anon!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
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All of Ghost’s problems started and ended with you. He was impressed with that fact, actually. 
They call you ‘Masque’ on account of the mission from years back, ‘07 Ghost recalls easily. When you’d been pinned down and surrounded, the dead bodies of your unit all around your feet. You’d chosen to act while the others had been yelling orders over the radio—rooting around the pooling blood on the ground and slathering your face with it; your body. 
You pretended to be dead. 
Quick thinking, Ghost had told you with a glint in his eye when you’d gotten back, those whites of your eyes ten times more noticeable. Like the moon hanging around a crimson-drowned sky. 
You’d cursed him out and said of course it was, quoting some poem from Edgar Allen Poe as a joke.
“Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.” The Masque of the Red Death. Your claim to survival apparently, as you had just read it a day before.
Ghost said you were bloody fucking crazy and found his eyes darkly watching the way you smirked at him. How the dried blood on your lips would splinter at your loud chuckle as you both entered the C17.
As he knew—all of his problems started and ended with you. Today was no different.
“Damn! Lookin’ good today Ghost, are those new gloves I spy?” You were always so…bubbly. 
“Masque,” the masked-man greats blandly, not even sparing you a look as you enter the meeting room. The screen on the far wall was hooked up to Price’s computer—broadcasting its news out into the dim lighting with images of mayhem and a loop of a video containing the bombing of an embassy building in the Netherlands. 
Profile pictures stain the screen of wanted subjects; captured or killed in the crossfire made no difference here, anyone could see it. 
You drop down into the seat beside his own with a huff, body shed of your usual black gear, and wearing casual fatigues instead—your tags jump on your chest and Ghost sees them glint in the light.
Your face shifts into a smile, prodding with a bump of your elbow. The Lieutenant turns and glares dryly while you carry on, “I asked if you got new gloves; they’re nice.” 
“Needed ‘em.” Ghost drawls, seeing no way out of this as he glances around at the multitude of other free seats. No one else was here yet, and Price had needed to step out for a moment to grab another report from his office one floor up. 
A small grunt echoes from his throat before his eyes dart back to yours. Shifting in his seat, his lax posture tenses before loosening. 
Raising a brow at Ghost, you stifle a laugh.
“That’s it?” He blinks at you slowly, those bright blues trapping you as they shine out from his skeletal visage; his great body hidden under layers of Kevlar and thick canvas cloth. Like some weird and deadly present. You tease him, “No attempt at a conversation, Ghosty? That hurts.”
You sarcastically put a hand to your chest. 
“Then suffer.” Ghost states like he’s reading the newspaper, stretching out one of his wrists by rolling it until it cracks the joints. Where was everyone else? “I’m not fuckin’ talking about bloody gloves, Masque.”
“It’s called a conversation starter!” Under the mask, he raises a dull eyebrow. You glower at him, but the smirk on your lips shows how much you enjoy this.  
“For who? Could have jus’ stayed quiet, then.” Scoffing, you roll your eyes and indulge him—pointedly going silent. Almost immediately an awkward nothingness covers the room with its metaphorical blanket and Ghost’s muscles slowly go stiff as he crosses his arms slowly over his chest. You bite your lip and stamp down a snort. 
A minute spreads like molasses. Two. Three. Five.
“Alright,” Ghost growls, breaking as you pick at your cuticles, humming horribly off-tune to a point where the Lieutenant’s ears were ringing and annoyance faired. “Fucking hell stop it, just say something already to shut up that noise. Sounds like my damn brakes squealin’.” 
You stop and laugh loudly, elbowing him again as he jerks away with a low grunt. Blue flashes, and his heart pounds.
“Jeez, Lieutenant, is my humming that bad for you?” The air rolls with tension.
“More effective than torture.” Ghost utters, his Manchester drawl violent and thick as it coats your ears. You take no offense—you’d been doing it on purpose, anyways; always the one to exploit cracks in the concrete. You'd found out a lot through your studies of the man beside you. Mostly, all of the small tics and unique qualities that made Ghost such a strange character. 
On the battlefield, the large man was resilient and patient. He could wait in one spot for days if he had to, sitting for a perfect shot. Nothing could break the line of purpose and authority he had over the units he was placed in or his fighting spirit. Gunbattles, torture, you name it he’d survived it. 
But he disliked anything below scalding hot tea, detested his objects and packs being messed with…and clenched his hidden jaw at small, repetitive, noises.
Low, horrible, humming, tapping fingers, tongues clicking over and over. You had no idea why, but the sight of making this experienced and handsome man glare at you with annoyance made your face heat up. 
You chuckle in the meeting room, eyes crinkling up at him before you reach for one of the pens and notepads on the table. Clicking the bottom, you shrug and start to scribble nothing into the side margins as blue ink bleeds like foreign blood. 
“What’s Price got for us today, then?” Your voice echoes, “We shipping out with the others or going Black again?” 
The Captain usually paired the two of you up for Black Ops for a reason—Ghost the strategic mastermind to your reckless bloodlust. Push and pull. 
Missions were rarely a failure. 
Ghost sighs, finally getting the sensation of control back into him. “Black,” he begins, “least for us. Old Man’s sending Garrick and Johnny out in hopes of drawin’ a few bastards out first. Netherlands. We slip in the back—off the books, ‘course.” 
He watches you from the side of his eye, gaze following your pen as you sketch out a small stick figure with a skull for a face. Ghost stifles a huff as he scratches at the side of his face.
“Well, of course,” you slyly tease, glancing at him before looking back to your pad. “Are we getting any soldiers?” 
“None. Just us.” 
“Ooo,” Ghost watches your lips curl and feels his body slowly still. “Sounds like fun.”
“It sounds like I’m going to have to babysit again,” you laugh again and dark blue seems to spark with some strange emotion. Ghost clears his throat and takes down a breath.
“Oh, please,” you chuckle, “I’ve saved your hide a few times before, Ghosty, be nice to me.”
“Nice isn’t in the job description, Masque.” 
“Well, it isn’t for you, grumpy. I think Johnny and Gaz are lovely.” Your nose tilts up teasingly as Ghost grumbles like a cat. “But that’s alright, I like you anyways.” Winking, you go back to your pointless scribbling as footsteps echo from the hallway. 
Ghost stares, his hands on the armrests slowly clenching into fists as he studies your expression. His eyes slid over scars and blemishes he’d already looked at a million times over, seeing in his mind’s eye the stains of blood and that every present smile—the burn of your presence beside him like a brand in his stomach. You never seemed to let him get too far away from you on Ops, but it wasn’t some form of obsession. It was worry; he’d seen it. 
You didn’t like it when you couldn’t see his back ahead of yours. Ghost guessed it had to do with your lost unit. He never pressed it. 
In fact, he’d noticed himself not eager to see you off himself. Had spent many a night in the onsite gym after missions because of it, where he’d given you the cold shoulder after. He didn’t like that feeling. That hesitation. 
Ghost knew only to trust people as much as he had to…so why did he like when you said nice things to him? His jaw clenches, shoulders rolling to dispel tension as he rips his eyes away from your body as if you were fire incarnate. Your head perks up at the sound of talking voices getting closer to the meeting room. 
Soap and Gaz enter a few moments later and Price shuffles in behind them. You smile warmly and greet them, shifting the notepad closer to yourself nonchalantly. 
Ghost grunts and stays stationary, straightening up when he realizes he's slightly leaned toward you during your conversation. His new gloves pull taunt over his knuckles and he suddenly wants to rip them off. 
You begin to wonder when you’ll be free from blood coating your fingers but know deep down you never will be. At least, not if this was how you’d be getting covered in it.
Sitting inside the hotel bedroom, you slowly extract a blood-coated bullet from Ghost's large thigh, grimacing when he grunts from over you. You’re in between his legs, kneeling, as the metal finally breaks free from the skin barrier—the entry wound is small but nonetheless dangerous. His pants were cut from thigh to knee, a long spit that showed pale, scarred skin. 
Keeping a tight grip on the forceps, you hum under your breath in satisfaction. 
“No bullet fragments—lucky you.” 
Ghost forces out, “Yeah, feelin’ proper lucky.” You chuckle, moving back and dropping the bullet to a food plate you’d put on the floor. Shuffling, you take up the rag placed over your upper arm and bring it back up. Patting the gushing wound, you frown and think back on the events that got you here as the Lieutenant shifts and bites his tongue. 
The intensity in his blue eyes burns into you, lungs deeply inhaling with a silent breath. Your fingers tingle, but you diligently press the fabric to the wound and try to ignore the heat from Ghost’s flesh or how his legs flinch with every trail of your nails. His muscles are pure iron around you, and you’re suddenly very aware of the position you’re in. 
Swallowing stiffly, you sigh and notice him slightly shiver when your breath caresses his upper leg. You stop immediately, lips going tight.
It had been fifteen minutes earlier when Soap and Gaz had set up in a far more open and less secluded hotel three blocks away—directly across from the base location for your gaggle of targets. As planned, you and Ghost would be off the books and go in when they were too distracted by the Sergeants’ in plain sight. 
Fire was supposed to be the cover story. Go in, take care of business, and set the place alight after the area was clear of civilians. But no one was counting on the targets being surrounded by three more friends. 
Of course, guns lead to bullets and bullets to flesh. You can still hear the ringing in your head when Ghost had jerked you to the slide and shoved you behind the far wall—skull snapping back to look in horror as his leg exploded with gore. 
Fucking bastard had been distracted by you and hadn’t had time to dodge. That wasn’t Ghost, but then again, Ghosty wasn’t quite the same, was he? Least, not to you.
“You’re a fool, you know that?” You huff, something swirling in your chest as your gloves peel the layer of cut pants farther down to see better. “You should have looked after yourself.”
“And what?” Ghost grumbles, letting you do what you wanted to him.  “Let you get fuckin’ shot, Masque—you have a bloody death wish?” His last word comes off with a growl as you press tighter into his thigh. 
His hand instantaneously snaps out to grasp the back of your hair tightly with an instinctual low groan. Naturally, a small whine exits your lips in retaliation.
You both freeze and the room jumps up to a hundred degrees; your lower body flips as your skin burns a million degrees. Fingers still, you feel your breath hitch when his calloused fingers scrape your scalp, your hair in his expansive palm. It was a pure reaction you knew, and when you’d asked him to let you help out with this problem you had thought this might happen—he’s a soldier after all, just like you.
But he hadn’t denied you. If anything, since six missions back, you were the only person who he wanted to work on him. He’d never said why. 
You look up at him from the side, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Ghost’s heart skips beats before he clears his throat, snapping his hand back immediately and slamming it to the mattress. A second of strained silence settles where you both try to forget what the fuck just happened.
“Keep bloody going then,” He says, deep and grating to a point where you shove down a shiver. Your head feels light off of his scent, and you have to ask yourself why you’re feeling so feverish all of a sudden. 
You bite your lip and nod, hand moving away to grab at the sanitized needle and thread with your forceps—dropping the rag back onto your forearm to let it hang. For once in your life you’re left mute by his actions. 
Mute to the fact that you’d liked them. 
Your face burns like a hidden fire; epidermis alight with the strength to rival the flames the two of you had started fifteen minutes ago. Lungs stutter and hands inside the gloves go clammy. It’s only after you were halfway done with the stitches that you mutter words.
“Shouldn’t have taken that bullet, Ghost.” He had been stone still the entire time, hands clenched beside him and his thighs like rocks. Feet firmly planted. It was like he was barely breathing, too. 
Ghost blankly stares, staying quiet as you continue. 
“You were distracted. That never happens.” His form was almost entirely shadowing you; great spanning shoulders from above tight like a looming statue. You dig the needle deeper with a push of the forceps, threading through yielding skin with quick punctures. He doesn’t even flinch. 
Ever since ‘07, there was an obvious aversion to partners stemming from you. You distanced yourself from forming close bonds with those who you hadn’t already known. In many ways, Ghost and the others of One-Four-One were the closest you could get to people now.
Ghost, you admit, was far closer than all the others combined. 
But this sentiment was known—both the aversion and the care you held. The Lieutenant wasn’t good with words, but he knew how to read you better than anyone; the way you carried yourself. He knew you didn’t like it when he got hurt in front of you. 
Ghost had to ask why he even bothered to shove you out of the way, regardless. You would have been fine. So why had his eyes gone wide and his iris flared with a dead glow when he’d seen the gun swivel in your direction? The man grunts at a deep dig from your sutures but you continue to mutter to yourself as he glares at the far wall, venom-like. 
His sin was that he had grown to care about you. His burden and his curse. 
This couldn’t continue. 
Ghost looks down at you with a sheen of distanced nonchalant-ness and when you lent back with a sigh of your lips, his body moved. You blink in surprise as you feel his muscles bunch and before you know it you’re being grabbed harshly by the arms and lightly shoved to the side. 
“Ghost!” You snap, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stands to his feet—blood training down his thigh and kneecap before disappearing back under the stained cargos. “What the fuck?! I’m not done with it.” 
Attempting to stomp closer, he swivels his head to you as his spine goes formal. Your feet stall from under you and your veins pump faster, forceps and slick gloves freezing mid-air. 
You blink. He’d only ever looked at you like that when you’d first met. 
Blue is a silent sheen of ice and cold death; black sockets behind his mask are more like voids holding chilled sapphires. 
Why was he looking at you like he didn’t know you? Once more you say, confused and suddenly small, “Ghost?” 
“Enough.” His voice was monotone and barky, the tone final. Your fingers tense at the sound. What…what was this? “You need to get your head back on, Masque. I can’t watch over you like a bloody Private every time you get stiff-legged, copy?” 
Your jaw slackens. Inside, your heart smashes itself into your ribs in a violent pang. There’s a moment of complete and utter silence in which Ghost remains standing with concrete tied to his feet. He sees the flash of confused hurt in your eyes, the way your muscles jump for a moment.
A suffocating wave of regret strikes him, but he felt like he had to do this—keep up boundaries. Even if his throat was closing in an attempt to make him shut up. 
Ghost’s accent makes him sound harsh and unforgiving. “Price’ll need us back in fifteen. Get your shit together.” 
He bends down and snatches bandages with a quick hand, beelining to the bathroom and closing the door with a firm hand. Blankly, you stare at the barrier as the wall rattles; face burning—unable to speak beyond a small sound in the back of your mouth. 
The two of you stay separated for the remainder of the time, not speaking, and not moving from your respective areas. 
When Ghost finally leaves ten minutes after he’d pushed back the self-loathing and guilt, freshly bandaged, he finds your stuff already gone. He glances around the area slowly, taking in the wails of the fire trucks from blocks away and the neighboring rooms of the hotel as residents speak in mutters from behind walls. The air is cold and lifeless. 
He grabs his things in total silence, swallowing down saliva paired with long breaths. Ghost’s eyes remain tight. Body wound and coated in rigidity that could rival a rhino’s armored plates.
Mind whirling, but still ever mute, he leaves the hotel and heads to the coordinates Price had given the two of you alone. The absence of your warm body beside his was more jarring than anything he’d expected to experience.
Ghost didn’t want to admit how many times his eyes trailed to the empty concrete at his left.
When you lose something in someone, you tend to lose it hard. Thus still, that was the case here. Ghost and you always jabbed at each other—it was in your nature to do so—but this was different. The Lieutenant could be cold, but…never to the extent to shove you away from helping him with his wounds. 
Both of you always did that with the other, if that be physically or just being in the same room, while getting fixed up. 
If Ghost didn’t want you around for whatever rage-inducing reason, you weren't going to grovel or beg. The sudden switch-up still stabbed you in the heart though. 
On the second week, it got easier. 
You passed by Ghost without a single comment, shifting into the meeting room once more. He grunts as you shimmy through the door right before him, his feet halting before he runs into you. 
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Masque, you lost your bloody eyes or something?” You don’t answer, blankly walking to the end of the table and taking the single chair with steady steps; sitting down and dragging a notepad to your general area. 
Blinking, you look up at the projection and skim the small details they give over. 
Ghost stares from the doorway, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he slips inside and slowly strides to the table. 
The days had been difficult for him, struggling to re-situate himself to his isolation after you’d been with him for years. Sure he had Johnny, Gaz, and Price, but you were…
Ghost places a veiny hand on the back of a chair about four down from yours, knuckles white as he’d shed his gloves not five minutes ago. His eyes stay stuck to the tabletop, hips shifting. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard to push you out. Not only physically but mentally. 
He found himself thinking of your face at night. Like a phantom, it would snap into his consciousness when the lights went out and the shadows got long. Your smile and your skin. How your fingers would gently press into his flesh when you were threading a needle through him—shivers of pleasure and pain intertwined by the scrape of your nails. 
Ghost’s hand tightens on the chair, and you spare him a tense glance as he seemingly fights within his mind. 
The Lieutenant wonders at your willpower and your drive. He spent the weeks hating that he had gotten what he wanted, and then he hated himself more because of that fact. It was good to keep you away from him. Not only for himself but for you. 
