scariest thing is when you're a kid in a huge family run by women and then you go over to a house that's deeply patriarchal & misogynistic. i remember when i was 8 years old and i got invited over to my friend's house for a big birthday party with her entire extended family. after the enormous lunch that served over 30 people, i got called into the kitchen to do literally hundreds of dishes, alongside all the other little girls and women. not only were the boys our age all excused from the meal to go play, but all the grown men went to the living room to watch sports together and drink. i couldn't believe it. i asked why some of the grownups were watching TV but the girls had to clean up and all the women just laughed and laughed at me.
as a teenager when i learned the word "sexist" and used it the older women balked at it and tried to convince me this arrangement was a good thing actually because women need space from men, and cleaning in the kitchen after parties is a sacred domain of safety. and i was like actually i think needing private safety from your own husbands, sons, and brothers sounds even worse. like do you understand you somehow made this even more troubling than it already was
like i think it's fine if a bunch of sister-in-laws/wives want time together without their husbands & brothers to talk together in camaraderie. i'm not judging that. obviously. but dare i ask why the women's meetup could only take place while doing manual labor for a nearby room full of men
it's also interesting how this ingrained rigid social structures in children bc i was mostly friends with boys at that age and in fact was at the birthday party of a friend who was a boy so i remember complaining to him at school that it was weird all the girls had to help clean up because i didn't know any of the other little girls so i felt really left out that i didn't get to hang out with my own friends for a chunk of the party and he and the other little boys were like "that's just the rules."
Ghost/Soap/female reader
4.1k words - AO3
Tags: 18+ mdni, nurse reader, feelings of fear and panic, PTSD, references to domestic violence. Trauma, blood. Flashbacks. Dubious ethics and morality, dark content.
“Are ye comin’ inside?”
“I need a minute.” He needs more than a minute. He needs days, weeks. Needs to wind back the clock and slam it into the ground, over and over again, until the springs and hands and tiny numbers splinter into pieces.
Failure. He failed. They failed.
They failed you.
“Wait, go back.” The video pauses and rolls backward, all the way until Simon tells Kate to stop it when you step out of the elevator. “What’s in her hand?”
“Dinnae,” Johnny’s nose is practically touching the screen.
“The recording is pretty low quality; I’ve tried enhancing it with no luck.” Kate’s voice crackles through the speakers from the other side of the laptop, the other side of the world. This is the first time they’ve managed to get a hold of her in weeks, and even now, the connection is half static.
“Looks like a piece of paper, or a picture?” Johnny murmurs, leaning back.
“This is just before she bolts,” the playback continues, and they watch as you walk down the hall, bright smile fading when you reach the corner. “She’s here for a minute and then runs…” Simon is glued to the screen, forward on his haunches, and Johnny rubs his back, kneading his knuckles into that ever-present knot in his shoulder. He watches your head turn, your back stiffen, and Johnny sucks in a breath.
Kate nods the confirmation. She’s already put the puzzle together.
Graves.
You’re reacting to Graves, seeing Graves. Entire demeanor shifting, changing from their sweet, smart girl with newfound confidence, to a deer, shocked and startled, running from a scope.
Graves.
It’s simple math. Plain as day. You take one look at where he’s come around the corner, running his mouth, chewing that fucking gum, and split.
It’s Graves.
And it all makes sense.
“-you don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t understand. He’s chased me across the world, he always finds me, no matter what, no matter what I do”
“He’s in the military. Some sort of security work, department of defense, or something. He never really talked about it.”
“He always finds me.”
“He has resources. Has followed me across the globe more than once. My only saving grace is that when he has to work, he has to work, and it’s usually for long chunks of time.”
“I’m originally from Texas.”
Texas. Texas. Texas.
There was a conversation, months ago, that slipped through Simon’s fingers. A wisp of a suspicion, one pushed away by doubt, by disbelief.
Not possible. A coincidence.
He was wrong, about being wrong. He was right, all along.
