you can call me dolly. 20's. this is a sideblog for fic recs/fanart/whatever else i like. sometimes i write. some of the content here is disturbing, a lot of it nsfw, so please read tags and proceed at your own risk. minors/phobes/zoos/maps fuck off.
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
Your phone is missing.
Youâve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still canât find it.
You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly canât remember.
Youâve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.
But you know you had it.
Which meansâŚ
You eye the bedroom door. You havenât surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. Youâre somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one youâre leaning more towards.
Itâs not like itâs a hardship. This is a nice place. The room youâre in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, itâs stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and thereâs every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels⌠homey.
The entire house does. Itâs not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. Itâs not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. Itâs modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.
âDo ye like it?â Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.
âI thought safe houses were supposed to be⌠sketchy.â
âAye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.â
He didnât elaborate, and you didnât push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.
These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.
Itâs torture, being here.
And worse⌠you think itâs making you sicker.
Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. Thereâs a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, itâs emptiness like a wound that wonât heal. A scrape that wonât scab.
A craving that can never be satisfied.
Itâs a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.
That you canât find.
You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you canât hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire⌠situation.
And in order to do that-
you need your phone.
Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. Heâs alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way heâs sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity youâre used to, the laser focus that never lets up.
It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.
You hear your name. Heâs standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. âWhat is it?â
Stop.
What are you doing?
âUm, IâŚâ You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. âIâm looking for my phone?â Itâs not supposed to be a question. Itâs supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.
âI have itâŚâ he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. âSit.â
âNo, Iâm fine. Iâm justâŚâ
âSit.â Itâs not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.
You practically sink into the couch. Itâs oversized, overstuffed, too soft. Itâs the kind of couch you could spend all day in when itâs rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. Thereâs a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one youâre on the now. Itâs a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.
âI have your phone.â He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like youâre basking in the sun. Itâs unbearable.
âOkay.â You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, Iâll go get it, or be right back.
He says none of those things.
âYouâll get it back once this is over and dealt with.â Your mouth drops open.
âWhat? No. I need my phone.â This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.
âYour phone is not secure. It doesnât take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. Itâs a danger to you, to us, right now.â Your pulse pounds between your ears. âYou can have it back as soon as weâve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.â
âB-but⌠my⌠I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-â
âI already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.â You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?
âNo. No, you canât just⌠you canât just take my phone.â His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.
âI can. I am. Itâs for your safety.â
You hate him.
He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.
You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.
âI want it back.â You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.
âNo.â He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while youâre practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.
âYes.â
ââm not doinâ this with you.â You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.
He moves.
It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.
Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and itâs big, warm, secure.
Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.
You lock up. Once youâre finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.
âEasy,â he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didnât know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.
But it doesnât stop there.
He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.
Subharmonics.
It almost brings you to your knees.
âEnough now,â he murmurs, guiding you in closer, âWeâre not your enemy, dove.â
Alpha.
Youâre slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.
He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.
You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.
No, that is what you mean.
You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to⌠alpha you⌠but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a sirenâs song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.
âDonât.â You whisper. Itâs more for yourself than it is for him.
Donât do this, donât be weak, donât give in.
Your protest doesnât stop him, doesnât prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough youâre overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, heâs there,
âNo.â You croak, but he doesnât stop, doesnât acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.
âSettle,â the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.
Itâs not fair.
âYou donât need to fight us,â he continues, âweâre jusâ trying to protect you.â
âI donât want this.â You choke out. âI donât want to be here, I want to go home.â Home, home, home. Youâre stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.
âThat doesnât matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.â Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isnât safe, itâs hell.
Simonâs stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.
The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.
He doesnât look upset, or jealous, or anything youâd expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.
âEverythinâ alright?â You shake your head, but Simon nods.
âShe was gettinâ a bit worked up.â You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like youâre some hysterical omega who canât control herself.
âAh. We cannae have that.â Simonâs grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.
âI wanted, I want my phone.â Johnny nods. Itâs sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.
âSorry dove. Itâs not s-â
âSafe.â You finish for him bitterly. âYeah I heard.â You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.
Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.
Itâs only once youâre curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.
Itâs late when the knock comes.
âDove?â Itâs Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.
You donât answer. He sighs.
âYe didnae come down for dinner, anâ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.â You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. âI brought ye some food, Iâll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethinâ, please.â Thereâs a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring youâre eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadnât rejected you, hadnât left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.
But you canât. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.
He knocks again.
You meet it with silence.