You both were becoming too….attached. Ghost would have none of it. It had bled over into him using his own body to protect yours that was just…was just…
“...Those new tags, then?” You look away from the screen and shift your gaze to him as his voice bounces. 
Around your neck, the new reflective metal of your new dog tags glint. Your heart skips when he speaks to you, but he still doesn’t look your way.
“That an apology?” Deadpanning, your unimpressed gaze glares into his face as his hand strangles the chair. 
The room returns to strained silence. You huff.
“Pretty shitty one there, asshat.” Ghost’s shoulders roll under his gear, a great sigh quickly exiting him. Everyone had noticed the tension over time—it was becoming a detriment to the team.
The Lieutenant’s blue eyes darken, and in his body, a great heat was beginning to burn. Just looking at you provoked lucid and vulgar thoughts, and as the dim light from the projector makes shadows on your face, Ghost traces them with a chained desire. Being away from you was a physical pain to him, but he also knew that being around you was worse. 
All of Ghost’s problems may have started and ended with you, but they also grew in his own head. They’d been there in the back corners ever since he’d given you your nickname; found out he liked the way your face was wet with spilled blood and sweat. Your body. Your hands on the hard flesh of his upper thigh…trailing up... 
Ghost’s pants get tight as he stares without saying anything. Watching you scribble on your notepad. Glaring. 
“Why can’t I get you out of my fucking head?” Your ears twitch at the low growl as if coming from a beast; seconds later, your brain catches up to process the words. Your pen stops its pointless scrawling just as your breath does. Ghost spits out, seeing your form straighten in the chair, “Every bloody thought, you’re right there!” 
His boots stomp to the floor, and before you know it a hand is trapping the back of your head, fingers carding through hair to angle your chin up. Your breath gasps out as your wide eyes lock on Ghost’s, his hold tight but not uncomfortable; as if he knows the perfect amount of pressure to make your blood surge and your pupils expand.
You stare into volatile blue with silver flecks, a skeletal mask stained from dirt and blood. Ghost’s thumb digs into your scalp. 
“Answer me, Masque,” he grunts, accent so thick you momentarily struggle to string the words together in your stupor. 
Ghost’s nose is close to yours; breathing in each other’s air as the temperature rises. Your throat bobs with a swallow. Below you, you feel your legs clench together as the Lieutenant's fingers lightly pull on your roots when you don’t respond—small sparks of electricity run down your spine that make it straighten instinctually. A soft purr flies from your lips; face on fire as your lashes flutter. Your hands clench at the dull pulse in your lower body.
The Brit’s dead eyes stare down at you, glinting; studying you deeply with growing satisfaction in his heart and tension in his boxers. 
You both glare half-lidded, panting, and flesh heated. 
“Is this your apology?” He tightens his hand and you bite your lip, small whine meeting his ears as he represses a groan at the sound. Your voice was breathy but smug. 
“You fucking wanted this, you naughty little beast,” Ghost growls, moving even closer to tower over you. “You’re playin’ me.” You mold into him as you still sit in your chair, your chin set onto his upper abdomen as the midsection of your breasts presses into his crotch; brushing against his hardened bulge firmly. 
You shiver at the feeling, your core leaking out slippery fluids to stain through your pants one second at a time. Every twitch of his fingers leaves you wanting to arch into him. Feel him.
Ghost feels your hands go to wrap his open thighs, nails digging into the back of his pants as his mouth opens under the mask to force out air. 
“You liked me in between your legs, didn’t you?” Your tiny, teasing, voice serenades him as he quickly begins to lose control of his composure. 
“Shut it,” Ghost grunts, mind yelling at him to move away, “Shut your damn mouth.” 
Those pupils were so wide his eyes were almost entirely black, feral chest moving quickly. 
“I already know why you snapped at me…” One of your hands travels back to the Lieutenant’s front, skin tingling at the scratch of a belt and the rough fabric of his cargos. You leave it over his crotch and add a tight amount of pressure; mouth lightly opening at the weight and size of him as Ghost grunts deeply, thighs jerking forward. 
Blinking at his glassy eyes you breathe out into thick air and the veiled threat of something more. His hand in your hair is so tight that you feel your pulse under the tendrils—you enjoy every second of this cat-and-mouse game. 
After all, no one knew who the mouse was yet.
You rub your hand up and down and watch Ghost’s clothed dick, feeling his muscles straining to keep himself in control. He lets you continue as he watches with a clenched jaw, his pants getting gradually wet with precum; hips twitching. 
“...You can’t get enough of me touching you, can you?” Your statement ignites something immediately, and you’re being grabbed by your shoulders and forced to your feet. 
Staring wildly, you cringe at the soaking patch under your clothes but let Ghost place your backside on the table. He presses into your hips to keep you there—legs opened and feet planted to the floor below on their tip-toes.
The man breathes like a lion, nose in front of yours. You slightly smirk at the far-off haze in his eyes, lust and pleasure blending and bleeding into the almost bruising hold he uses to press you down.
He watches you for a minute or two—taking in your scent and the rabid instinct that infects the both of you now that everything was on the table. 
You knew you were right; he knew you were right. Licking your lips you look down and stare at his blatant hard-on hungrily. Your brow raises slowly.
“You going to let me take care of that, Ghosty?” He’s up and locking the door after he slims it shut.
“This is it,” Ghost grunts, “one time, Masque. That’s fucking it, you hear?” 
“Awe,” You cue, swishing your legs as he stomps back over, hand grasping his belt and whipping it off with a flex of his forearm. Your core tightens, hips trying to press back into the table. “That's so cute. You think once is enough.” 
A hand captures your jaw, “I said,” he breathes, the other hand going to shift up the bottom of his mask up to his nose. You gasp at the sight of blond stubble and milky scars. A strong jaw wound like a spring. Ghost’s musk invades your nose and you feel your palms so clammy. “...Shut it.”
Hard lips slam into yours.
Like some game between the two of you, your mouths fight one another with aggressive grunts stuck in your throats, sharp inhales of air between partings. Ghost’s lips mold and conform to yours, clinging around the supple flesh—there’s a deep-rooted intensity, a hunger, and a desire mixed with sweet stubbornness. The tang of metal and old canvas opens to you just as your mouth does when his teeth bite down at your skin.
Quickly sucking down breaths, you feel his tongue push past layers and slip into your awaiting clutch; Ghost groans lowly and explores as his hands bare down into your hips, one making its way to grip at your hair again. Your own dig into his waist as he leans over you. 
He latches onto your hair and peels you back from him, tongue sliding out of your mouth as he moves to nip at your chin—angling your head whichever way he wants to. Your skin burns as the man bites down at your neck, hot saliva stuck to your lips as your chest pants fast with a low whine at the mixture of pain and bliss. 
Below you, your legs are wide to allow Ghost to stand between you, his firmness leaving your hips canting at every hickey he leaves behind and how he shivers into you as you move against him. It was addicting to him—your taste and how your flesh yields to him as he clamps down on it ruthlessly and rapidly. In no time he’d traveled the length of the area behind your ear and down the swell of your shoulder; shirt pushed back by his nose.
“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, eyes glassy as you blankly stare into the far wall over the Lieutenant’s shoulder; your panties are soaked through and the evidence can be felt. A long whine exits your chest when Ghost licks at the deep marks he left behind, blown eyes coming back to stare at you head-on as if in a trance.
His lips are red and swollen, mouth open with silent, fast, breaths. His large chest moves quickly over yours. He orders you in a hoarse voice; strained, “Get on your knees.” 
Licking your lips your widened gaze stays locked on his, the hand in your hair tight and keeping you away from slamming your mouth back to his. The air is electric, both of your bodies yielding to one another's even if you don’t realize it. 
As much as you wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at the comment, to make him apologize to you for what he’s done, you realize that your body has already complied with the request. Slipping off the table, Ghost watches like a hawk and backs up two steps—feet splayed as you move for him. Your knees slowly lower you down to the floor, connecting with the carpet as you sag, fists clenched and shaking. 
There’s a small, heart-pounding, pause. “...Good girl.”
Your jaw drops at the smirk on Ghost’s face and those flashing dead eyes of his, blood thumping with a newly ingrained need. You swallow and feel your throat bob; legs shifting to push back the inner-body itch that grows by the second. 
“Now you can listen to me, yeah? Such a slut for it.” Ghost’s hands slowly trail to his pant’s zipper, sliding the piece down the teeth with barely audible metal on metal. Your fingers twitch at every small pop; how the zipper itself had to move forward with the strain of his sizable erection. You can’t even look away from it—how his pants are stiff against tense thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rucked up to show the black ink of tattoos.
Ghost had tattoos. 
When the teeth had run out and the man’s hands grappled for the waistband of both his cargo and his boxers, you’d found out you’d been staring the entire time, pupils so wide they matched Ghost’s and the black stain of his face-paint. 
“Fuckin’ hell, Masque,” he grunts, knuckles white and going still, “bet your pretty little cunt is soaked and I ‘aven’t even shown you my bloody dick yet, eh? Well, the thing’ll ‘ave to wait, I’m puttin’ that mouth to good use first. Teaching it who to listen to.”
You startle back, blinking away the burning heat on your cheeks that leaves you uncharacteristically stuttering at the vulgar degradation. But Ghost doesn’t notice, doing what he can to move the various straps along his thighs and his upper hips to be able to free himself quickly—eager and dripping to be down your throat. 
The throat and mouth he’d fantasized about for ages. 
Stiffing down a whiny moan, you finally see the veiny girth of Ghost’s cock as it comes free over the top of the tight white cotton of his boxers; a happy trail extending up his visible abdomen when his wrist snatches it out. 
“Put to good use?” You breathe out, “Christ, you’re going to make me fucking mute, Ghosty.” 
“Well, Sweetheart,” he breathes a sigh of relief as he plays with the leaking tip with his thumb. Your hands itch to brush against your achy clit, the pressure in your chest almost enough to make you sob at the sheer nothingness. Sweat glistens over your forehead. Eyes glare at you as you watch thighs tense and loosen. “That’ll be fine by me. Don’t need you speaking when I’m paintin’ your damn cunt with my cum, do I?” 
Jesus, you both were in the fucking meeting room. Going to fuck in the meeting room. 
You lick your lips and stare as Ghost stalks close again, gripping your chin and opening your jaw with his thumb and first finger. His dick was right in front of you, and you can smell sex and sweat like an animalistic aphrodisiac as it coats your brain with lust as you moan out. 
Your arms tense with a want to reach and touch it, watch as Ghost falls apart below the twist of your wrist. It was so addictive you feel yourself clench at the visual, your body shivering violently. 
“Oi, fucking focus.” Your tongue sneaks out and licks Ghost’s finger and he feels his grip tighten on you with a puff of hot air. “Little brat.” 
He stares into your mouth and breathes deeply as a smirk peels the edges of your lip. Blue swirls with anticipation. 
“Keep it open, then.” Ghost’s hand drops from you and you easily keep your mouth open as his hand goes back to his cock, grasping it firmly as the other finds the top of your head. You shiver and shift your thighs under you, your body striking like a drum to oxycontin and adrenaline. “That’s a girl…” The Lieutenant growls, and the tip of his dick slips into your saliva-dripping mouth with hidden fever. “Fuck.” 
Your eyes flutter at the taste, letting him maneuver your face closer to the base as your hands snap to his thighs—nails digging in and eliciting a sharp inhale as you press into the two-week-old wound under his pants. Ghost curses under his breath but watches in flooding pleasure at the image of his cock disappearing farther and farther into you. Inch by inch you tell yourself to breathe through your nose; feeling the make of his veins and the mushroomed tip traveling farther and farther back. 
Moaning in the base of your neck, Ghost instinctually jerks his hips at the sound, feral grunts trapped in his chest. Your eyes go wide with the prickle of tears, not from pain but from the surprise as you gag. His hold on your hair tightens and you mewl as he continues to lose himself to the feeling of your wet heat. 
He was so big it was like your throat was ripping new sinews just for him, and you reveled in every moment of the feeling of his predatory gaze.
“So bloody tight for me—can’t wait to be in that cunt of yours…can’t be better than this. Have to test it.” He talks more when he’s horney. 
Slightly gagging again at the sheer size, his palming hand presses you deeper and you take him as well as you’re able, still space between your nose and his pelvis as your knees dig harder into the ground. Ghost groans gutturally, head slightly lulling back and panting like a dog, looking down at your red eyes and far-off gaze. Your hands kneed his upper thighs and he smirks slowly. 
Without another word and with sweat staining him under his uniform, bits and bobs from his gear start to clink together and dance as his hips set a rough pace; you find your head being puppeteered back and forth with his thrusts as your scalp flames from his hold. Tears burn immediately.
“Yeah, that’s it—such a good little slut for me, Masque. Gettin’ it down, fuck,” Ghost pants, as you hollow your cheeks, back arching into you and leaving your nostrils flaring to take down air for your spasming lungs. The sight above you was sinful. 
Your Lieutenant in full gear, pants and skin-tight boxers stretching and shoved down just under the clutch of his crotch. With every back-and-forth motion, the zipper grazes the underside of your engorged throat as every vein can be undoubtedly seared into your esophagus like a brand. 
Ghost’s eyes flutter and flinch, but never once does his hazy gaze leave your mouth as he continues to jerk your head back and forth. Saliva drips drown your chin and the nearly painful burn in your navel lets you know how true this was a relief not only for Ghost but for you as well. You wanted to touch yourself, but you can’t stop touching the Brit—not for a second. Shit, you think you could fall apart just by looking at this; you were sure Ghost was thinking the same thing. 
“Look at that, makin’ such a fucking mess of you.” His abdomen tightens and rolls with every jerk and rut, and your eyes roll back with a deep whine in the back of your throat when he hits the back of your throat. Sweat splatters down your temple as the air is steeped with animalistic desperation. Ghost whines thickly in answer and seems to speed up as your hands claw at his thighs. “You like that, pet? Huh? Being my little cock-sleeve.” 
Your nails dig deeper into his flesh and he shivers wildly; eyes flash at the sight of himself disappearing into you and exiting just after as the slap of wet skin reverberates. The tension in his chest increases and he starts to desperately kneed at your hair. 
“If I’d known you’d take it down like this, I’d-I’d have made you hate me sooner, yeah?” Tension fizzles up his jaw and you know he’s close by how he bites down into his lip and tilts his head back. 
Instinctual tears travel down your sweat-slick face, the thought of being used like this vulgar and as dirty as the sounds that echo in your throat and strike down your spine. 
“Fucking hell,” Ghost gasps, and his pace stutters as he twists your locks. Your teeth graze along his flesh as you dig your thumb into his wound to steady yourself. Whining loudly, the action seems to get to the man using your mouth for his pleasure, as not three rough thrusts later the warm feeling of his cum splatters the back of your throat in thick, hot, spurts. 
Choking for a moment, the widening of your eyes meets Ghost’s fluttering lashes from above. His free hand goes behind you to slam onto the tabletop; back curved over you as he shakes and sputters as he rides out his high. 
Cum drips out of the seams of your stretched lips, and with a deep breath through your nose, your hand lowers from Ghost’s thighs as you carefully pull your face back from his pelvis. The sensation of his cock leaving your mouth and bringing saliva and his fluids with it was animalistic at best, they spill to the floor and off of your chin like a small river. 
Licking your lips, you swallow what you can and try to catch your breath as your chest rages. Blinking rapidly, your eye twitches as you bring a hand up to your sore and ragged throat, Ghost’s heaving body stiff and hunched as he stares at the table blankly. Sweat dribbles down the side of his nose, sneaking out from under the top side of his mask. 
There’s a long minute of nothingness as you both try to breathe and understand the gravity of what you’ve both done. And then you both lock eyes and stare. 
The air stills over as Ghost’s large pupils stare at the mess on your face—seeing it drip down your throat as you tilt your chin up to him. His chest purrs like a cat and you don’t even think he realizes that he does it. 
Two seconds later you’re being manhandled up to the top of the table, backside hitting it as a hand goes to your belt. Lips connect with yours and groan at the taste, the clinking of metal hitting your ears as you submit to his prodding tongue as it licks along your inner flesh. 
Your fingers snap to trail around Ghost’s neck, moaning into him as he slips his hands into your pants, pulling back and ordering, “Up.” Eager and filled with lust, you raise your legs and he rips them down to your knees, dragging you closer to the edge. 
“Good girl.” He smirks, black-smeared eyes creased. If you could speak you’d tell him to shut up and fuck you already. 
Your slick skin meets the air and you gasp, Ghost’s hands waste no time trailing up the flesh of your hips, pitching to make you jump. Glaring, you try to drag him back into you but he’s built like stone, clicking his tongue. When his fingers collect the fluids that drip out of you, you whimper at the stimulation—two calloused fingers getting entranced by that as they stop at your clit. You stare desperately into amused blue eyes as he pressed deep, your thighs tensing as they jerk. 