Johnny nearly flips the table before Simon urges him back down. “Where… where does she go after this?”
“She gets the car,” Simon answers, timeline clicking into place, “she borrows that gits car, comes home, packs a bag, and runs.” Johnny’s hands are shaking, fingers white against his knees.
They’ll kill him. He’ll paint the walls with Phillip’s blood. They’ll do what should have done in the first place.
He should have protected you, should have seen it all clearly. Should have applied more pressure and made you crack, if only for your own safety.
He failed.
They failed.
“That piece o’ shite, I’ll-“
“Kill him.” Simon finishes simply, and they exchange a look. A promise without words. Simon will shatter his skull between his palms if he has to.
Johnny nods. The gears are already turning. Are they so different from a man who has stopped at nothing to drag you back to him?
No.
They'd burn the world for you, to protect you, to bring you home to them.
Kate clears her throat. “There’s more.” More? “I was checking some records, looking at her last clock out, when the last paycheck was paid out and I pulled her personal information, her medical chart.” Kate’s tone is wary, hesitant, and Johnny straightens.
“What is it?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line, unsure trepidation that’s so unlike Kate the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stands up.
“Kate…”
“She’s pregnant.” You could hear a pin drop. Johnny’s rage turns to panic, and an ocean of blood rushes in Simon’s ears.
“She’s- she’s what?”
“She’s pregnant. By now, she’s probably twenty weeks, maybe? I’m not sure. I don’t know much about those things, but her chart notes say both of them are… were in good health. Low risk.”
“Twenty weeks,” Johnny echoes, faraway look in his eyes.
A baby. You’re pregnant.
Pregnant. Pregnant and alone, and scared. Running away.
From them.
Simon’s trying to wrap his head around it, but he can’t. The information doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense.
“If she’s twenty weeks, then she’s been pregnant since before she left.” Johnny’s talking to himself at this point, because Simon can’t force his mouth to make words. “Why keep it a secret?” Kate is telling them something about index hits and cameras, but it all amounts to nothing after you board the train, and Simon still fails to make a sound.
And then, she piles it on.
“Graves is in the wind.” Simon’s heart stops like he’s been struck by lightning, electricity jolting him alive.
“How?”
“He went offline. No traceable activity in the last week or so. Last known location was Texas. After that, I’m not sure. Yet.”
‘He can’t be in the wind,” Johnny whisper shouts, all too aware of Penny upstairs, napping. “We need to know where he is. Now.”
“I’m doing all I can. He has resources too, you know. A lot of them.” The screen goes black for a second, before she reappears, lips pressed into a grim line. “I have to go. I’ll keep you updated. Sorry guys.”
They can only nod.
It’s clear as day, what happened now. How you saw them in the hallway, how you drew the conclusion, one that seemed so painfully obvious, connected the dots that appeared in your mind, stringing together bits and pieces until it all made sense.
He knows what will have to happen now. They both do.
Simon presses his forehead to Johnny’s. “We’ll find her.”
“An’ bring her home.”
“No matter what.”
The rest is left unsaid.
You’re having a dream.
It’s a lovely one, more of a memory than anything else, but a dream, nonetheless.
“This still feels like a bad idea.”
“Isnae, ye’ll do great bun. Jus’ the ‘hawk now.” You’ve already finished the sides of his head, which were easy enough, but using actual scissors to cut hair is well outside your wheelhouse.
“What if I mess it up?”
“It’s jus’ hair, pretty girl. It grows.”
“How’s it going out here?” Simon leans out the sliding door, Penny in his arms, and you try to plead with him with wide, nervous eyes. He chuckles. “Looks good so far.”
“See?” Johnny smiles, one of the big ones that stretches his whole face and makes your knees weak. Penny loves them too, and she claps her hands together, giggling.
“But… I don’t… I’m going to mess it up.” Johnny stands, warm hands on your arms.
“Ye could shave me bald and wouldnae mess it up, bun.” You nod, but the acid, noxious taste of worry is still there on your tongue.