Finally, after minutes, he gives up and leaves, taking the wave of cardamom and black tea with him, and you slip back into oblivion, closing your eyes to escape into sleep.
Imagine joining an online chatroom because you struggle meeting people in real life, but god do you want to lose your virginity, right?
Most of the men you meet aren't all that interesting, but there's this one guy...fucking hilarious, witty, a bit dry. His chat name might be "deadmeat" but by the pictures he sends it's anything but.
Deadmeat: thought of you again, bloody mess. Can't wait to have you.
The picture attached is his usual, hard cock covered in at least two previous loads, tip flushed pink and wanting. The calloused, tattooed hand it's cradled in is what drew you in initially. Most folk in the chat room were...well...gifted in size, and as fun as it is to imagine you can hardly manage two fingers on a good long day.
But this man? Perfect fit. About the width of his palm, fingers easily wrapping around. Not small by any means, but definitely not heart-stopping in a bad way.
You: just a few more days. Got the motel booked?
You make sure it's safe, of course you do. Swapping photos together in anticipation for the day.
Deadmeat, or ghost as he requested you call him now, is...a little different than you expected. Tall, for one, nearly brushing his head on the top of the doorframe when you nervously unlock the motel room.
You don't quite realize the breath of your mistake until you and ghost are half undressed in bed and you slip a hand under his waistband. You slide you hand along the soft hair at his base, wrap your hand over it andâ
...no. no way.
The amusement on ghosts face as you frantically shove his pants down and pull out his dick is palpable. Holy shit, he's massive. You're a few centimeters shy of wrapping your hand around him, not to mention the length.
You swallow thickly, glance up at him.
The fucker has the audacity to chuckle, reaching down to wrap his impossibly large hands around his dick, give himself a few pumps "well? Everything you were expecting? Don't worry, i can make it fit."
CW: angst, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, references to suicide, injured Simon, eventual smut, military inaccuracies
wc: 7.1k
Masterlist đŚ
When Soap gave you Simonâs address, you thought youâd end up in some dodgy building with flickering lights and the pungent smell of piss.Â
You expected sleazy neighbours, creaky old doors, and grime-crusted flooring: he is a clean man, sureâpathologically so, youâd like to add, since his barracks back at HQ look like an ORâbut he absolutely adores his privacy. You wouldnât put it past him to move somewhere other people would never go for their safety, even if it meant tiptoeing around pools of unidentified fluids and used condoms.
Instead, as your GPS pings your arrival, you find yourself in front of the loveliest house youâve ever seen.
Uneven bricks, ochre and grey, cloaked by a pitched roof and tiles laced with moss and ashen lichen. A chimney peeks from the top left, darkened right around the top. Thereâs a stone path leading from the gravel where you parked your car to the front doorâsturdy hardwood thing, painted a deep dark chocolate with bronze trims all around. Wooden fixtures for the windows, worked and etched in that way that makes them look old, but they clearly arenât. Thick glass, maybe to isolate soundsâas if itâs needed.
This house is as pretty as it is lonely. Lost in the middle of nowhere.
At least you were right about one thing. Not even God would go this far to look after His disciples.
Out of four hours, you spent half driving through unpaved roads, with your car jumping over fat roots and potholes. Got lost once. Almost ended up in a ditch twice.
However, the landscape they led to is gorgeous as few. Worth the money that youâll surely have to splurge on new shock suspenders.
Itâs autumn, so thereâs the occasional tree popping golden amongst an emerald ocean extending behind the cottage, farther than the eye can see. In front of the house, thereâs a small grove. It rustles with the wind, coos with birds and owls, runs with squirrels and wildlife clawing up the trees. Evergreen bushes with the occasional pop of colour, whether red or pale orange, lean against the trunks. The sun is setting behind it, painting the landscape with the shadows of the fronds and a soft golden glow.
It's quiet, in that way only nature can be.
If you hadnât been worried down to the bone marrow, youâd have lit a cigarette and smoked it with your ass on the trunk of your car while basking in the last shafts of sunlight of the day.
Alas, youâre not here for sightseeing.
You turn off your car and jump out of the seat. Gently, you stretch your arms; your shoulders pop, your back cracks like a fucking glowstick. Your knees arenât faring better, clicking when you stand up fully.
With a withering sigh, you walk to the back of the car and open the bonnet.Â
There are groceries for a lifetime stacked in there. Four bags from Tesco, two smaller ones from the chemistâs. Pain killers, vitamins, paracetamol, supplements, benzodiazepines, citalopram, escitalopram, and all the fucking prams the pharmacy had to offer. The list was long; you eyed Johnny worriedly when he gave it to you, but knew better than to ask.