“Any more of this and you’ll stain the table, won’t you, Sweetheart? I get you this worked up, yeah? Bloody hell.” You pant, and lines form on your forehead at the indecent circling of his fingers; not being gentle as he sees your mouth open and your lungs gasp. Sharp spikes form in your thighs, and they move in tandem with Ghost. “Look at that…” 
Deep chuckles mock you, but you both know this has to be fast—and with how worked up you were, it would be. 
“Alright, then, brat,” Ghost takes his hand away and you whimper before he grunts and grips you by the shoulders. Your lust turns to confusion. “Suppose you did well. Let’s make this quick, eh? Got work to do.” 
Flipped around, you squeak as your clothed chest meets the table, ass presented as your feet scramble to connect with the floor. Surprised, you whip your head to the side to stare back at a highly smug Ghost as one of his hands goes to grab onto your supple flesh, massaging it before it sneaks to your hip. 
“Easy with it, I’ll take care of you, Masque.” In little to no time he’s lining himself up with your dripping pussy, so wet it’s easy except for the fact that he’s huge enough to make you mute by a blowjob. Your back arches into the table with a long moan as the length slowly spears you open, instinctually widening your legs as best as you’re able. 
Closing your eyes, you press one of your hands to your mouth to stifle your noises, thighs spasming as Ghost curses under his breath; gear clinking into each other.
“So bloody tight.” With a swift thrust and a knock of your pelvis to the edge of the table, your eyes burn with the feeling of holding Ghost in your most intimate area and the knowledge that he would completely wreck it for anyone else. Your lungs fight for air, but a long mewl exits your fingers as the man shakes over you with restraint. “Christ.”
Tight wasn’t the way to describe it—you were like a fucking noose. Your sensitive walls know every vein and bulge, the scrape and dig, far more intimately than your throat ever could. Like a carved stamp, they’re reforming to Ghost’s dick every second. 
Tapping the side of your forehead to the table, the man can’t help himself anymore and starts to thrust into you; feral squelching and fluids staining the top of his pants. Your face burns, the rocking of the table hypnotic as your toes fight to stay on the ground. The sensation of being so full truthfully made your mind go blank, fingers twitching as Ghost continued to palm at your hip—his other hand going to press into your spine, keeping you stapled to the table. 
His gear slammed and rubbed into your ass, bruising it no doubt, but you found you didn’t care at all. Pleasure rocked down with every ruthless intrusion. 
“Can feel ya ‘round my cock,” you keen at the words, tears dribbling down the side of your face as you try to hold back sobs of pleasure. Ghost increases his pace, rabid slapping echoing off the walls as he feels his sole focus on your mind-shattering bliss. “Can’t have ‘em hear how loud you are, now, can we? Can’t let ‘em know I’m shagging you in their meeting room like a little fucktoy, eh?” 
He angles his hips higher, pushing your farther up the table as his hands only drag you back. Every moment leaves your core tightening even more; molten heat pooling as the edge gets closer. 
Footsteps echo down the hall outside, but both of you are too focused on the other and the ache that only increases like a pair of cuffs. Your mouth lets loose insistent gasps and moans while Ghost breathily groans at every other interval of his ravaging cock as it brushes your cervix. 
You whine loudly, spine arching and legs desperately trying to close. Ghost chuckles and your reaction spurs him on—hitting that same spot over and over again as you sob. 
“Right there, yeah? That it, Masque?” You nod rapidly, and the Lieutenant's grip tightens with a loud grunt, “Fuck, that’s it, bloody slut.” 
The coil in your gut gets tighter, shining with desperate shakes of your body and the numb way you try to meet Ghost’s thrusts before you entirely lose the plot of reality. 
“You’re close,” he breathes, feeling your pussy trying to keep him in, slick trailing down the insides of your thighs and transferring to the Brit’s clothes. His boxers were soaked. “C’mon, then. Don’t disappoint me, Masque. Lemme see you cum on my cock before I fill you up like the good girl you are, yeah?”
Your body spasms, thighs tensing and toes curling at the floor; fingers scratching down the table as you press over your mouth harder in a last-ditch effort to remain in control of yourself. The coil snaps and suddenly you’re digging your forehead into the wood below you, orgasm ripping through you like a knife as cum paints Ghost’s dick as he continues his relentless chase of his second release.
“There it is, fuck, look at all that, Love. Paintin’ me like a naughty fuckin’ portrait.” Ghost gasps, a hand coming up to connect to the table by your head, feeling you completely flood his pelvis—he doesn’t stop even when you whine in overstimulation, fucked-out eyes wide and mouth dripping drool into a small pool. The milky ring at his root grows and grows. With a loud moan, he looks down and watches the vulgar sight rabidly, pounding into your heat as his own end gets closer and closer. 
“Shite,” His forehead hits your spine, taking the skin into his teeth and biting hickeys as his open mouth leaves trails of saliva. “Took me so bloody well, cunt was made just for me.” 
His body shakes and with one last shove from his hips, he spills into you with a loud whimper muffled into your flesh. Teeth biting down so hard that you moan in turn, the spent releases dribble out of you like a stuffed bird. You feel his chest atop you as he places his weight slowly down; the fast-panting mirroring your own. 
Sweat connects the two of you as it bleeds through your clothes, the smell in the air and the scent of delirious sex staining your bodies. 
Your mouth remains open and hoarse, scraped dry. Ghost above you moves delicately as he pulls back up, moving back to peel your messy hair away from your blown eyes. After a moment his small voice hits you—the accent deep. 
“All good?” Your eyes slowly rove to him as he kisses your forehead, shivering violently as he slips out of you; the wet drip of cum hits the carpet in the still silence as you whimper at the feeling. “...Masque?”
Dull concern emanates from his tone and you blink back. You clear your throat and utter in a torn voice, “...P-pretty good apology, Ghosty…S…shit.” 
Smugness burns in his orbs, but the roll of his eyes hides it quickly. The puff of his chest couldn’t be hidden from you, though. 
His hands reach down and hike up your panties and cargos—both items completely wrecked. The large splotch on Ghost’s own clothes showed you that you weren't alone in that aspect. 
As he carefully flips your limp form back over and pulls you up by your arms, you groan in annoyance but shut up when his hands go to zip your zipper and clip back your belt. 
“Couldn’t have had a revelation in your barracks room?” You huff, itching at your throat. “You’re buying me cough drops, you ass.” The state of your voice was laughable. Anyone would know what happened if they spoke to you. 
Ghost sighs and begins with his own clothes, stuffing himself back into his boxers and growling at the chilled fluids on his pants as he pulls them back up. He goes and retrieves his belt before walking back. 
“Acting like you weren’t beggin’ for it.” He slides you a smirk before he grabs onto his mask and begins to cover his jaw. 
Your hand snaps out and stops him. Ghost startles, eyes flashing before his muscles stiffen. You raise a brow and he slightly calms. 
Scoffing, you lean in and place a final kiss on his lips—a tinier and tender kiss. Gaze wide, the man stares off as his heart starts to beat fast again at the firm press. After you’re done your hand goes up and grasps the fabric yourself, carefully re-shrouding the mystery of a man with a smile. 
He watches blankly.
“We okay?” You ask, tilting your head as your lower body aches when you shift on the table. “I miss my annoyingly gruff Ghost. This new one’s a jerk.” A small laugh graces your ears, and it makes you beam. “I know why you did it,” you admit, and hold out a hand between your bodies. “But pushing me away will only hurt the both of us. Let's try this, Ghost. Please.” 
“...You’re makin’ it seem like a good deal, Love…is it?” He holds out a hand of his own, large and scarred hands that had gripped you so tight before utterly loose and awaiting. 
“No clue,” you admit with a smirk, “Wanna figure it out?” Ghost watches as he always does and always will, searching into your eyes for any hint of hesitance or denial. 
“Always liked a challenge.” He grunts and encompasses his hand with yours. You squeeze it and nod, chest light as your normal breath comes back.
“You know what a real challenge is? Trying to take down your fucking dic—” The meeting room handle jiggles and you both snap into action. 
Ghost tosses you your notepad and you slide a shoved-away chair his way on shaky legs, slipping into a free seat with failing knees. You both sit side by side on the opposite side of the table, shoulders bumping and faces hot not three seconds later. Ears twitch at the sound of a key entering the slot. 
You try to act normal and begin messing around with your notepad, stealing a pen from Ghost’s gear as Price opens the door. At the sight of the two of you, he pauses and stands in the doorway.
“Ghost…Masque.” With a squint, Price looks around the room slowly, confused at the rod-straight spine from his Lieutenant and the way you awkwardly scribble nothing onto your pad. 
“Price,” Ghost utters as you look up and fake smile, waving as you tighten your hips under the table in an attempt to hide the evidence spilling out of you. 
The Captain continues to stare, scrutiny in his eyes, for at least a full minute. 
“Problem, then?” The Lieutenant asks. Price’s lips thin and he gains a sheen of deep annoyance. You groan under your breath and knock your head to the table at the next comment.
“In the fucking meeting room?!”
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cursedcupcakemaster · 29 days ago
Note
can I order a Poison apple pie and candy violets with and get Spider Cider. With a ghost!reader , this is the same person who requested the other Spider Cider, hope you have a nice day❤️
Of course so we are looking for a deadly friendship with Skully are we ?
Order; Poison apple pie with a side of candy violets and a glass of spider cider
Notes; I do not own twisted wonderland, Skully or the reader,Skully and Twst belong to Disney as well as the brilliant mind of Yana Toboso, reader belongs to themselves, this is just my interpretation of how this would go with the character, reader isn't neccesarily Yuu but if you want to imagine they are you're welcome to, y/n, reader is you
Warnings;yandere, Skully may or may not have killed a few people, implied death
Yandere Skully J. X ghost reader
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🪦Best friends forever🪦
You could hardly remember what happened to get you where you are now
A spirit haunting a house that hardly anyone would pass by except for one boy
He was tall and quite pale wjth a rather pleasant smile and sharply dressed at that
Skully would always come to visit you every day when the sun went down and would talk with you about the outside world that you couldn't explore much due to being bound to the house
It always made your afterlife feel just a bit easier to deal with and there was something about Skully that seemed familiar to you but it wasn't really clear what
Sometimes Skully would ask to bury things in the back of the house and you allowed him to but he never really told you what was in the yard
It just made you happy to have some company in your lonely house that wasn't the spiders weaving their pretty webs or the rats scuttling about
Skully would sometimes bring things for you, like teddies or dolls so you could possess it or little trinkets you seemed to like such as music boxes or books that you seemed interested in after he told you about them
The one thing he never really seemed to want to let you see were newspapers
It was odd but you shrugged it off its not as if much of it could really effect you considering you weren't alive
Another peculiar thing was that he seemed to know your house better than even yourself, particularly the attic
There was something about it that kind of unnerved you
Particularly a trunk in the corner of the room, it was a charcoal black and when you tried to phase through it you couldn't do it
It was rather shocking to yiu considering there weren't many objects you couldn't get through but the last time you tried Skully seemed a bit upset and yelled that there was nothing for you go see in there
He quickly changed his tune when he saw the look on your face before
The only other time you saw him act like this was when some punks came in to wreck the place, they smashed photos, the windows, and all the nicer things that Skully had brought into the house
He told you to not show yourself to them and that he'd take care of it
Doing as he said the last thing you heard of those punks were their screams before Skully came up smiling letting you know everything was fine
When you thanked him he said "it's really no problem, you're my best friend after all"
Somehow those words meant something to you, like you'd heard them before
After this incident a few more holes were dug in the back yard
One night Skully dropped something on his way out, it was a small skeletal key and the lock seemed to fit the shape of the odd trunk
Fitting it inside and lifting the lid you saw several things including photos of you, only you were....alive and you had a family
Beside you was a boy who looked an awful lot like Skully both of you wore friendship necklaces in the shape of a skull with heart shaped eyesockets
The photos weren't the only the only odd thing, there were some news clippings including "Teenagers missing" and "Mysterious deaths of local family "
There was one last object and it was a shovel
Going outside you took the shovel with you and began digging
What you found only made you feel ill and grateful you didn't have organs any longer
There were the corpses of the punks that tried to destroy your home, the people that were once your family and finally your own bones, you knew it was yours thanks to the friendship necklace shaped like a skull with heart shaped eye sockets
You felt a chill before you turned and saw Skully and he did not look the least bit pleased
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"You finally saw it huh" he murmured
"W-why why would you do this?" You asked your voice dripping with fear at the boy who was once your friend
It seemed your question made him smile at you
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"They were going to take you away from me. I couldn't let that happen, as for those other ones they deserved it for ruining our house"
Skully took a step toward yoh making you float backwards until you were cornered against the wall as he spoke again
"Don't you see, I did this all for you that's what friends are for~ and we're best friends forever"
You knew he wouldn't likely stop with his sinister projects unless you agreed to what he wanted
"Skully, please no more ,no more killing if you're really my friend please no more"
Ectoplasmic tears ran down your cheeks making him look at you with his face softening before wiping your tears with his thumbs
"Will you stay with me forever then?" He asked
"Best friends till the end" you replied before the skeleton like boy pressed his lips to your own cold ones
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nhaaauyen · 2 months ago
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⋆ ˚。 ⋆୨ The Ghost of You ୧⋆ ˚。 ⋆
"This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong // To love that well which thou must leave ere long." -William Shakespeare (Sonnet 73)
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PART IV: TONIGHT, I WALK AWAY
zombie apocalypse sevika x reader au!: sevika was the super soldier; a killing machine driven solely by survival. you were nomadic, constantly searching for something in whatever was left of the world—till you met her.
series masterpost: part I // part II // part III // part V
wc: 7.8k cw: violence, angst, major character death author's note: Honestly I'm starting to get why TWD writers do what they do after writing this chapter... I also apologize for taking so long for this chapter, my classes are starting now so updates will be a bit a slower </3 **also some eastereggs but the sonnet 73 quote I have is mentioned in the scene where Grayson talks about love. It's pretty much the translated modern English definition of the quote! The make a wish dialogue is also from the movie Dangerously Yours (1937), that scene always gets me so I had to include it haha
You drift in and out of consciousness, the world around you a hazy blur of pain and disjointed voices. Through the fog, you catch glimpses of three figures engaged in intense discussion.
Sevika's there, her face etched with worry. Beside her stands a tall, bald gaunt man and a mask covering the lower half of his face. His eyes are sunken, giving him an almost skeletal appearance. The third figure is shorter, with slicked-back dark hair and a prominent scar running down one side of his face, his right eye a striking shade of green.
Their voices filter through your muddled thoughts:
"...low on medical supplies for a procedure like this," the masked man says, his voice muffled and clinical. "There's no sure chance she can make it."
"I'll go to the hospital."
"It’s too dangerous." The scarred man's voice is sharp and skeptical.
"We've been low on supplies for too long," Sevika argues. "It's time we do it now. We cannot lose any more people."
Their words fade as you slip back into darkness, only to resurface again as you're being moved. You have no idea how much time has passed, but you're on some kind of gurney, the ceiling passing by overhead. You try to move, but your limbs feel heavy and unresponsive. Glancing down, you see your wrists are handcuffed to the sides of the bed.
Panic surges through you as you realize you're being rolled into what looks like a makeshift operating room. The masked man and the scarred one are there, now wearing blood-stained surgical gowns. You try to fight, to call out, but your body won't cooperate.
The scarred man leans over you, his mismatched eyes boring into yours. "It will be over soon," he says, his voice oddly soothing despite the circumstances. Then he's lowering a gas mask over your face, and the world fades to black.
When you wake again, your mind is clearer, though your body feels like it's been run over by a truck. The scarred man is sitting in a chair beside your bed, watching you with an unreadable expression.
"Ah, you're awake," he says, leaning forward. "Good. I was beginning to wonder if we'd miscalculated."
You try to speak, but your throat is dry, raw. He holds up a hand, silencing you.  
"No need to strain yourself. I just wanted to... observe you.” He pauses. "It's been a long time since I've had to perform a procedure like that. It’s quite a reminder of what still lurks beyond these walls. How we’ve grown complacent."
Your eyes drift to his face, lingering on the scar that runs down the right side, bisecting his eye. The eye itself is a startling shade of green, almost luminescent against his pale skin. You must have been staring, because the man chuckles, a dry, humorless sound.
"Curious, aren’t you?" A sardonic smile twists his features. "It’s only natural - people always wonder. But few ever ask. It’s a souvenir from when Zaun was still crawling out of the muck. When men I called brothers tried to drag me back down for a piece of land." 
His finger traces the scar slowly, almost lovingly. "This... this was their parting gift." He trails off, then continues in a near-whisper. "Have you ever felt pain so exquisite it becomes transcendent? For days, I danced on the knife's edge between genius and madness."
His gaze refocuses on you, sharp and penetrating. "But pain, you see, can be transformative. It stripped away my naivety, my weakness. It forged me into something stronger, something capable of truly leading Zaun."
“I think I understand why Sevika is so fond of you." His lips curl into something that might be a smile but doesn't reach his eyes. "There's something in you, just like her. That part that's willing to sacrifice."