“I just… I…” you’re starting to shake a little, fingers squeezing together. He tugs you into his chest, kisses your temple.
“Ye’re alright.”
“I know.” You do know. You’re safe. They’d never hurt you, never betray your trust or even yell at you, but muscle memory doesn’t forget. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“Ye dinnae have to be sorry.”
“It’s okay, bunny.” Simon murmurs, but it’s not.
Is this how you’ll spend your whole life? Afraid? Shaking?
No.
Not anymore.
“If I ruin his hair… it’s not my fault.” Simon chuckles.
“We’ll blame him.” You turn back to Johnny and put your hands on his shoulders, taking a deep breath, surveying the mop of unruly brown strands, and he covers one of yours with his own.
“It’s okay. If ye-“
“No, I can. I can do it.” You don’t know why you’re so nervous. It’s just a hair cut, for crying out loud, but for some reason it feels like plunging into the deep end of a pool. “Okay,” you breathe, making the first snip. He nods encouragingly and you roll your shoulders.
“See? Not so bad?”
“Not so bad.” You cut again and again, trying to manage it all into a proper length, shaping as best you can.
Each snip, something grows. Your hands tremble a little less, your jaw unclenches, lips flexing upward into your cheeks. You breathe deeper.
When Johnny turns around, he doesn’t care about his hair, or the slightly uneven chunks, or the fresh clippings on his shirt.
He cups your face, kissing you before pulling away to rub his thumb across your cheek.
“There she is.”
Spring rain. There’s nothing like it.
It washes away the gloom of winter. It’s the turning of a page, the spine of a brand-new book snapped open with a splintering crack. Cabin fever becomes walks in the park, lunches and coffees outside, hanging out on balconies and patios.
Dead things turned to soil now sprouting new life.
Like you, you guess.
You’ve been dead before. If someone looked really closely, they could see it in your eyes. The grey of decay, the separation of iris and pupil. Dead and brought back not quite right, every time. Sally, stitched together incorrectly, the wrong pieces of patchwork, poorly aligned.
Every time he ripped another piece of you away, you found a different one, one less like you, to put in its place.
Every time, until you weren’t you at all. Until you were a girl in a mirror. Until you were a ghost.
It makes sense that you don’t know yourself now, haven’t known for years. On the run, there’s not a lot of time to stop and consider things like that, those pieces. Coffee or tea? Chocolate cake or vanilla? Do you like snow? Do you like the beach?
Do you like yourself?
You could have had these answers, you think. Could have learned these things, if it hadn’t turned out the way it did. If Simon and Johnny hadn’t turned out to be a hydra, mouths open, waiting to devour you.
Sunbeam kicks. They nail you in the bladder, and you wince, rubbing over the crest of your belly. “You’re killing me, you know that?” You feel like you’ve been hit by a bus, every day. The aches and pains are never ending, your back and hips screaming by the end of a shift. You can’t sleep, the heartburn makes it hard to eat, you’re never comfortable.
The whole time, you curse them, Simon and Johnny.
Their fault, it’s their fault.
And yours too.
But no matter how tired, how sore, how cranky you are, you can’t bring yourself to regret it, and in your dreams, it’s like all the bad, all the awful betrayal didn’t even happen. You dream of a family with them, Penny holding her little sibling, the five you together. It’s all been buried in your mind, too deep and nearly impossible to dig out. The visions of them, the longing, the good memories. You’re infested with them.
You didn’t want this. You wanted them, you wanted it all, and that might be the hardest thing about it. You weren’t given a choice, this decision was made for you, taken from you, just like almost everything else.
Except little sunbeam. You wanted them, chose them, will choose them, over and over, forever, keep them safe, make sure they know they’re loved.
No matter what.
It’s the train, always the train.
Not the long rail train, the commuter train. The one that takes you to and from work, the one that’s sometimes-standing room only, though most people offer you their seat, which is surprisingly kind, compared to where you’re from.
Regardless, you feel the gaze on the train, and no matter how hard you scan, dissect, watch the people around you, there’s nothing. All three faces, three sets of eyes, three profiles, are never anywhere to be seen.
It’s overwhelming, unsettling. The stress of this prickling unease combined with the stress and physical strain of your job is taking its toll on both you and Sunbeam, as the midwife likes to remind you.
Take it easy, take some time off, try to relax. Stay hydrated, eat well.
Yeah… okay.
You rub your belly anxiously, tugging your hood farther over your head, trying to look around without being so obvious.
“Excuse me?” You jolt, startled by a man standing at your elbow, pointing to a vacant spot on a bench. “Would you like my seat?” His smile is subtle, matching an encouraging but not overly intrusive demeanor.
“Sure, thank you so much.” He nods, stepping to the side, into the space between the seat and the divider, close to the door. You try to swing your backpack in front of you, but it gets caught, and he snags it before it falls. “Sorry, thanks.”
“Of course, no problem.” You give him another glance. Really handsome, rich brown eyes you could get lost in. He’s got a baseball cap on, but it’s not pulled down over his face like your hood, he’s not trying to hide. “I’ll move when your stop comes up.”
“Okay, it’s not for a while so, no worries.” He might be kind, but he’s still a stranger, and you’re not going to divulge anything specific. Stranger danger.
Not everyone is a threat but…
“How far along are you?” You blink.
“Uh, about twenty-five weeks, give or take a few days.” He nods.
“My wife is due next week; it’s been a rollercoaster.”
“Yeah, it’s not the easiest.” You laugh, a little apprehensive, but also, a little glad, secretly, to have a casual conversation with someone. He sticks his hand out.
“I’m Kyle.” Your tongue rolls with the practiced name you’ve memorized, the one you’ve drilled into yourself over and over again. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too.” The next stop is announced, and he moves gracefully, reaching for his bag and tugging it over his shoulder, barely giving you a second glance.
“This is me, have a good day.”
“Thanks.” He doesn’t look over his shoulder at you when he’s getting off, doesn’t watch you through the window from the platform. He’s completely uninterested, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
The box is delivered on a Tuesday.
The Scottish government gives you almost everything you need. Clothes, thermometers, baby books, a changing mat, a mattress, a sheet, a blanket, the list goes on. The box even doubles as a bassinet.
You cry over it. Rifling through everything, tears drip down your cheeks and you bury your face in your hands. You didn’t get to share an ultrasound with anyone, or have a shower, or hold someone’s hand to your belly as sunbeam kicked, but there’s this. A box full of baby stuff, a box that says no matter how hard it is, you and sunbeam will have a good start. Even Sunbeam’s room is halfway sorted at this point, crib set up, dresser half stocked with clothes, collection of diapers and burp cloths and bottles starting to pile up in various places in their room. You’ve made it comfortable, slowly, mix matched furniture and all.
Every day feels like a year, but as each one passes, you slowly adjust to a new normal, a new life. Something you made, again, from scratch, for yourself, your survival.
And now, for Sunbeam.
One day, maybe it will feel like home.
You really need to stop buying so much crap at the store.
You practically have to drag your grocery loot into the elevator, bags overflowing with fruit, vegetables, cans of formula. Random cleaning products, stuff for baby proofing, a new candle.
Apparently, some call this nesting. You just call it annoying.
You lean against the wall and close your eyes for a moment, shifting your weight to alleviate the pressure on your spine.
Thirty weeks.
Ten weeks left.
Ten weeks left. It’s wild to even think about, to even say to yourself, or out loud. You’re going to be a mom in ten weeks. Going to have a whole human depending on you for every single thing, in ten weeks.
You’ll be alone, with a newborn, in ten weeks.
Alone.
It still aches. Stings. Salt in the wound-
Lit end of a cigarette against your skin.