You furrow your brow, confusion, and wariness warring inside you.
"Some sacrifices are necessary to be made. But they're also weaknesses," He stands, smoothing down his shirt. "Something to consider."
With those cryptic words, he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. You're left alone, your mind racing with questions. Who were those men? What exactly happened to you? And how much time had gone by?
The weight of uncertainty presses down on you, and exhaustion soon follows. Despite your churning thoughts, your eyelids grow heavy, and you drift into an uneasy sleep.
When you wake again, its by the sound of shuffling feet and the creak of a door opening. The haze of sleep still clings to your mind as you slowly become aware of your surroundings.
Sevika enters, holding a plate of food. Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.
"Hey," she says finally, her voice softer than you've ever heard it.
"Hey yourself," you reply, unable to keep a slight tremor from your voice.
Sevika sets the plate on your bedside table, then stands awkwardly, as if unsure what to do with her hands. "Thought you might be hungry," she mumbles.
You nod, a thousand questions bubbling up inside you. Where has she been? Why didn't she visit sooner? What happened after the surgery? But looking at her now, seeing the dark circles under her eyes and the way she holds herself - tense, guarded - you decide those questions can wait.
Instead, you pat the bed beside you. "Sit with me?"
Sevika hesitates for a moment, then complies. As she settles beside you, you feel the warmth of her presence, so familiar yet somehow changed.
"I missed you," you say simply.
Sevika's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of emotion crossing her face before she schools it back to neutrality. "I... I'm glad you're okay," she replies, her voice gruff but sincere.
As you and Sevika sit together, you try to maintain a casual conversation, but there's an undercurrent of tension you can't ignore. Sevika's responses are clipped, her gaze never quite meeting yours. It's like she's looking through you, not at you.
"Hey," you say softly, reaching out to touch her arm. "What's going on?"
She turns slowly, her eyes finally meeting yours. But there’s something different in them, something that makes your heart clench. It’s infuriating, this distance she’s putting between you, this wall she’s building brick by brick.
“Sevika,” you say, trying to break through that wall. “Talk to me.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Nothing can happen between us again,” she says, the words falling heavy between you like a death sentence.
You stare at her, disbelief mingling with hurt. “What?”
Her gaze flickers, something like pain flashing in her eyes before she steels herself again. “We can’t do this,” she says, her voice low and strained. “We can’t keep pretending this… whatever this is… can last.”
You feel the ground shift beneath you like the world is falling away, leaving you teetering on the edge of a precipice. “You’re really going to say that after everything?” Your voice cracks, the hurt seeping through despite your best efforts to keep it at bay. “How do you kiss someone, make them believe there’s something real, and then just—throw it away?”
Sevika’s jaw clenches, and she looks away, as if unable to bear the sight of your pain. “You can be mad at me, hate me if you want,” she says. “But it has to be this way.”
“I’m not mad,” you reply, your heart breaking with every word. “I’m hurt, Sevika. I’m hurt because I care about you, and you’re pushing me away like none of it matters.”
“I know,” she whispers, her voice so soft it’s almost lost in the hum of the machines. 
“Then why?” you demand, your voice wavering as you struggle to understand. “Why are you doing this?”
She finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the anguish in her eyes is like a punch to the gut. “Because if I let myself love you,” she says, her voice breaking on the word, “I know we’d never have enough time. ”
Her words hit you like a tidal wave, drowning you in the despair that’s been brewing in your chest. “But isn't some time better than none at all? I'd rather have a handful of precious moments with you than spend the rest of my life wondering 'what if.'” The tears you’ve been holding back now streaming down your face. 
“Even if it hurts, even if it's brief – at least it would be real.”
Sevika shakes her head, her expression a storm of anger and fear. Her words come out in a rush, like she can't hold them back any longer.
"You don't understand. I was okay before you. I was okay with the idea of dying, of existing day after day without purpose until my time ran out. But now?" Her voice hardens. "Now I'm terrified. I'm not okay with losing you. I'm not okay with the thought that you could walk out that door and never come back."
“I didn't need this. I didn't need you to come along and give me a reason to call this godforsaken place home. I didn't need you to make me want to survive instead of just exist.”  She’s practically pleading now.  “Don't you see what you've done to me? Needing you means I have something to lose."
The weight of her confession crushes you, the finality of it sinking in. She’s not just pushing you away—she’s tearing herself apart to do it, ripping out the very thing that might make her feel alive, all because she’s so afraid of the pain it could bring.
“I’d shatter every bone in my body again if it meant keeping you safe,” you say, your voice trembling. “I’d do anything for you, Sevika, and it hurts so bad that you won’t let me.”
She turns her head away. “You’re too stubborn,” she whispers, her voice resigned. “You won’t stop, and neither will I, and it’ll kill us both in the end.”
“You look at me like I’m already dead,” you say, your voice cracking with the weight of your grief. “Like I’m a ghost you’ve been carrying around, waiting for the right moment to bury me.”
She flinches, the words cutting deep. “Because that’s what it feels like,” she confesses. “I feel like I’ve already lost you, and it’s killing me. I’d rather lose you now when we still have a chance to walk away than lose you out there, where I can’t protect you.”
The following silence is deafening, the air thick with everything neither of you can bring yourselves to say. You reach out, your hand trembling as you gently caress her cheek, trying to offer comfort in the only way you know how. She leans into your touch for a moment, her eyes closing as if she’s trying to savor it, to hold onto it before it’s gone.
“Are you doing this to protect me, or are you protecting yourself?” you ask softly, the question hanging in the air like a lifeline, offering her one last chance to admit the truth.
She opens her eyes, and the pain you see there nearly undoes you. “Both,” she admits. “I’m protecting both of us. I’ll never survive the day I lose you. And I can’t—” Her voice breaks, and she swallows hard, her eyes pleading with you to understand. “I can’t live.”
Your heart shatters as the reality of her words sinks in. She’s already decided, already convinced herself that this is the only way to keep you both safe, even if it means tearing herself apart in the process.
“Can I be alone?” you ask, your voice small and broken, the words barely escaping your lips.
Sevika nods, her expression tightening as she takes a step back. “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll go.”
She turns to leave, but before she can take another step, you reach out. “Sevika, wait,” you say, your voice filled with desperation. “Can you hand me my bag?”
She hesitates, her gaze flickering to the bag and then back to you. After a moment, she nods and hands it to you, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments, sending a jolt of longing through you. You rummage through the bag, your heart pounding as you pull out the familiar fabric of her shawl.
You hold it out to her. “This belongs to you.”
Sevika stares at the shawl, her eyes widening as she realizes what it means. For a moment, she just stands there, looking at it like it’s a lifeline she’s too afraid to grasp. Then, she takes it from you.
She looks at you, and in her eyes, you see all the things she wants to say, all the things she’s too scared to admit. And then, without another word, she turns and walks out of the room, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with nothing but the ghost of her touch and the scent of her shawl lingering in the air.
⁺˚⋆。°✩
You didn’t accept any visitors for days, under the guise that you were too tired and needed the rest to recover. But as tempting as curling in bed and crying over a woman that you never even had a proper relationship with was, you knew you couldn’t hide away forever.
Blinking, you see a group of people piling into your room.
Vander's deep voice rumbles, "Easy now, let's not overwhelm her."
Caitlyn is standing over you. "How are you feeling? Any pain?"
Before you can answer, Powder chimes in, "Bet you feel like you've been hit by a truck. Am I right?"
"Something like that," you croak.
Your attention is drawn to the doorway where Grayson stands, little Ren in her arms. The child is clutching Grayson's yellow armband tightly.
Grayson sets Ren down gently. "Go on, little one," she says softly.
Ren doesn't need to be told twice. She rushes to your bedside, her small hands gripping the edge of the mattress. "Miss, are you okay?" she asks, her voice shakes slightly. "Will you be like Sevika?"
The innocence in her question tugs at your heart. You reach out, ignoring the twinge of pain from the movement and the mention of Sevika, to pat her hand. "No, darling," you reply softly. "Sevika is unique. I'll be just fine."
Grayson moves closer, her stern expression softening slightly. "That was brave," she says. "But also very idiotic of you."
You frown at the comment, the words too similar to Sevika’s at the prison.  
Vander's voice pulls you from your thoughts. "You gave us quite a scare," he says. "But you're tough. You'll pull through."
Caitlyn nods in agreement. "We've managed to replenish some of our medical supplies thanks to the hospital mission." she informs you. 
Vi adds with a smirk, "And don't even think about trying to get up and be a hero again anytime soon."
“Yeah… I wouldn’t dream of it,” you respond hoarsely.  
Over the next week, your family comes and goes, their visits being the highlight of your monotonous days.  Grayson usually stopped by with Ren, the two were closer than you expected but Marcus had flitted in and out of Ren’s life so often that Grayson stepped up as a parental figure.  You offered to take care of the kid while you were still bed-bound, and Grayson only reluctantly agreed when you assured her it wouldn’t obstruct your healing process.
You find yourself sitting up in bed, Ren cross-legged beside you. Math worksheets are spread out between you.
"If an apple cost three dollars and you needed to buy five apples, how much would that cost?"
Ren's brow furrows in concentration. "Um... fifteen dollars?"
You beam at her. "That's right! You're getting good at this."
A knock at the door interrupts your math lesson and Vi pokes her head in, her red hair slightly disheveled.
"Hey, time to get moving," she says with a grin.
You turn to Ren, giving her a warm smile. "Let's do this again tomorrow, sweetie?"
Ren nods enthusiastically, gathering her papers. "Alright! Bye-bye, miss! I hope you feel better!"
As Ren scampers out, Vi approaches, offering her arm for support. You wince as you stand, your body still protesting the movement.
“Easy,” she murmurs, her tone softening as she watches your struggle. “Take it slow.”
You grit your teeth, focusing on her voice, on the feel of her arm supporting you. Slowly, you manage a few steps, each one a little less painful than the last. 
“How’s it feel?” Vi asks, keeping pace with you, her gaze never leaving your face.
“Like hell,” you admit with a shaky laugh, though there’s a small sense of victory in the simple act of standing on your own two feet again. “But better than yesterday.”
Vi nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Progress,” she says. “You’re getting stronger.”
As you slowly make your way down the hallway, Vi starts chatting about her day. "You wouldn't believe the shit from yesterday. We were chasing some survivors that tried to steal our shit through an alley, and then Sevika shows up out of nowhere and--" 
The moment the words are out, Vi winces, realizing her mistake too late.  You feel a sharp pang in your chest at the mention of Sevika's name. 
"Uh, anyway, we got the guy in the end.” she says.
“She… was?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.
Vi looks away, guilt flashing in her eyes. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Didn’t mean to bring it up.”
“It’s good,” you say, though the words feel like a lie even as they leave your lips. “It’s good that she caught them.”
Vi nods. “I’m sorry.” 
You shake your head, forcing a small smile. “It’s okay. It’s just… I miss her.  It’s stupid, we weren’t anything.”
“I know,” she says. “But it’s not stupid.”
There’s a long silence, the kind that’s filled with all the words neither of you know how to say. “If you didn’t have Caitlyn, would you be okay with all of this? Would you be able to live with everything we do?”
She’s quiet for a moment as she considers your words. “Do I have a choice?” she finally says, her voice tinged with a sadness you’ve rarely heard from her. “I have Powder. I have you, Vander… my family. I’d feel incomplete, sure, but I don’t have a choice. I have to keep going.”
“We’ll keep going, together.” She adds.
“Thanks, Vi.” Despite your gratefulness, her words feel like they’re coming from a distance, muffled by the grief you’re still trying to process. 
Your family helps you through it all, they talk to you about everything and nothing, filling the silence with stories. The days pass, and slowly, you begin to reclaim small pieces of yourself. You walk more, the physical therapy sessions become less of a struggle and more of a routine.
And each night, when the room is quiet and you’re alone with your thoughts, you think of Sevika. It’s not easy. Some days, the weight of it all feels unbearable, like you’re drowning in a sea of what-ifs and lost chances. But you keep going, step by step, knowing that it’s all you can do.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting session, you lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling as your thoughts drift. You think about Sevika, about the last time you saw her, the pain in her eyes as she walked away. And you wonder if she feels the same weight, if she’s struggling just as much to move on.
You close your eyes, and for a moment, you imagine her here, standing by your side. And as you drift off to sleep, you could swear you hear her voice, soft and broken, whispering in the dark.
“I failed you.”
⁺˚⋆。°✩
The pantry is filled with the scent of canned goods and the faint rustle of paper bags. You’re focused on stacking cans of beans when your grip falters, and one slips from your fingers.
Before it can hit the ground, a hand darts out and catches it. You look up to see a man with a cocky grin. He’s tall and lean, with slicked-back hair and piercing teal eyes.  You don’t know why, but he looked oddly familiar.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing down here? Are we that understaffed that we’re making the injured work now?”
You snatch the can back from him. “Not that it’s any of your business,” you reply curtly, setting the can back on the shelf, “but I wanted to do this.”
He chuckles, leaning against the shelf with a casual arrogance. “Looks like supplies are running a bit thin,” he comments slyly, his eyes flicking to the half-empty shelves. “Maybe you should take it easy before you use up what little energy we have left.”
You narrow your eyes at him, your patience wearing thin. “I’m not interested in your opinion.”
Before he can retort, the door to the pantry swings open with a loud creak, and Sevika steps inside. The air changes instantly when her gaze zeroes in on the man. 
“Finn,” she growls. “What are you doing here?”
Finn straightens up and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just making sure our friend here isn’t overworking herself,” he says innocently.
“Get lost,” Sevika snaps. “Now.”
With a lazy shrug, Finn backs off, giving you a final, lingering look before sauntering out of the pantry. The door closes behind him, leaving you alone with Sevika. 
Sevika turns to you. “I was told you’re working here again,” she says, her voice sharp with disapproval. “Are you stupid? You’re barely healed.”
You bristle at her tone. "I needed to do something."
"Yeah, like babysitting Ren," she snaps. “Not this.”
"Why does it matter what I do?" you challenge, your voice rising.
For a moment, Sevika doesn’t answer, but then her eyes widen.
“You’re bleeding.” 
You blink, confused. “What?”
You look down and see a trickle of blood seeping through the bandages on your side. The pain hits you a second later, sharp and burning, but you grit your teeth, refusing to show weakness in front of her.
“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, trying to downplay it. “I can bandage it myself.”
But Sevika is already moving toward you, her expression darkening with worry. “You’re not going back to your place like this,” she mutters. “Come on. My place is closer.”
Before you can protest, she’s already scooping you up into her arms. The world blurs around you as she carries you through the streets and you’re too shocked to resist.
When you reach her place, she sets you down on the edge of her bed, her touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary before she pulls away.
“Just sit,” she instructs as she moves to grab a first aid kit from a nearby drawer.
“I can do it.” 
Sevika shakes her head, her expression set in a way that leaves no room for argument. “I have experience with this,” she says quietly. “Let me.”
You watch in silence as she works. Her hands, usually so strong and rough, are gentle as they press a fresh bandage against your skin. There’s a tenderness in the way she handles you, in the way she refuses to meet your gaze as she focuses on the wound, that makes your chest ache.
Finally, Sevika finishes. She stands, the distance between you growing once more as she busies herself with putting away the first aid kit, her movements stiff and mechanical.
“Thanks.” You want to leave, not to be any more inconvenient than you already were but Sevika replies before you can say anything.
“You should rest,” she says, her voice flat, devoid of the warmth that was there just moments ago. “Don’t push yourself like that again.”
You reluctantly agree to stay and the tension in Sevika's shoulders eases slightly. She mumbles something about bringing dinner later and leaves you to rest.
Left alone, you take in your surroundings. The room is sparse, almost impersonal. Unlike the chaos in the other rooms, this space feels hollow. There are no personal belongings, no knick-knacks, nothing to suggest that she even uses this bed. It's as if the room itself is holding its breath, existing in a state of perpetual temporariness.
Exhaustion soon overtakes you, and you drift off to sleep. But you soon wake again at the sound of muffled voices.  Through the haze of half-consciousness, you hear one of Sevika's people inviting her to a party, but she declines. 
"Nah, I'm staying in today," you hear her say.
The voices fade, and you slowly wake up, disoriented. You stumble to the doorway of the living room, blinking sleep from your eyes. Sevika is there, dressed in casual clothes – a grey tank top and worn jeans with her hair down, falling in messy waves around her face.  She's cleaning up, a pile of bottles in her arms when she notices you.
"You're awake," she says, startled. "Shit, did I wake you up?"
You shake your head, your voice still rough with sleep. "No, you're good... Do you need help with that?"
"No. Fuck, sit down. What are you doing walking around?"
Still groggy, you comply without argument, sinking into the couch. Sevika dumps the bottles in a bag and turns back to you.
"I'm making dinner," she says, washing her hands at the sink. "You're okay with instant noodles and spam?"
The domesticity of the moment catches you off guard. "Sounds delicious," you manage to say.