You instinctively cup your belly, thumb rubbing over where one of your burn scars has been stretched by Sunbeam, and shiver.
You’re fine. You’re safe. Get it together.
“We’re home!” You announce to no one, no one except Gus the goldfish who’s swimming circles around his bowl. You got him two weeks ago on an impulse, following a pathetic, sad desire all the way to the pet store.
It’d be nice to have something to come home to.
You tap a few flakes into the water and watch him gobble them up, oddly soothed by his presence in the flat.
This is how far you’ve fallen. Taking comfort in a damn goldfish.
You blow out a breath and fall onto the couch, swinging your legs up onto the cushions, dragging the pillows under your ankles, or what used to be your ankles. They’re more like overstuffed sausages now, tops of your sneakers cutting into your skin. Every chance you get, you’re finding places to sit at work, caught yourself leaning most of your weight on your patient’s beds, more than once. Thankfully, your coworkers are overwhelmingly understanding.
And when you come home, you do this. Collapse on the couch. Talk to a goldfish, or Sunbeam, or both.
The oddest trio: Mom, baby, goldfish.
You manage to limit yourself to three bites of ice cream before putting the carton away in the freezer. You’re supposed to be watching your sugar intake, apparently, not because you’re at risk for gestational diabetes, but because Sunbeam is already projected to be on the bigger side.
You look mournfully at container, spoon still in hand.
One more. What’s it going to hurt? One more bite isn’t going to turn Sunbeam into a giant, it’s-
Knuckles rap against your door.
Your blood goes cold, colder than ice, and you instinctively find the floor, crouching by the fridge, using it to shield yourself, keeping away from the door’s direct line of sight.
The knocking gets louder.
Someone’s saying something on the other side of the door, but you can’t hear it over the buzzing, beeping sound in your ears.
How.
How? How did it happen so fast? Where did you fuck up?
The fear you once felt for yourself pales in comparison to the true fear you feel now. You’re supposed to protect Sunbeam, supposed to keep them safe.
You’re supposed to be a mom.
A sob claws its way out, and you clap your palm over your mouth, agony squeezing your heart, panic clutching your throat in a vise, choking off your air, throttling you until you’re gasping.
You should run, should sprint into the bedroom and grab the gun from under your mattress, should start crawling out the window to the fire escape.
You should do these things, but instead, you’re trapped, immobile, watching with horror as the deadbolt turns horizontal, sliding the lock free with a bloodcurdling click.
Your baby. You were supposed to keep your baby safe.
You failed.
You stand, so unsteady you have to support your weight by leaning against the counter. The only thing in here are kitchen knives, and you rip two from the block, one hiding behind your back, the other brandished in front of your body like a sword.
You’re going to die.
But not without a fight.
Tears wet your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you choke, sliding a hand over little Sunbeam, “I’m so- so sorry.”
The creak of the door handle is unmistakable, a metal whine scraping against the frame. You close your eyes.
“Bunny.”
Your heart stops.
The men you thought love you are standing just inside your kitchen, the sight of them turning your stomach, their eyes flicking between you and the shiny, sharp knife in your hand.
Johnny inches forward, his voice a low, gentle murmur, one that cracks your heart. “It’s okay pretty girl, we’re here to take ye home.”
“Get away from me.” The knife is practically rattling in your hand.
"It's alright. We’d never hurt ye, either of ye. We know what ye saw and-“
“N-no,” you sob, voice cracking, shoulders shaking, “don’t come near me.”
“Put that down, sweet girl, it’s alright.” Simon edges around the counter, caution and wary weighing his steps. They’re supposed to be muffled you think, soft, but they ring so loud.
“Stop!”
“Just let us explain, give us a minute-“
“I saw you! I saw you w-with him.” Your vision is blurred by tears, and you look down at your belly, desperate. “Just let us go, please. Don’t- don’t let him-“
“Listen to me, sweetheart. We have nothing to do with Phillip.” His name makes your flinch, and you inch backwards.
“You know him.”