Sevika nods and turns to the small kitchenette. You watch her move around the space. It's surreal, seeing her like this – relaxed, casual, making dinner for you both. For a moment, you can almost pretend things are different between you.
Sevika settles on the far arm of the couch next to you, the small distance between you both feeling more like a chasm. 
"Chopsticks or fork?" she asks, holding out both options.
"Chopsticks," you reply, and a ghost of a smile flickers across her face.
"Good choice," she murmurs, handing them to you.
You eat in comfortable silence, stealing glances at her when you think she's not looking. When you finish, Sevika collects the empty bowls.
"Want dessert?"
"Sure," you nod, watching as she retrieves an apple from the kitchen.
She settles back on the arm of the couch, peeling the apple with a small knife. "How's the physical therapy going?" Sevika asks, breaking the silence.
You shrug. "It's... going. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless."
She nods, placing slices onto a plate. "That's good. Don't push yourself too hard."
"Says the woman who never knows when to quit," you tease gently.
A wry smile tugs at her lips. "Do as I say, not as I do."
As you reach for the last slice, Sevika’s hand brushes your cheek. You freeze, the touch unexpected, and you look up at her, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest.
“There’s an eyelash,” she says softly, her voice gentle as she carefully removes it from your face. She holds it up for you to see, the tiny, delicate lash resting on her fingertip. “Make a wish.”
You stare at the eyelash, your mind racing with all the things you could wish for, should wish for. But the words stick in your throat, and you find yourself frozen, unable to think of anything that could possibly fix what’s been broken.
“Did you wish?”
You shake your head slightly, the corners of your mouth turning up in a sad smile. “I... I didn't get the chance.”
She raises an eyebrow, her gaze piercing as she studies you. “And there’s something you wish for?”
“Yes,” You hesitate, the words coming slowly, painfully, like pulling them from some deep, hidden place inside you. “I was wishing… that we were two other people. Two people who didn’t have to say goodbye.”
The silence that follows is thick, charged with the tension of emotions neither of you can afford to express. Sevika’s expression tightens, her jaw clenching as she absorbs your words.
“You know, if you say it out loud, it doesn’t come true,” she says, her voice rough, like she’s fighting against the vulnerability of the moment.
“Do you believe that?” 
She looks down at the eyelash, still resting on her finger, before blowing it away into the air. Her gaze follows it for a moment before she looks back at you. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and unmovable, like a finality neither of you can escape. 
“We should sleep,” Sevika says finally. “It’s late.”
You nod, knowing she’s right. There’s nothing more to be said, nothing that can change the way things are. 
“Thank you,” you say softly.
Sevika looks at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nods, just once, and steps back, letting you go. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” you echo, your heart heavy as you turn and walk away.
As you reach the end of the hallway, you glance back, just once. Sevika is still standing in the doorway, watching you, her figure framed by the dim light. There’s something in her posture, something in the way she’s holding herself that makes you think she might be wishing too—wishing for something that neither of you can have.
But then she steps back, closing the door behind her, and you’re left standing in the cold, empty hallway, the echoes of what could have been ringing in your ears.
⁺˚⋆。°✩
The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the makeshift shooting range. You and Grayson stand side by side, both of you facing a row of targets at the far end of the field. You’ve been practicing your aim for a while now, but your focus has been off, your shots missing the mark more often than not.
“You haven’t said anything about my shit shot,” you mutter, glancing sideways at Grayson, expecting some form of criticism.
She shrugs, her eyes on the distant targets. "You're injured. Why would I?"
You snort. "Liar. Weeks ago, you'd have torn me apart. What's different now?"
Grayson doesn't answer, instead gesturing to a nearby bench overlooking the community below. You follow her, settling onto the worn wood with a sigh.The elevated view makes the world seem vast and small all at once.
Grayson passes you a canteen, and you take a long drink before speaking again. "You snitched to Sevika about me working."
Grayson raises an eyebrow. "Snitching? Are we ten?"
"She didn't need to know," you mutter, avoiding her gaze.
"You were going hurt yourself," Grayson says softly. "And you needed to see her. For closure, at least."
You fall silent, not wanting to delve into the complicated mess of emotions surrounding Sevika. Instead, you change the subject. "How's Ren?"
“Ren’s sleeping in today. She’s been up late these past few nights, working on that puzzle I gave her.”  Grayson’s face immediately brightens at the mention of Ren.
“She’s got that stubborn streak. Wonder where she gets it.” 
“Must be the company she keeps,” Grayson replies, her voice laced with affection. “Marcus is at the walls today, keeping an eye on things. It’s been quiet, for the most part.”
You nod, your gaze drifting back to the field. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you muse. “Every day is the same. We do the same things, see the same faces… What makes it worth living?”
Grayson leans back on the bench, her eyes scanning the horizon as she considers her answer. “You make your own reasons,” she says finally, her tone thoughtful. “For me, it’s taking care of Ren. Making sure she has something to hold onto, something good in this world.”
There’s a pause, and you can tell Grayson is choosing her words carefully. “I never thought of myself as the maternal type,” she continues, sounding almost wistful. “But with Ren… It’s different. She’s taught me more about love than I ever knew.  In whatever time I got left here, I want to continue it with her, to see her grow up and prove there’s still something more for us here.”
You feel a pang in your chest, suddenly remembering Sevika and her belief that there would never be enough time for the two of you. But where Grayson found strength in loving deeply despite that, Sevika chose to close herself off, to protect herself from the inevitable pain.
Grayson looks at you, her eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Sometimes, the hardest thing is to keep loving, even when you know it won’t last. But that’s what makes it worth it. Knowing that you made the most of the time you had, that you loved fully, even if it hurts in the end.”
Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, the truth of them resonating with a painful clarity. 
“It’s hard,” you admit, your voice barely audible. “When you know it’s not going to last.”
Grayson nods, her expression gentle. “It is. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. You have to find your own reason to keep going, to keep loving, even when it seems like everything is falling apart.”
The conversation settles into a quiet lull, the words lingering between you as the sun dips lower in the sky. You take another sip from the flask, the burn of the alcohol doing little to numb the ache in your chest.
“You’re always looking out for us, making sure we’re okay.” you say after a moment, your voice tinged with admiration. 
“I’m satisfied  – knowing that I’ve done what I can to make this place a little better, to take care of the people who matter.”
“Thank you,” you say softly, the words carrying more weight than you intended. “For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she replies gently. “We’re all in this together. And besides,” she adds with a small, teasing smile, “someone has to keep you in line.”
You chuckle, the sound lightening the heavy atmosphere just a bit.
But the peaceful moment on the hill was brief, the tranquility shattered by the sound of rapid footsteps and panicked crying. You and Grayson turn to see Ren running towards you, her face streaked with tears and her small body shaking with sobs.
Grayson immediately drops to her knees, catching Ren in her arms. "What happened, sweetheart?" she asks, her voice calm but laced with urgency.
Ren tries to speak through her tears, her words coming out in broken gasps. "Daddy said... we were going on a trip... but the monsters... they blocked us and he couldn’t close the gate... now they're coming to get us!"
As if on cue, screams erupt from the direction of the community. You and Grayson exchange a quick glance, both reaching for your weapons without hesitation.
Ren clings to Grayson's yellow armband, her eyes wide with terror. "I want to go with you!" she cries.
Grayson cups Ren's face gently, her voice soft but firm. "Darling, listen to me. I will come back, I promise. But right now, you need to get to safety. Can you be brave for me?"
Ren nods, her lower lip trembling. You know without words what needs to be done - get everyone to safety.
You both sprint down the hill, Grayson carrying Ren. As you near the community, the chaos becomes more apparent. Gunshots ring out, mixing with screams of panic and pain. People are running in all directions, fear etched on their faces.
Vi appears beside you, her red hair wild and her eyes blazing. "We're seriously underarmed right now!" she shouts over the noise. "Sevika's crew is out!"
"We have to make do," you yell back, scanning the area. You spot Caitlyn and a few others on the walls, their snipers picking off threats in the distance.
You, Vi, and the handful of armed residents form a protective line, herding panicked civilians towards their homes. "Get inside! Lock your doors!" you shout, your voice hoarse from the effort.
Children cry for their parents, the elderly struggle to move quickly enough. You see a young mother stumble, her baby wailing in her arms. You rush to her side, helping her to her feet and guiding her to safety.
Everywhere you look, there's movement – people running, fighting, falling. 
The air is thick with the stench of death and the deafening cacophony of gunfire. You're shoulder to shoulder with VI, both of you firing relentlessly at the endless wave of walkers. Sweat stings your eyes as you shout, "Vi! On your left!"
She pivots, taking down three walkers in quick succession. But for every one you drop, two more seem to take its place. The situation is rapidly spiraling out of control, and a sinking feeling in your gut tells you you're fighting a losing battle.
But suddenly, powerful headlights cut through the darkness as a convoy of trucks roars onto the scene. Your heart leaps – you'd recognize that cavalry anywhere.
As if materializing from thin air, more trucks appear, effortlessly mowing down walkers and clearing streets. One screeches to a halt in front of you, and then there she is.
A familiar figure vaults from the truck bed – Sevika, her red shawl billowing behind her. She swiftly unslings a shotgun from her back and starts blasting walkers left and right. Her face is composed, every feature carefully controlled, but when her eyes find yours, a fleeting shadow passes over them—a trace of fear and concern.
"You okay?" she shouts over the din, closing the distance between you.
You nod, breathless. "A lot are injured. I don't know, there's too many – I think they're coming from the west gate. Ren said something about Marcus not being able to close it."
Sevika's jaw tightens. She yanks out a radio, barking orders to dispatch teams to the west gate. In seconds, she's handing out weapons, her voice ringing with authority. "Split up! I want a team grabbing as many injured as possible. Anyone bitten, take them out."
As you move to join the fray, Sevika's hand clamps on your arm. "No," she growls. "What the hell are you doing? Get to safety with the others. You're still injured."
"Fine," you concede. "But I'm finding Grayson first."
Sevika gives a curt nod before sprinting back into action. You catch a glimpse of Vi, her red hair unmistakable as she leaps into a truck bed. 
You weave through the chaos, dodging walkers and searching for Grayson. Gunfire echoes off buildings, punctuated by the revving of engines and the sounds of walkers being dispatched. 
A scream to your left – you spin, firing instinctively. A walker drops, inches from a couple. You quickly wave to them to follow and you sprint to the safe house together. Your leg protests, but adrenaline keeps you moving.
Your heart pounds as you finally spot Grayson, but she's going the opposite direction. 
"Grayson!" you shout. "Sevika and her team are here. We need to get everyone to safety!"
She doesn't slow down. "There's someone stuck in a car!"
That's when you see it - a vehicle surrounded by a writhing mass of walkers, their decaying hands clawing at the windows. Inside, you catch a glimpse of a terrified face.
Without hesitation, you sprint after Grayson. The two of you work in tandem, picking off walkers. When you reach the car, Grayson covers you as you wrench the door open. A young boy, no older than seven, practically leaps into her arms.
"We've got to move!" Grayson shouts.
You guys run, the child clinging to her as you lead the way.  You’re clearing the path, and you’re halfway to the safehouse when you hear the dreaded click of an empty chamber.
"I'm out!" you yell.
Grayson turns, her eyes flashing with a decision you can see forming before she even speaks. "Take the kid. Go!"
"Wait, we can make it together!"
She shakes her head, placing the boy into your arms. "Sevika's crew is here, remember? I'll be okay. Get everyone to safety!"
Before you can protest, she's shoving you toward safety, using her body as a shield for the child. You run, every step feeling like a betrayal, but knowing you have to trust her.
You make it to a house, handing off the child to waiting arms. Your lungs burn as you gasp for air, eyes scanning the chaos for any sign of Grayson.
Suddenly, Sevika's there, her face smeared with grime and blood but her eyes alight with fierce triumph. "We closed the gate. Got them all."
Relief floods you for a moment, but then reality crashes back. "Wait, where's Grayson?"
Confusion flickers across Sevika's face, but before she can respond, a heart-wrenching wail cuts through the air. You both rush outside, joining a growing crowd.
The scene that greets you turns your blood to ice. Caitlyn is on the ground, her body wracked with sobs. Vi kneels beside her, arms wrapped around her shaking form. "I couldn't save her," Caitlyn chokes out between gasps. "I couldn't shoot them fast enough."
Her sniper lies discarded in the dirt, and that's when you see her. Grayson.
The world seems to tilt on its axis. You stumble forward, unable to process what you're seeing. Grayson, who was just beside you moments ago. Grayson, who sacrificed herself to save a child. Grayson, whose quiet strength held your community together.
She now lies on the ground, her body wracked with violent coughs, blood staining her lips. Her breaths had grown shallow, each one more of a struggle than the last, and when she reached for Sevika’s hand, you knew what she was asking for. Sevika’s fingers trembled as she grasped Grayson’s hand, and when Grayson whispered, “Do it,” you saw a flash of something break inside Sevika.
She obeyed.
The gunshot echoed in your ears, louder than the chaos around you, but it was the sight of Sevika gently closing Grayson’s eyes that broke you. Sevika had always been unbreakable, she seemed immune to the horrors of this world. But as she knelt beside Grayson, you saw the cracks forming.  She closed Grayson’s eyes, her hand trembling just for a second before she stood up, towering over the body like a stone sentinel. 
You could barely breathe, the grief suffocating you, making it impossible to think about anything other than how many bodies that needs burying tomorrow. How many families would be broken by the news? How many children would cry for family and friends who would never come home? 
“Grayson?” Ren’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with innocence and confusion. The kid was supposed to be inside the safe house but instead, she stood there, eyes wide and uncomprehending, staring at the lifeless form on the ground. “Why is Grayson sleeping? Tell her to wake up… We won, didn’t we?”
You wanted to tell her something—anything—but the words choked in your throat. Ren dropped to her knees beside Grayson, her tiny hands shaking as they touched the cold, lifeless body.
Sevika finally moved, her expression unreadable, her walls up higher than ever. Without a word, she reached into her pocket and pulled out Grayson’s yellow band. She knelt down, her massive frame suddenly so small beside Ren, and gently placed the band in the child’s trembling hands.
Ren looked up at Sevika, eyes full of questions. But before anything could be said, Silco emerged from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity. He was flanked by his men, their faces grim and cold, and at the center of it all was Marcus.
He was barely recognizable—his face a mangled mess of bruises and blood. He was dragged forward, forced to his knees in the dirt where Grayson had fallen. The sight of him brought Sevika to her feet, her fists clenched tight. You could see the battle raging inside her, the desire to end him right then and there, but she held back.
"Look at him," he began, his tone soft, almost conversational, as if he were discussing something trivial. "A man who betrayed the very community that kept him protected him fed and protected. Who left nothing but the ashes of his own cowardice."
He walked slowly around Marcus, like a predator circling its prey. "This is the price of betrayal, the cost of thinking you can stand in the way of what must be done. You all know him," Silco continued, addressing the crowd that had gathered, their eyes fixed on the broken man at his feet. "You know his face, his uniform, his lies. But you must also know this: in a world where there are no second chances, there are no second thoughts."
Silco’s voice grew harder, colder, as he leaned down close to Marcus’s ear. "Your cowardice, your betrayal, a mistake that cost how many lives today? And now, you will pay the price for that."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final, and Marcus’s body shuddered, knowing what was coming. Silco straightened, his eyes scanning the crowd. "Let this be a lesson to all who would think to cross us, to cross me. There is no forgiveness in this world, only retribution."
You don’t know what happened next, because you’re taking Ren into your arms and you’re moving – away from the crowd, away from the punishment that you know her father will face.
Ren clings to you, burying her face in your chest, and you hold her close, wishing you could shield her from all of this. "What’s happening to Daddy?" she asks, her voice muffled by your shirt. "And Grayson?"
You didn’t have an answer. The only thing you could do was hold her tighter, trying to block out the screams, the fire, the blood.
Time passes, the night dragging on in a blur of grief. Inside the house, the silence was deafening. You had scrubbed the blood from Ren’s skin, but it still lingered in the air, the scent of death refusing to leave. Grayson’s face kept flashing before your eyes, her last breath, her last words, the way her body crumpled in Sevika’s arms.
And now, as you stared out the window, you saw them—Silco’s men, forming a straight, omnious line as they marched out into the night. At the center of it all was a giant wooden cross, and tied to it was Marcus. His head hung low, his body limp, but he was still alive.
Your breath caught in your throat when Sevika looked up at the window. For a moment, your eyes locked, and you saw nothing in her gaze but a cold, empty challenge. The Sevika you knew wasn’t there, but replaced by someone who had buried whatever was left of her soul beneath layers of survival and duty. She turns away, breaking the gaze as she climbed into the backseat of a vehicle.  You watch as the trucks disappeared into the night until the only thing you could see was the small form of the cross.
The night presses in around you, heavy with loss, and you wonder if anything would ever feel whole again.
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taglist:
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@lavendersgirl @h0pe-scotch @lia-winther @kittykatz1227 @dontknowwhenispawned
@sevikitty @sarahduke @raphaellearp @cewl-casper @crying-lighting443
@sodavrr @sweet-lover-girl @love-sevikalove @pinkyykisses @glass-apothecary
@mulan-but-gay @lesbnrock @hyuckiesoftie
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mediumsizedpidegon · 1 year ago
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Another avenue I want to explore in an Amity Park is Weird scenario is all the niche sub-cultures going on.
There is absolutely NO WAY there isn't a thriving goth community in Amity Park. They're holding picnics every full moon. They're holding crafting sessions in their friends' basements. They're adopting ghost animals left and right: eight-legged dogs and blob-cats, skeletal fish and neon bearded dragons.
There's a young man called Raphael who performs live music every week at a dance club with his band: he's got a myriad of shiny piercings, and a phone camera roll full of his rabbits, Morningstar and Salem. Perhaps those ghosts are bad business like the Fentons say, but the club's never felt more alive.
The scene and emo kids are multiplying at a rapid rate. The punks and grunge folks are doing shit with textiles that makes every quilting grandmother in a five mile radius swoop in to pass on their skills. Josie and Betty, old friends who periodically upload photos online of their handmade lace, suddenly gain an influx of young folks who want to learn how to make their own ghoulish patterns.
There's a new group peeling off from the goths that dress like the embodiment of Halloween– all bones, pumpkin orange and lengths of costume jewelry.
The historical costuming community is alive and well in these times, and they fall upon the few ghosts from times past willing to share knowledge like starving wolves. Their minds are full of patterning-math and fabric prices, and their excitement is, quite literally, infectious.
A revolution starts up in food service: a great many restaurants closed or moved to follow the many people who left Amity after the ghosts first came. A pair of brothers open a restaurant that has the best Polish food around: people politely don't comment on how the owners are dressed in clothes a century out of date or how their eyes gleam. Two cat cafes open, one space themed and another with loose definitions of what counts as a "cat." Assorted coffee and tea shops dot the landscape: some serve donuts, some have cupcakes, and others have breakfast wraps, sandwiches or savory hand pies.
People that can't afford to open a restaurant sell food out of their homes, advertised by cardboard signs with phrases like CAKES FOR $10, and BARBEQUE RIBS FOR SALE painted on them in gigantic bright letters. High school students bring in bags of cookies they made the night before and completely sell out of stock before the day is done. One woman's house has no signage and yet is known by word of mouth to be a herbalist, selling tins of homemade tea blends, flowers, assorted plant clippings, and cough drops.
Someone down the street of Casper High sells small batches of eco-friendly soap at a nearby corner store.
During summer time, lemonade stands are everywhere. Some of the lemonade is made with the strange fruits from one of the parks: no one dies, so it's fine.
The Farmer's Market has gotten... intense.
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castielsangelsx · 2 years ago
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LONGING STARES (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Medic!Reader)
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Summary: with a wounded ghost in your med bay and a thick tension between the two of you, what could go wrong?
(I was heavily inspired by a scene with Matt Murdock, the tension was unreal and it reminded me of Ghost.)
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Medic!Reader
Warnings: lots of sexual(& friendly) tension and general ghost explicit language
"Simon," you acknowledge as he walks into the door. His usual mask is on, the dark eyes and brooding demeanour a common sight. His appearances in your med bay were the odd cut and mark on his body but that was rare. You were almost shocked to see him in there alone, he'd always come with Soap or Price by his side, joining in one conversation ever so often.
"Y/n." He says plainly. You set down the clipboard and walk over to him, he rolls up his sleeve to reveal his forearm a large gash, without saying anything.
Blood was smeared and dried around his entire arm. He'd clearly left this longer than it should have, you assumed he'd been forced to get it sorted by Soap or Price.
"Come sit," you patted the plastic covered examination bed. "Lets get that cut sorted." He hums in response and makes his way to the bed. Taking a seat, you grab the med tray from the drawer besides you and make your way towards him.
"Get yourself comfortable Simon, I'll just have to disinfect it and I might have to stitch it a bit." You grab the edge of his arm to take a further look. You notice the smoothness of his arm in comparison to the small cuts and hair that adorns it. You notice for a second before looking back and focusing on your job at hand.
He nods.
You look away as you drag a chair closer to the table to get yourself comfortable as he rests his arm in front of him.
Looking back towards him you've notice as he's pulling down the skeletal mask, you have to do a double take as another smaller mask is left underneath in replacement. Its a similar skeleton mask but it just covers his nose, cheeks and mouth. Made of entirely fabric instead of the hard, you hoped, plastic one.
His face is still hidden but the shape of his dark brown eyes and forehead are revealed. You were shocked and you weren't sure if you were meant to be seeing this. But you had no complaints, seeing the face behind it wasn't troubling you. You felt honoured but you wouldn't say anything about it.
"Oh-okay," wiping a disinfectant wipe across his cut and padding a cotton ball towards the deeper end. You see him wince ever so slightly but you pay no mind to it.
"How'd you do this huh?" you joke, an attempt to lighten the room. You notice his back slouch slightly at your attempt at conversation. He's silent for a moment before he speaks.
"Bloody Soap, caught me off guard. Won't see him doing it again." He almost seems embarrassed but you smile and look up at him. His eyes aren't looking at you consistently, he's looking ahead, behind you instead.
"Surprised, you're usually the one who is causing all the stitches." You admit, you almost notice a smile under the mask. You'd assumed it was. "The feared Ghost has a dagger wound caused by Soap. That's a first, might have to make a record of this for future." He lets out a breathy laugh as you snicker at your comment, you barely hear it though.
"I'm feared ay?" He says, the English accent coming through ever so strongly in his words.
You throw the dirty cotton pads and wipes into the bin next to you before searching through your tray once more.
"Well from what I hear." You admit, looking up at him his eyes are on you. You stare back for a moment before looking back down.
"What do you hear then?" He questions you further and you smile.
"You'd want to know?" Teasing him, you can tell he's smirking or smiling at you now, The tops of his cheeks ever so slightly puffed up. You can only see somewhat with the mask only just covering his cheeks. "They say you caused a grown man to cry just by looking at him," he shakes his head and looks down almost sheepishly.
"You know I can hear their heartbeats?" Simon says, a hint of humour in his voice. However, it was almost serious, you couldn't tell and you smiled up from your position. You could never tell with his words, he was a serious guy, you seemed to get the joking Simon more than the others you'd noticed.
Maybe it was the level of trust you'd had built with the team, Simon seemed easy to deal with around you. Maybe it was your position, his demeanour was more relaxed and you hoped that was a good thing.
His eyes were on you, the mask the only thing keeping you from seeing his real face.
"You can hear their heartbeats?" You snicker, "That's a little hard to believe." You hear his breath a little clearer in the room as his head comes a little closer to yours and his silence makes you look up from the med tray you're rummaging through.
"I can hear yours too..." You raise your eyebrow, a warmth in your cheeks growing. You didn't know why, the embarrassment of his words grew in a warm way, but it wasn't mocking because you knew he couldn't hear your heart beating out of your chest. "Your hearts beating pretty fast," he says so nonchalantly.
You open your mouth to respond but the warmth in your chest and belly deepen. You look down after a moment and smile sheepishly. This was so unprofessional, but it was just you and Simon Riley, his ghost mask and the tense but exciting feeling in your gut. His revelation giving you a shock.
You change the subject by rummaging through the tray finding the needle thread and some tissue forceps. Getting everything ready you look up at Simon one last time but he's looking elsewhere. You continued on your job, the previous conversation warming your cheeks still but you attempted to forget about it.
Getting started you cleaned up the thinner edge before getting to the deeper end of the cut and beginning to stitch the wound closed.
Looping the last stitch into Simon's forearm you take a minute to look back up at him. Only to find him staring at you, his expression is guarded, his dark eyes cast onto yours.
"Simon."
"Y/n."
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daisies-daydreams · 1 year ago
Note
could you possibly do a scenario with Ghost (or all of task force+König if you’d like c:) x reader where they find out we sleep in the nude?
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Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader 
Category: Fluff (with a bit of spice) 
Warnings: Nudity (obvs), Swearing, Suggestive Content 
Word Count: 600+
A/N: Hello! It’s good to hear from you again! I had fun writing this one, hehe. I hope you enjoy! (Side note: the reader is a Sergeant in this scenario).
MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI
Simon sighed as he shrugged his heavy tactical vest off of his sore shoulders. Every single fiber of his muscles ached from the long trek to the safe house, not to mention escaping yet another hostile situation by the skin of their teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut as he thought about how you just barely missed that stray bullet, a small smoke trail lingering in a fresh hole in the wall…
He shook his head before tugging off his rough skeletal gloves. His body felt unbearably heavy as he leaned against the wall, his chest rising and falling as exhaustion seeped into his bones. Simon released a long exhale as he pulled his mask off, the chilly air falling over his sweat-covered face.
“Simon?” a soft voice suddenly called. His eyes snapped open as he stiffened, his body frozen in place as you stirred in the twin bed across from him. 
“Shit,” he thought. He could’ve sworn this room wasn’t taken yet.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he replied with a strained voice. You paused for a moment.
“What are you doing in my room?” you asked with furrowed brows. Simon’s breath hitched as he saw you sit up in the bed, the blanket falling down to reveal your bare chest. Your nipples hardened as the cold air swept over you, goosebumps instantly covering your skin. 
“Fuckin’ hell,” he thought as he looked down at his mud-caked boots. A quiet tension built between the two of you as you gasped and pulled the blanket up over your breasts. He cleared his throat, feeling blood rush to the tips of his ears and…elsewhere. 
“Sorry. Just came in here by accident,” he muttered as he gripped his balaclava and turned on his heel. He heard the bed creak as he went to grab his vest. 
“Wait,” you said. His shoulders tensed as he heard the bed creak again, his cock starting to strain beneath his pants as thoughts of it creaking a whole lot more bombarded his mind. His heart raced as he heard your swift footsteps grow closer. Simon swore the room was spinning when he felt you place a hand on his shoulder. 
“Sir, I know this isn’t something I should be asking you, but could you maybe…stay?” you asked with a hushed tone. Simon loosened his grip on his vest as his heartbeat thrummed in his ears. His chest clenched when he heard you sigh and slip your hand away.
“I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“ Simon suddenly turned around, his nose nearly brushing against yours as he came chest to chest with you. Both of you were quiet as he swallowed thickly, his mind racing at a thousand miles per hour as he felt your warm body pressed against his. You gazed into his dark, hungry eyes as he licked his dry lips. 
“You sure you want me to stay?” he murmured. You nodded as you rubbed your tits against his covered chest. 
“Please,” you whispered. Simon’s hands instantly fell to your hips as he dipped his head down and locked his lips with yours. You moaned into his mouth as he backed you against the wall, his hard cock brushing against your thigh. The two of you parted with a wet “pop” before he kissed along your jaw, relishing in the way you tilted your hips forward.
“Get back in the bed, Sergeant,” Simon husked into your ear. 
Epilogue 
“You seem to be in a better mood today, Lt.,” Soap piped up. Everyone was in the main room of the safe house preparing for evac. Price and Gaz casted him a sideways glance before going back to their preparations. Simon was thankful his skull balaclava shrouded his obviously annoyed expression…as well as a few hickeys covering his thick neck.
“Sure,” the lieutenant shrugged, his gaze slowly wandering over to you. You gave him a small grin before glancing down. Soap’s line of sight shifted between the two of you for a bit before his bright, blue eyes widened. Simon leaned over. 
“Not one word, MacTavish,” he warned in a low voice. 
————
Thank you for reading! ❤️
Taglist: @maybethatfanfictionwriter @depressesoespressorat @yuhhtricki999
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idontliekmondays · 1 month ago
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excerpts from a daily mail article released shortly after her arrest
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When members of the Geneva High School role playing club asked 16-year-old Lindsay Souvannarath to choose a character they were expecting an elf, a sorceress or perhaps a female warrior.
But the shy, clean-cut teenager opted for a rather more unsettling choice, presenting them with a detailed pencil drawing of her chosen persona - the 'Nightmare Nazi'.
The trench coat, jackboots and gas mask were unmistakably those of an SS soldier; the skeletal hands clutching a vast dagger more akin to dark fantasy art.
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Former classmates at Geneva High recall Lindsay Souvannarath as a shy, withdrawn youngster, who had few friends and instead sought out after-school groups and writing clubs to express her creative side.
But she was also prone to bouts of anger and violence - allegedly stabbing another student with a pencil in one outburst and occasionally letting slip an alarming infatuation with the Third Reich.
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'On first impressions I didn't think there was anything too strange about her,' he told Daily Mail Online.
'She could be funny and intelligent but most of the time she was quiet and not very warm or outgoing.
'One year her character was a sort of Wonder Woman-type heroine, then all of sudden she tells the group she wants to be a Nazi ghost.
'You choose your species and come up with a back story. Hers was that her character was a guest from a crazy, dark Nazi universe.
'It's supposed to be a game in a medieval, fantasy setting but she would just argue if she didn't get her way.
'So we went on our quest with a robot, a couple of elves, wizards and this weird Nazi.
'Aside from the character's background he didn't do anything racist or too alarming. We didn't know about her interests at that time so we just got on with it.
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Ms Szigeti recalled how Souvannarath began to idolize black-death metal bands in her mid-teens.
She became particularly infatuated with Varg Vikernes, a white supremacist musician convicted in 1994 of killing a rival guitarist and burning down three churches in Norway, describing him as 'cute' and writing essays about him.
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'Her work was always dark and full of violence, there were soldiers and Nazis and all this weird stuff,' Sabrina said.
'She acted normal on the surface. She was never physically violent but she would get aggressive and upset if you criticized her.
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'Everyone was uncomfortable but we just avoided trying to start a fight with her. 'If you asked her straight up 'are you a Nazi?' she would argue that she wasn't.
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As far back as 2007 - when she was just 15 - she allegedly wrote 'free speech is dead' in one forum, adding: 'That's why we need people like David Duke to bring it to life again.'
In another warped entry, writing that same year under the pseudonym Snoopyfemme she wrote: 'They use sex in commercials all the time to sell products. Why don't they ever use violence?
'Wouldn't you love to see a bunch of guys tearing each other apart with machine guns to get a bowl of Cheerios?
'Sure, it might traumatize our children, but in my opinion, children aren't being traumatized enough.
'The only reason for Americans to breed is to create more soldiers to fight for freedom. We need to weed out the weaklings early on. Survival of the fittest, man.'
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'She was very odd to the point among a lot of our classmates that no-one was surprised by her arrest.
'She was a very lonely person - but she isolated herself. 'From what I remember she was even suspended for stabbing someone with a pencil in middle school.'
'She was known for putting spells on people. She would do it by saying weird things and then putting on a curse - obviously we did not take her seriously.
'She would break out into laughter in the middle of class for absolutely no reason.
'When we saw that Lindsay did something like this, nobody was surprised. She was the one most likely.'
source
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bumblebeesfromvenus · 6 months ago
Note
https://www.instagram.com/reel/C5EyqjvSs_h/?igsh=MTV5dmt0OWUyYmVneg==
(I'm sending this to all ghost writers I can find because I want everybody to see this)
Bestie. You have no idea what you just started.
THIS is my favorite thing ever now.
I couldn't resist writing something!!
Just imagine attending a ball, and this mysterious man shows up with that skull mask?? It's giving phantom of the opera, and I live for it!!!
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Phantom of the Ball
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─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
The large, shining chandeliers almost blinded you, the bright sparkle emitted from them making you keep your head lower. The ball had been dragging on for hours and, as fun as it looked, actually dancing for 4 hours without having anyone to converse with was more a curse than a blessing.
You swore your corset had tightened over the course of the evening and the many alcoholic beverages were doing little to refresh you. Your feet were starting to hurt, not only from dancing but from more than one clumsy man stepping on them, with no chair in sight.
The small crystals embroidered on your skirt had all your attention now as your gloved fingers fiddled with them.
At least it would pass the time faster, you supposed.
Unfortunately, your peace was quickly disturbed when someone ran into you, making you stumble forward. With a scoff on your lips you were swiftly pulled into the dance circle, your head spinning as you were hastily swirled around and passed off to the next man.
There were no pleasantries exchanged as you merely had time to catch your breath, trying to keep up with the pace, before the spiel repeated itself and you were meet with another unfamiliar face.
You were spun around like a dreidl, blinking to stop yourself from becoming too dizzy and falling.
Within the flash of a moment, there was a black wall in front of you. Gasps and murmurs filled the room, and the music slowly died down as all eyes were curiously set on the tall stranger.
He was dressed in the finest silks and velvets, all in black, setting a strong contrast to the creams, beiges, and whites everyone else sported. You craned your neck to take a better look at him, only to be met with an elegant mask, resembling a skull.
He peered down on you in an intimidating manner, sending a, surprisingly, pleasant shiver up your spine. You stared in amazement at the fringe at the bottom of his mask, making up the teeth of the skull.