“We do. He tried to kill us, betrayed us, on a mission. Nearly succeeded with Johnny.” The words conflict, mash together into a scramble you don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.
More lies.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I know, I know you don’t. I wouldn’t if I was in your position either, but we’re telling the truth.” You shake your head.
“No. You’re just… you’re just trying to trick me.”
“We’re not,” Johnny murmurs, “We’ve always told ye the truth, bun. And we’d never hurt ye.” He steps forward. It’s too close, way too close, and you pivot, both knives still clutched in your hands.
“Put them down.” Simon instructs, a little bit of steel in his voice now. He can obviously see the one behind your back, and your heart starts to sink.
There’s no way out. You should have run when you had the chance.
Stupid.
The girl in the mirror stays silent. She says nothing.
For all you know, she’s dead already. Killing blow dealt by your own hand.
You think about Sunbeam, all warm and safe, protected from the world, and despair swells in your chest, an entire ocean beneath your feet, waiting to swallow you up, drag you down and drown you.
“Now, sweetheart. We don’t want you to hurt yourself.” You laugh. It’s a sickly, nervous thing, too tinny and high pitched.
You’re falling apart. You’re not a fighter, you’re a runner, shot lame in a race rigged against you from the beginning. They’re closing in, wolves stalking the bleeding lamb between them, predators about to fall on prey.
“Don’t,” whisper, fingers tightening around the knife in front of your body, unable to hold it steady through the trembling.
“Bunny, listen to us, please.” Johnny is reaching and you get trapped in his gaze, spiraling into the swirl of misery and fear, mirroring your own. “I love ye, we love ye. Ye belong with us, at home, where we can keep ye safe.” You slam your eyes shut, trying to block him out. “I’ve loved ye since the day I opened m’eyes and saw ye leaning over the bed. We’d never hurt ye, we jus’ want to take ye home.”
Out of the corner of your eye, Simon moves. One powerful, huge step, and he’s on you, grabbing your arm, applying pressure to your knuckles to release the knife.
You scream. It’s instinct. Everything shuts down, narrowing down to one objective.
Run.
“Johnny,” he half shouts over your keening, holding gentle pressure against your arm as you try to rip yourself free. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.” You thrash, trying to twist out of his grip, shoulder shrieking in pain, and he goes with your momentum, providing slack so there’s no tension in your arm. “Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself sweetheart, you’re okay.”
You’re not.
You’re not okay. You’ll never be okay.
The walls close in, and it all becomes so clear. Your future, what will happen if they take you, if you leave here with them.
They’ll take Sunbeam. They’ll turn you over to Phillip, throw you out like trash, and you’ll die.
Are you going to let it happen, just like you let everything else? Are you going to roll over? Let it all be stolen, again and again?
No.
Simon reaches for the other knife and you swing it wide, slicing through the air until the blade meets flesh.
He hisses. Blood spills, drips down the handle, coats your fingers, and you stand there, frozen, gobsmacked.
Did you-
Did you just-
“Johnny,” he barks, but it barely registers, you’re too transfixed by the blood, hypnotized by it, too entranced to even register Johnny at your side, too stunned to see what’s in his hand.
if he was still alive I know in my heart that Terry Pratchett would have done a bit about Igors and Igorinas doing gender confirmation surgery by now. going into a lab full of bubbling vials and picking out a penis from a tank the way you pick a lobster. that one, please. you gotta be careful though because they'll really try to upsell you into getting two or three installed. people going to the clinic as pairs and just having parts swapped out for a discounted rate. maybe you actually just trade brains, that's even easier. Igorth have already been doing that thurgery for thenturieth.
Everyone knew it was best not to look too closely at Igor's jars.
Vimes was beginning to wish he had looked more closely at the most recent additions before Igor came lurching up the stairs to inform him:
"They have ethcaped, thir."
"Escaped. What has escaped, Igor."
"Thome of my.. appendageth, thir."
"Appendages."