They were still for now, but you wondered how they'd behave once he'd move. A quick glance around the room made you aware how many couples had taken a few steps back from the dance floor, leaving you and the mysterious man, quite literally, at the center of attention.
"May I?"
He broke the suffocating silence. Despite the roughness of his voice, there was no ill intent to be found towards you, only gentle words.
He held out his hand for you to take, wearing gloves that mimicked skeletal hands made up of various beads, embroidery and pearls.
There was a breath stuck in your throat, you only managed to nod, taking his offered hand. You gasped softly when he pulled you close to him, a firm hand on your waist as he gently cupped your hand in his large one.
He began moving, quite gracefully for someone his size. The music picked back up and, although hesitant, more and more couples joined in on the dance.
You were positively enchanted by this man, watching intently as the fringe at the bottom of his mask moved like a chime in the wind. You managed to make out a pair of mesmerizing brown eyes behind the mask. They made you feel hot and cold at the same time, adding to the exciting feeling in your chest.
He guided you with ease, almost making you float as he twirled you around like a delicate porcelain doll in a music box. Your hand fit into his so perfectly.
You wondered if the soft and rich fabrics he wore felt as pleasant underneath your fingertips as they looked, your hand resting on his shoulder. The outside world started to bleed and fade away as your thoughts were only occupied with him.
There were so many questions and mysteries surrounding the man. It made your heart swell with curiosity.
Before you could inquire more information about your strange suitor, he vanished. His hand slipped from your waist, and although his hand lingered in yours just a moment longer, it was gone in the blink of an eye.
He'd left you alone in the center of the ruckus of obnoxiously large skirts and clacking heels. You turned in every direction, hoping to catch a glimpse of where he went.
The mass made you feel suffocated as they seemed to close in on you. You whipped around like a whirlwind, your eyes flitting over every possible exit.
You managed to see an all too familiar skeleton hand slipping from the doorframe, and determination boiled up inside of you like never before.
You hiked up your many skirts, swiftly ducking under swinging arms and spinning around dancing couples. Your chest was heaving with heavy breaths when you managed to escape, but there was no time to rest.
You continued on, rushing through the door you saw him last. Your skirts rustled, your shoes clacked against the floor, and your breaths were labored as you ran down the long and empty hallway, keeping an eye out for the mysterious skeleton man.
Maybe you should be scared, running from him and not after him.
But there was something so intoxicating about his presence. His gentle touch, the deep, rough voice that you wanted to soothe with honey. And those intriguing brown eyes that held more secrets for you to uncover.
He was like an opioid, making you addicted after the first taste, to have you coming back until the end of time.
Your chase brought you to the moonlit courtyard of the estate.
You leaned forward, hoping to get more air into your lungs.
Damned corset.
Taking a rest on a stone bench, you looked around the blooming courtyard, admiring the many varieties of beautiful flowers. It smelled sweet, a tense fragrance having in the air like a heavy fog.
You were burning up from running, but the chilly evening breeze made you shiver. It was eerily quiet, only a few cicadas and crickets singing their songs for the summer.
You listened closely, hoping the stranger had tried to find some peace here.
You perked up when the crunching of grass under heavy footsteps reached your ears. You quickly rose from your seat and rounded the large hedge.
Your breath for caught in your throat when you spotted his broad back, calmly admiring the red roses, it seemed.
Unfortunately, the man had noticed you and made an effort to swiftly disappear into the night.
"Wait!" You reached out your hand, making him stop in his tracks.
"At least tell me your name." You pleaded, carefully stepping closer, as if not to scare away a wild animal.
You saw his shoulders drop slightly before he turned to face you, looming over you once again.
"They call me Ghost." He answered lowly, looking down on you with caution.
"Will I see you again?" You urged, stepping even closer.
His entire presence was pulling you in. You truly had no control.
You could've sworn you saw an amused glint in his eyes.
"I'll come back to you." He sounded sincere and soft as he spoke.
"Do you promise?" Your brows were pulled together as you swallowed, the urge to touch him twitching in your fingertips.
He glanced to the side before expertly plucking one of the deep red roses off the bush. He offered it you, and you gladly took it, being careful of any thorns.
"I promise." He said softly, brushing a lock of hair out of your face.
In an unexpected move, he gently took your unoccupied hand and slipped off your glove, making you gasp.
He proceeded to gently take your hand and guide it under his mask, the pearly fringe brushing your skin as he pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. Your face was burning up, your heart pounding inside your ribcage.
He slipped his hand from yours again, making yours twitch in an attempt to keep his touch. He chuckled deeply, a fondness in his eyes you would never expect from someone like him.
You swallowed thickly as you glanced down towards the rose he'd gifted you. The aroma was strong. It made your head spin.
When you looked up again, though, he was gone, only the dark sky adorned by twinkling stars staring back at you.
Like a phantom, he disappeared into the night, only leaving you clutching your glove, the flower in the other hand, and a promise you hoped he'd keep.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
I am in love with this!!! Tootin' my own horn, I know...
Anyway, let me know what you think! 👀
🩷
More of my works -> 💫
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quotablefanfiction · 2 months ago
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“Amity Park is flagged ‘do not approach, do not enter, do not interfere’ in the JLA database,” Batman commented. “There is a further note: ‘Stay the fuck away from the hellhole and its freaky ecosystem. I do not want to deal with a possessed Kryptonian.’ Signed, John Constantine.”
Constantine has valid concerns (chp. 3)
death echoes by Ocearna (AO3) Danny Phantom/Justice League – General #Alternate Universe #Crossover #Ghost King Danny Fenton #BAMF Danny #that is both a good and a bad thing #Swearing #because of Constantine #blurring the lines between canon and fanon #Creepy Danny Fenton #Danny is Not having a good day
Cold air on the back of his neck. Skeletal fingertips skittering up his spine, barely there and yet pressing so hard they would surely leave indents. A sound like an iceberg cracking apart echoing in his ears and through his head, pain following in its wake. His throat went cold, his tongue suddenly numb.
And for a second - just a second - he smelled nothing but the stench of death.
---
Danny’s coronation is a big affair, with ghosts coming from all over the Zone to attend and celebrate.
Unbeknown to him, it isn’t only the Infinite Realms that feel his crowning.
Note: This is a restricted story and requires an AO3 account in order to read
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adrift-in-thyme · 3 months ago
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@kikker-oma your Twilight art for Whumptober has been living rent-free in my head since you posted it and I FINALLY wrote something for it. I hope you enjoy <33
Fic beneath the cut (you can also find it on ao3!)
TW for blood and injury, needles/stitches, drugging, and kidnapping
No one asks if he needs help.
Not that Twilight expects anything more. This town is a rough one. That much is painfully clear to him. And not just in the worn woods of the buildings splotched with aged crimson, or in the hardened faces of the people that leer as he stumbles down the worn street. No, from the moment he was dragged here he knew it was a haven for evil.
Cruel hands pushing at his shoulders, fingernails digging into his wounds. Ropes around his wrists, his neck.
The pain isn’t enough to make him move faster.
They yank at his bindings. Choking, he trips over his own stumbling feet. Laughter collides with his pounding skull.
“What’s wrong, wolf boy? Lost your balance?”
Another tug on the makeshift collar. His vision goes white.
Twilight drags in a haggard breath. The taste of blood is still pungent on his tongue. Whether it is his own or that of the people who had sought to pawn him off, he no longer knows. Regardless, it makes him want to gag.
That is not the only place it has taken up residence either. Thick rivers of crimson slither down his right arm, curving gracefully along the deep, jagged gash there. Downward they plunge in large droplets that splatter onto the dusty cobblestones.
A woman passes him just a bit too close, and her gaze locks onto his wound. Twilight knows the look that comes into her eyes. Hunger. Unbridled, animalistic hunger.
He has been a wolf for long enough now to know the laws of nature. Injury means weakness. And weakness spells death.
Clutching his arm, he veers left, toward the inn that rises, a single crooked tooth among the many that form a disjointed line in this gaping maw. Nowhere is safe here. Nowhere is friendly. But his brothers are eons away for all he knows. And there are no heroes in this Hyrule.
Perhaps that’s why the Shadow had hurled him into it.
…or perhaps he had known what Twilight has learned time and time again.
No place is safe for someone like him.
One mistake, one quick, accidental portrayal of the power he holds…and the next thing he knows a dagger is slicing his arm, a needle piercing his neck, ropes encircling him like the arms of a redead, constricting until he is suffocating, until his sword clatters to the ground, his vision turning to little more than kaleidoscope explosions of light.
“Oh, the money we’ll get for this one. A wolf that can become a man? People would pay anything to see somethin’ such as that.”
Bile rises in his throat. Twilight chokes it back down. He needs a place to lay low and he needs it now.
The woman is not the only one to have taken note of his condition. He can feel others ghosting the space around him and behind, breathing down his neck, reaching toward him with skeletal hands, purring that he, “come, little one. We feel your magic. Come, and let us devour it.”
He can’t breathe though the collar is gone. His hands tremble as he grips the rail, fighting not to fall as he climbs the handful of stairs leading to the decrepit structure. His knees are weak. Pain pounds through his veins, mixing with the surging fear until they are entwined in an endless waltz of mind-numbing agony. It is all he can do to walk through the double doors and into the lobby; all he can do to stagger up to the front desk.
“I need a room,” he grits out between clenched teeth. Blood runs down the side of his mouth and he lacks the will to wipe it away. “How much?”
The innkeeper regards him, pointed disinterest in his bloodshot eyes. He looks Twilight up and down, taking in his disheveled clothing, the pelt lying defeatedly across his shoulders, the gash raining ruby-red droplets of life upon the battered floorboards. Then, he folds his bony fingers and sets them calmly before him.
“50 rupees for one night.”
Twilight plunges a hand into his pouch and draws it out trembling and blood-soaked. The rupees clatter on the table, shining like precious gemstones. Just as quickly as they are set free, their glow is snuffed out by the innkeeper’s clawed hand. With agonizing slowness, he places them in a locked box beneath the desk. Then, he slides a large key towards Twilight.
“Room eight,” he growls. “Supposin’ you make it long enough to get there.”
There is laughter in his voice, rumbling thunder of an oncoming storm. Twilight turns away.
He limps up the stairs and stumbles down the hall, leaving gore-adorned handprints on the walls and railing as he goes. They glare in his peripheral vision, splotched and jagged and fierce. He squints and they blur. The colors meld before his eyes. Swirling and sparkling, they close in, envelope him, heavy with the scent of death.
Again, his stomach revolts. Again, he bites his tongue before anything can escape.
The door comes into view, the number 8 carved in two looping circles upon its ashen surface. He collapses against it, catching himself on the frame, and with shaking hands levels the key toward the lock.
It takes several tries to get it open. But once he’s managed it, he practically falls into the room. The door slides closed of its own accord and he allows himself to slump against it.
There is a bed in the far corner, a sad little object he supposes is meant to be a nightstand beside it. He lacks the strength to reach either one of them. Twilight can hardly keep his eyes open as it is, can hardly resist the intoxicating pull of unconsciousness. The rush in his ears blankets his senses. Darkness spreads its jaws beneath him. To the beat of his heart, it chants its promises, promises of freedom from the burning pain, from the terror of being hunted.
He is sinking beneath a surface thicker, deeper, heavier than Lake Hylia. Viciously, he kicks toward the light.
One more mistake will land him in the musty basement he had hardly managed to escape, bound and gagged, drifting in a daze of remnant drugs, waiting for the moment when he will be hauled up into the blinding sun and handed off to whoever has scrounged up enough money to purchase him.
He won’t go back. He won’t.
Dragging in a sharp breath, he reaches into his pouch, rifling past bottles long drained and items that do him little good in this situation. The objects he is searching for are far duller than his spinner or his gale boomerang. But they are all he has.
He pulls them out, gazes at them. A sewing needle still threaded from the last time he had needed to darn his clothes, and some fabric thread, dark and thick. Sturdy.
The needle glints in the hazy streaks of sunlight that shine through the filthy window panes. The tremble of his hands causes the reflections to enlarge and shrink, darkness and light dancing across the slender, metallic surface. Never before has it looked quite so threatening.
Twilight clutches it in one hand and with the other, fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket. The sight of it conjures memories of a small hand brushing tears from his cheek, of a soft cloth being wound gently about his burns, hesitant vulnerability in the crimson eye that gazes into his.
“Hey, don’t cry, alright? Your family doesn’t hate you. They’re afraid.”
“Of me, Midna. They think I’m a monster.”
“You? A monster? Nah. A monstrous softy maybe. And a monstrous idiot. But never an actual monster. Believe me…I know monsters better than most.”
His next breath is more akin to a sob. Twilight wads up the cloth, shoves it in his mouth, and bites down hard. He allows himself a moment to get the needle into a somewhat secure grip. Then, he angles it towards the place where his skin begins to split.
Pushing it through hurts far worse than he ever imagined it would. The needle burrows through his flesh with agonizing slowness, emerging from one side of the divide only for him to plunge it into the other in the next second. And the thread follows dutifully, snaking lazily along and dragging his skin with it. Like a worn workhorse pulling a cart home after a long day, it treads its set path. He hardly has the strength to keep it from veering completely off.
Tears rush hot and eager into his eyes. They spill over, coursing in salty rivulets down his cheeks. His body screams with agony. His head pounds, blood roaring in his ears, stomach roiling. Crimson liquid streams from his wound, coating his fingers, turning the needle slick, darkening the thread into the deepest obsidian.
One stitch is finished, then two, three, four…a series of inelegant dashes waltzing along on rivers of gore.
He loses count of them at some point. His world narrows and simplifies until it is nothing more than this moment, this seemingly endless struggle to keep himself afloat in an ocean of agony, to keep from screaming or swooning, his fingers from slipping from their death grip on the needle.
More than once, the dismal fog that clouds his vision grows so overwhelming he nearly plummets into it. More than once, a strangled whine tears up his aching throat. More than once, he pierces uninjured skin on accident, bringing fresh bubbles of blood to the surface.
But never does the cloth slip from between his tightly clenched teeth. The jolt of pain in his jaw is hardly noticeable amongst the bone-deep agony that grips his arm.
It is only when at last, the final stitch is in place and he has blinked the traitorous gleam of stars from his vision, that he lets it fall. It flops onto the floor, a sodden mess of tears and blood, sweat and saliva. Twilight stares at it for a moment, then at the line of clumsy stitching weeping red.
He leans sideways and retches.
----------------------------------------------------
By the time Twilight stumbles out onto the road, he is shivering.
He wraps one arm protectively around himself. The other hangs at his side, leaden with pain.
The shadowed alleyways leer, caverns of ravenous black. The surrounding buildings reach out with their claws to drag him into their terrible embrace. Passerby stare at him with those same hungry eyes as before, whispering, murmuring.
He is glad the unrelenting ring in his ears blocks out their words.
The innkeeper had laughed at him again when he had returned the blood-stained key.
“Still alive, are you? Well, you won’t be for much longer. Not in your state.”
Twilight hadn’t been certain whether he was referring to his declining health or the willingness of the townspeople to take advantage of it. Regardless, that statement is more than enough to have bouncing about in his pounding skull.
More than enough to keep him moving forward.
Out. He needs to get out of this town. Then, he can stop. Then, he can allow his aching legs to give way beneath him, his half-lidded eyes to slip shut. Then, he can finally sleep.
Until that moment, this is the reality he must battle through — pain and feverish confusion and a haze of oddly distant fear.
He bites out a thin exhale from between chattering teeth. The ground bucks and heaves in waves beneath his failing feet. The genial afternoon sky whirls in patterns he cannot comprehend.
Should’ve cleaned that wound, he thinks, blurrily.
But there hadn’t been anything to clean it with. No potions or blessed objects to drive away the infection, or flames to disinfect and cauterize, or water to wash away the blood and grime…
Water.
Twilight swallows, forcing the walls of his throat apart.
He needs water. He’s so thirsty.
Two more shuffling half-steps and his body decides it has had enough. Twilight goes down in a heap of bloodied limbs, fingers scraping along a nearby wall as he attempts to catch himself.
Get up! He orders himself as he has so many times before in dungeons and forests and caves miles deep, caverns miles long. Come on, Link, you can’t give up now. Not when you’ve made it so far.
“Oh, what have we here?”
He raises his head, stares into the drifting faces of several sizable men. He cannot make out their expressions, blurred as they are. But he can see their eyes. He can see the metal that glints in their hands.
And though he doesn’t recognize them, he knows them. They have the same look about them as his captors had. They too had gazed at him as though he was meat to slice up and sell at the market.
“Looks like we’ve got a wounded one. Tried to mend that all on your own did ya?”
Twilight’s lips lift in a snarl, showcasing jagged, pointy canines.
“Leave me alone,” he croaks. His voice cracks over the last word, hitched into something dangerously close to a sob.
Desperation rises hot and fast within him. He tries to shove himself to his feet.
They grab his arms before he can.
“Not so fast.”
The largest of them — a burly man he guesses is their leader — grasps his chin, roughly angling his head up so Twilight has no choice but to look him in the eye.
“You’re not going anywhere. I smell magic on you, boy.”
A growl rumbles in his throat. Twilight yanks his face away, struggling weakly in their unforgiving grips.
“What do ya say?” The leader turns from him to grin at his companions. “How many rupees is he worth?”
“Get him to show us what all that magic can do and we’ll get at least a thousand.”
Greedy chuckles go up from the huddle. Twilight sucks in a failed attempt at an inhale. Yet another series of shivers race through him, and he crumples in their wake. It is all too much — the pain, the fear, the laughter echoing around him. It surrounds him, encompassing him in an unending nightmare.
He needs to fight. He needs to run. He can’t find the strength to do either one.
After everything, everything, he is here once more. His attempts at a struggle are nothing to these men. They will bind him, they will drag him away. And he will be helpless to do anything more than hang limply in their iron grasp.
“Alright then, boy, show us what you can do.” The leader grins. It is a sharp, bitter thing. “Give us a proper performance and we won’t hurt you. But withhold that power and, well…you won’t live to regret it.”
A knife caresses the curve of his neck. Twilight raises his head, narrows his eyes. Terror turns feverish heat to an icy chill that settles deep in his bones and races through him in violent shudders.
“No.”
The word is bitten out between shaky inhales. But he pours what little might he has left into it.
If he is going to go down, he will do so with pride. Pride that at the very least, he tried.
“No?” The knife digs deeper, seeking its prey. “That’s not the kind of thing you spit in the face of the man holding a weapon to your throat.”
He leans in. Twilight holds his gaze, even as black splotches encroach on his line of sight, ebbing and flowing like a river lapping gently at the bank.
“I’ll only ask this one more time. Show us your power.”
“You may not like it if he does,” pipes up a voice from somewhere behind the group.
Twilight’s eyes go wide.
Warriors? His scrambled brain cries.
But it can’t be, it can’t…
An arrow flies out of nowhere and pierces the leader’s hand with a nauseating thunk. The knife clatters to the ground.
“My friend happens to be a skilled marksman,” comes Warriors’ voice again. It echoes over the sound of agonized screams. “But he has other talents too…and little mercy. Get back. Let him go. Or you’ll regret it.”
“No!”
The grip on his shoulders tightens. Another dagger is pressed to his throat. Twilight hardly has the energy to fear it this time.
But there is no reason to. Another second and the clawing grasp disappears entirely. The chilled metal falls, useless beside its mate.
There is no scream. Only the dull, slick sound of a blade forcing through skin, then retreating as fast as it came. At the same time, another arrow soars past. It is every bit as precise as before. And this time, it strikes the leader through the heart.
Two bodies fall with a thud that echoes through Twilight’s ears. He slouches sideways, sinking enveloped in the melody of anguish.
Warriors catapults into view, a whirl of emeralds and fierce royal blues. One swift movement and Twilight collapses onto his shoulder rather than the blood-slicked ground.
“W-wars,” he starts to say, but the captain is already pulling him to his feet with a grunt of effort.
“Can you walk?” He asks and the tone of his voice is one Twilight has only heard him use when he is leading.
Arduously, he nods.
The others fall one by one as Warriors half-ushers, half-drags him forward. Where they are going, he hasn’t a clue and he lacks the will to ask. He merely follows, stumbling on fumbling feet and hanging onto the miraculous dream he has wandered into.
At some point, they emerge from the confines of the shoddy town into a blessedly wooded area. Twilight sinks down as soon as they come to a stop. Warriors helps him lean back against one of the large trees.
Only then does the captain truly take him in. His gaze before had been calculating and distant, thoughts and cares locked behind an impenetrable barrier. But now that wall lowers just enough for Twilight to see the darkness shine through it.
“What did they do to you?” It is a mere hiss, not even directed at him. But Twilight feels an empty reply rising in his throat anyway.
All that comes out is a thick cough.
Aether eyes find his. A handkerchief slips into his grasp.
“Don’t speak, save your energy.” Practiced fingers ghost his most severe wound. “You stitched this up yourself?”
Twilight doesn’t need to even attempt to reply. The captain answers the question himself with a nod of his head.
“Yeah, I’m going to have to remove those stitches, clean it, then stitch it up again.”
He speaks fast, words tumbling in an unending stream Twilight is hopeless to follow. He watches dumbly as Warriors digs into his pouch, sets a pristine cloth on the ground, and lines several objects up upon it.
“Here.” He presses a bottle into Twilight’s hands. Liquid the color of maple syrup glitters inside. “Take a few drinks. I won’t pretend this won’t hurt. You’re going to need something to dull the pain.”
Twilight watches him press a small dagger against the molten tip of a fire rod, and suddenly, a streak of gut-rending dread pierces through the fog. Dutifully, he lifts the bottle to his lips, chokes back a few scalding swallows, and tries to breathe as it melts its way into his veins.
“How’d-how’d you find me?” He grits out. Fuzzy thoughts become almost unintelligible beneath the touch of alcohol. But this, at least, he must know.
Somewhere behind him, frantic footsteps crunch on fallen leaves. Warriors glances up from his work, hand flying to his sword for a split second before he lowers it with a grim smile.
“It wasn’t me,” he says. “Turns out your cub is good at tracking. I’m lucky we ended up together when we were separated from the others.”
Wild comes racing into view like a shooting star, hair flying out behind him, bow held tightly in one hand. He slings it over his shoulder as he skids to a halt.
“Twi! Are you okay — oh Hylia, what did they do to you?” The words pour out of him in a waterfall of emotion.
There is blood on his cheek, Twilight realizes dimly. He is too far gone to know whether it is his own or not.
“You ‘lright, cub?” He slurs, reaching to try to wipe it away.
Wild catches his flailing hand and lowers it, with trembling care.
“You idiot.” There is no heat in his tone, only fear. Exasperated, terrible fear. “You need to be worrying about yourself! You look like a hynox sat on you!”
An insane giggle erupts from the rancher, born of pain and anguish and giddy relief. He lists sideways, and Wild wraps his arms around him, drawing his head to his chest.
“Champion.” Warriors has a dagger in his hand now. A needle and thread rest on the cloth beside him. “Hold him tight. I’ve got to mend this wound.”
Fingers press against his screaming skin, gentle yet firm. Metal gleams in the setting sun. Wild’s heart beats fast in his ear. Fingers card through his matted hair.
The captain meets his eyes.
“And rancher, take a deep breath. We’re going to take care of you now.”
Wild’s hand envelopes his, heedless of the blood that turns Twilight’s fingers sticky. He grasps it like his life depends upon it. And as Warriors begins his terrible work, he closes his eyes.
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thatmonsterfuckerguy · 2 months ago
Text
Male Victorian Ghost x FTM Reader
Warnings: You are the dom and power bottom, it's the ghost's first time, rough sex, you degrade him lightly and praise him, the lights flicker when he's close to an orgasm
You had moved into an old house for a cheap price that was practically a steal for such a nice house. On top of that, everything in the house was working fine, there was absolutely no catch this time. In this economy, it was like something straight out of fiction you'd read online. You soon found out that the reason the house was so cheap is because it had a ghost problem. The ghost in question was a man in his mid 30s from the Victorian era by the name of Raymond Cooper who had hung himself for reasons he much preferred not to talk about. He looked like a man in his 30s, but he also looked very dead at the same time. He sometimes appeared more skeletal than other times. You found this out because he introduced himself to you politely. By now he was used to having people stay in his former home and grew tired of hiding. If he was to have someone live in his home with him, he was going to make sure it was at least bearable for both parties. So he set some ground rules for you: don't go into the attic, don't destroy the house, if you're going to make renovations make sure they only fix things and don't change them too much, keep the house as tidy as you can and you can ask him for help with that if you need it (it's not like he has anything else to do anyway) and overall just be nice. You also set some ground rules for him, it was only fair.
Over time, you two became friends, then you came out as trans to him, then you caught feelings for each other, then you confessed to him. He would have metaphorically shat himself if he had to show any emotional vulnerability first. You two became boyfriends which made Raymond admit to his sexual repression during his time alive. You both talked through it and you showed him that he had nothing to be afraid of and that you wouldn't judge him or think less of him regardless of what he liked sexually (unless it was anything immoral, which wasn't the case with him at all). So you told him that whenever he was ready, he could ask you for sex.
Today was the day he decided he was ready. You were in your shared room sitting next to him on the bed. You had just gone over everything you both needed to know, his boundaries, your boundaries and making sure you both knew to respect eachother's 'no's if either one of you said it.
"C-could you... turn around so that I can undress? I'll do the same for you..." He proposed. You smiled sweetly.
"Sure." You told him. You both got up, turned away from each other and got undressed. "Can I turn back around?" You asked once you were done. Raymond turned to face you in order to reply, but once he saw you fully nude from the back, the words got caught in his throat. He stared at you in both excitement and fear. "Raymond?" You asked.
"Y-yes, y-y-you can t-turn around..." He stammered. You turned to face him. His heart skipped a beat upon seeing you from the front. If he were alive, he might have had a heart attack. He was obviously very anxious judging by his body language. He was already very handsome with clothes on, now you finally got to admire the rest of him. He was well built, curvy, and in good shape, but nothing extreme. He was a healthy weight for a man in his 30s and surprisingly shaven which you later found out that yes, some Victorian men shaved their body hair. You also noticed he was already semi-erect. He was frozen in place, staring at you, unable to speak. You walked over to him and cupped his face.
"Are you ok?" You asked.
"Y-yes, I'm just... this is new..." He admitted.
"We can just cuddle for now if you want." You suggested. He nodded in agreement. You lied down on the bed and signaled for him to come into your arms. He curled up next to you. You gently held him and closed your eyes for a bit. When you opened them again, you noticed him looking at your figure admiringly. You began to caress him as you lightly teased him, "You can touch, I won't mind one bit." He flushed violently, unable to keep eye contact with you. You kissed his forehead to reassure him. He hesitantly reached out and placed his hand on your chest. He slowly dragged it down your body and stopped right above your t-dick. He flushed harder when you spread your legs to encourage him. He took a moment to breathe before finding the courage to run his hand over it. The violent blush on his face came back when he did, especially as he saw you get harder through his hand. "Think you're ready?" You asked him. He nodded at you. You got onto your knees and lied him down on the bed, hovering over him. He looked up at you, blushing violently with wide eyes. "May I?" You asked, just to be sure. He nodded quickly. You spread yourself open and gently slid onto him. He let out a cute moan as you did before quickly covering his mouth with his hand in embarrassment. "It's ok." You chuckled at how adorable he was. "If anything, I want to hear your sweet cries, it helps." You told him as you cupped his face. His breath hitched as you felt him harden inside you. You began to ride him slowly, adjusting to his size. He made so many adorable and pathetic sounds already. "Try to hold it in so you can last more than two minutes, alright sweetie?" You teased. You felt him twitch inside you as he let out a pathetic whine. You decided you were gonna test the waters a little. "Good boy." You cooed. He let out a louder moan than the rest at the words before quickly turning away in embarrassment. You felt him harden like a rock. "Do you like when I call you that?" You asked. He refused to look at you as he nodded. "How cute." You cooed as you quickened the pace. Raymond let out a series of uncontrollable moans as you went on. "Hold it, sweetie." You teased. Raymond was clearly struggling to hold back. The way he clenched up, shut his eyes, bit his lip and let out little whimpers and whines. You slowed down, allowing him to catch his breath and stop being so tense. He whined in desperation. He wanted you to keep going even though he knew damn well he wouldn't have been able to hold it.
"D-dear, please..." He begged.
"Please what? Use your words, sweetie." You teased. He shivered in excitement.
"P-please... f-faster..." He begged.
"So desperate..." You teased. "I don't know if I should..." You went on with a mischievous grin.
"Y-y/n, please!... I... I-I need you, please-..." He begged as he tried to grab your hips and pull them closer to him. You suddenly began to pound into him again. He let out a series of loud, uncontrollable moans again. He couldn't think anymore. His eyes rolled back into his head as he frothed at the mouth. His whole body was shaking violently.
"Such a needy boy..." You teased. Raymond could barely focus.
"U-use m-me..." Was the only thing he could manage to say. You went even faster and harder to finally finish him off. His moans grew so loud, he was practically screaming. You were worried the neighbors might hear, but you figured you'd deal with that later. He clung onto you, digging his nails into your back as you went. His eyes seemed to water. The lights in the room were starting to flicker as he got closer. You tried not to let it distract you. You were getting close too. Suddenly, Raymond let out what was practically a scream as the lights flickered violently before completely shutting off as he came. You lied down on top of him, catching your breath together. You slowly pulled off of him, making him squirm and whine a bit more. You smiled at him and toyed with his hair as he caught his breath. He looked up at you, dazed. You kissed him.
"So how was it?" You asked sarcastically.
"It was... wonderful..." He smiled, still dazed. The sarcasm completely flew over his head.
"Wait until we try fucking you analy." You teased. Raymond's eyes widened as he stared at you, blushing violently again. "Not tonight, don't worry. And only if you want to." You reassured him. He smiled sheepishly at the thought. "Anyway, you definitely need aftercare after that." You told him as you cuddled up next to him and kissed him. He curled up into you, hugging you tightly.
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ragingbookdragon · 1 year ago
Text
There’s not much to see in between the minute slits of the burlap sack thrown over her head, but she still strains to see anything and everything that she possibly can. The men holding onto her arms dig their fingers into her arm, a bruising grip that is in part her fault as continually digs her feet into the ground and struggles with something fierce. Ghost is behind her, can feel it, even if he hasn’t said a single word. She on the other hand hasn’t stopped spitting fire every chance she gets, venomous threats and cold warnings.
It’s only until she’s shoved down onto a seat, arms tied behind her back with her legs bound too that the hood is harshly yanked off and she shuts her eyes at the bright light above her, much like driving on the road at night and being blinded by powerful LEDs. As her vision clears, she sees the captors who’d managed to get the jump on her and in turn, capture Ghost as well, and he’s in the same position as she is, but there’s definitely more rope around him than there is her. She snarls at them when they come close, baring her teeth in a way that says, “touch me and lose a finger.”
“What do you want from us?” she gripes, voice devoid of any emotion but annoyance.
“Answers,” the leader asks. “You know where the resistance is hiding out.”
The second one crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell us where their headquarters are.”
She spits down at their feet. “Suck my dick.” A moment, a pause before a backhand sends her careening to the side, chair tipping slightly and she growls, turning back to face him with blood dripping down her split lip; she licks it, the wound stings but it burns in a way she likes. “Your dad hit me harder than that last night,” she cracks back, and the man grabs at her chin, hauling her upright until they’re nose to nose.
“I will make you scream in ways you’ve never imagined.”
“That’s what I told your mom before I—”
His other hand reaches for her combat vest, and she thrashes as he undoes it and yanks it open; he’s centimeters from the thin tank top she wears and only then does Ghost make a single noise, the scraping of a chair, fingers clenching white on the arm rest as he snarls, “Touch her and I’ll fucking smear the goddamn walls with you.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a fucking warning. One not to be ignored.
The man pauses, looks to the side, sees Ghost’s golden eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. His breathing isn’t labored. It’s calm. Deadly calm. And the man, taking in the sunken nose of Ghost’s full-face mask, the raised skeletal plates, decides perhaps this isn’t a fight he really wants neither then nor later.
He lets her go and she sinks back into her chair, but Ghost’s eyes don’t leave the man even as he slinks behind his commander. The ropes at his wrists strain under Ghost’s flexing forearms and she hums low in her throat.
“Easy,” she murmurs. “Not here.”
This time Ghost eyes both of the enemy captors, and he answers, a barely-contained, seething rage in his chest and out of his throat, “I’ll fucking kill any bastard that touches what’s mine.” He snarls beneath the mask, and she feels it deep in her chest, the sound reverberating through her. “I’ll fucking rip your guts out through your back. Touch her again. I dare you.”
This time, even the commander shifts nervously on his feet, and he clears his throat in an exaggerated fashion to ease whatever fear is ebbing in his stomach as he turns to the second and says, “We’ll come back with more questions.”
“Don’t keep us waiting long,” she retorts, watching them leave and as the door shuts and locks, she reaches out, brushing her fingers against Ghost’s knuckle and all at once, he relaxes his grip. “Easy, Simon,” she calms, and he lets out a single deep breath.
“I don’t like people touching you.”
“You can’t kill everyone who does,” she jokes, and he looks over at her, his eyes glinting in the light, a solid ring of gold around a deep pit of a void; her throat dries up at the beastly hunger in them, but no fear is in her heart, in fact, quite the opposite.
“I’m the only one allowed to fucking touch you.” He looks down at the silver necklace on her chest. “You’re mine. All. Fucking. Mine.”
She swallows thickly, the S dangling at the apex of her throat feeling like a branding, but it doesn’t hurt, she loves the burn, craves it, wants to drown in it—in him. “Yeah, Simon,” she breathes, heart pounding in her chest. “I’m all yours.”
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