"Yeth, thir. Of the... intimate variety."
"Of the intimate..." Vimes trailed off as the dawning horror overwhelmed his vocal cords.
He rallied. "Igor. HOW have they escaped? They are not known for their... perambulatory abilities."
"Really, thir? I've alwayth found them to have a mind of their own at timeth."
Vimes was staying calm. Yes. That was it. He was staying very calm. Definitely NOT thinking AT ALL about how Vetinari and... Good lord, The Times, would react to marauding pack of penises. Would it be a pack? Or would they go off on their own?
"I wath exthperimenting with cuthtom grown oneth, you know. For thothe who cannot grow their own."
"Err... what? Of course you were. I mean. Very good."
#[a loud crash is heard from the lab] #[another igor runs past with a giant butterfly net. stopping briefly at the door to shriek 'THE VULVATHS''] (via @the-wave-finally-broke)
It turns out to be a brilliant feat of advertisement, as the people too shy or uncertain to go visit Igor rightaway effectively get a chance to discretely window-shop in public.
An unfortunate side effect being that a small girl, denied of her rightful need to be a Horse Girl by the limitations of being a native Ankh-Morpork child[1], would have adopted one of the larger Appendages of the pack and named it Free Willy. Her insistence that she could understand her pet through a bond of mutual sympathy was both touching and troubling, as was her announcement that Free Willy did not want to be attached to a governing body and forced into service, saddled with clothing, or made to perform tricks for audiences. With no Igor having the heart [2] to take it from her, the child was allowed to keep Free Willy, who lived for five healthy years in her family’s pigeon loft and eventually passed away from natural causes after a battle with another fighting cock. The child went on to write a well-acclaimed children’s book, The Willy that Would Be Free, which was, necessarily, a pop-up book.
[1] where an ordinary working class child CAN form a magical bond with a horse, in the form of a pie, labeled as beef.
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
Ghost has still got blood cooling on his gloves, the metallic tang thick in the air as the last body hits the floor with a wet thud. He tilts his head, listening to the quiet that follows, thumb already moving toward his comms to report in to Price.
Then he sees you.
Crouched in the corner behind a stack of crates, knees drawn up, eyes wide and shining in th low light. Civilian. Wrong place, worse timing. Which is unfortunate for you. His orders were clear: no witnesses and no loose ends.
Ghost starts toward you with that slow, rolling prowl, boots heavy on the concrete, thighs flexing under blood spattered gear.
He expects you to flinch. To run. To beg.
Except… you don’t.
You don’t even flinch when he stops right in front of you, towering, blood still dripping from his gloved fingers onto the concrete near your shoes. He raises his gun slightly, angled toward your head, ready to end it quick.
That’s when it happens.
Your gaze drops.
Straight down his chest, over the blood spattered vest, and locks onto the thick, heavy print of his cock on the front of his pants. Your lips part. Your breath hitches. And something in your eyes… shifts. Goes dark and heated, pupils blowing wide with want instead of fear.
Ghost freezes.
The gun lowers an inch. He tilts his head, staring down at you like you’re some glitch in reality. He’s covered in other men’s blood, fresh kill still warm on his hands, and you’re looking at his dick like you want it down your throat right here in the slaughterhouse.
It throws him completely. Throws off the soldier part of him that is cold and clinical. His cock twitches hard at the realization, thickening further under your stare, and he knows you see it. You don’t look away. If anything, your thighs press tighter together, cheeks flushing despite the corpses behind him.
A beat of silence stretches.
“Bloody hell,” he rumbles, stepping closer until his boot nudges your leg. One massive hand reaches down, gripping your chin roughly with blood smeared gloves, forcing your head up. “Did’t expect a filthy lil’ thing like you t’cream your knickers watching me work. Got a death wish, have ya? Or’ve you just got a thing for monsters?”
You’re still staring. Still heated. Ghost’s thumb drags across your lower lip, smearing a faint streak of red, considering the dilemma.
andulkaphoto
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