Youâre tired. Tired beyond measure. You went to work at the crack of dawn and then jumped in the car when you couldnât take it anymore. Dropped everything, apologised to Kyle for leaving him to fend for himself with the diplomatic envoy, and when Price scrunched his nose disappointedly, you apologised to him as well and promised to do double the job once you were sure he was alright.
Because you hadnât heard from him in days.
Not a phone call, not a text, not a sign that he was using his phone at all. Not a sign that he was alright, that he was still grumbling about the growing prices of groceries, that he was still nursing a nightcap in the eveningsâthat he was alive.
He used to tell you.
They donât get itâJohnny, Kyle, Price. They donât know about the texts, the calls, the photos, the messages sent in the middle of the night, the ones left just shy of dawn, just to wish each other a good day.
Your little secret, that. Your little something soft, developed in the ruthlessness of your job. Something amicable and familiar stuck in between the horrors of cold-blooded murder, of dead bodies scattered in your lives, and endless stacks of paperwork.Â
Youâd send him pictures of your pale teaâtoo much milk, if you asked him. Of your pies baked during downtime, of the Christmas decorations youâd hang on the ceiling. Heâd send you those of birds landing on the hood of his car, cats heâd find along his walk that would nuzzle his calf.
SR: Donât know why.
LT: they think youâre snow white
LT: because youâre pale and you have the sweetest big brown eyes
SR: Wouldnât say sweet.
LT: in fact i said sweetest :)
SR: Flattery wonât work on your lieutenant.
LT: ha! but im a lieutenant too. you canât pull rank on me
SR: Iâm your L.T.Â
SR: Youâre my second lieutenant. Under my command.
LT: technicalities
SR: Youâre L.T. too
SR: L.Too
SR: L2
L2: oi
SR: Haha
L2: rude
SR: Alright, L2.
They donât get it.
SR: Sleeping?
L2: are you keeping tabs on me?
SR: Youâd be surprised.
L2: wonât ask
SR: Shouldnât.
L2: Fancy a chat?
And your phone would ring.
âL2,â heâd greet.
âNot funny anymore.â But it was.
âReckon itâs bloody hilarious.â
âBeen too long. Itâs losing its charm.â
âCharm?â Heâd breathe a laugh. Almost. âRight, thenâEl.â
Midnight, midday, seven AM, four AM, six PM. On and off the job. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and early Sundays and late-night Mondaysâ
His touch, secretive and fleeting. Warm hands on the hollow of your spine as he walks by, fingers tightening the straps of your vest, adjusting the holsters on your thighs. Watchful eyes chasing your shadow in the crowd, following your fingers as they deftly work through cables and buttons. Burning holes on the back of your hands as you aptly defuse an IED. His huff of relief, his palm warm on your shoulders. A pat, a caress.
âGood job, L2.â
âFuck off with that,â youâd laugh. âSpooky fucker.â
âThatâs my El.â
They donât get it.
Or maybe they do.Â
Price wrinkled his nose, but didnât stop you. Kyle took over your shift. Johnny gave you the means to reach him.
Maybe they saw itâyour eyes softening whenever he walked into a room, his shoulders unravelling whenever your voice crackled over comms. Two peas in a pod, birds of a feather. The moon and the fucking sun. Lieutenant Riley and his 2nd lieutenant.Â
LT and L2. Ghost and El.
On the seventh day of no contact, you couldnât take it anymore. You raided Tesco, you begged Johnny to give you his address (and thankfully, he was just as worried as you wereâyouâd have hated pulling rank on him), and he secretly passed you Simonâs medical file so you could pop by the chemist too.
Now, you find yourself properly hauling your own weight in groceries along the stone path leading to his cottage. You drop them with a grunt in front of his door.Â
On your side, his car is parked. Second-hand. Onyx black. Bird shit on the roof, windows grainy with soil and opaqued with rain tracks.Â
Unused for a while. Normal, in a way. Itâs not like he can drive in that state. For any amenities, a nurse would come by, provided by the SAS. Sometimes heâd open and be cordial enough. Sometimes he would just tell them to leave groceries and whatnot at the door.
The nurse told Price it had been days since Simon even answered his phone calls, never mind open the door. Price told the team, but not you. Kyle passed you the intel with the same secrecy as a mole working for the enemy.
Gooseflesh crawls up your spine as you look at the weathered bronze of the doorknob. Thereâs no doorbell that you can see.
You knock.
âLieutenant.â
Nothing.
The wind grazes your ears, ruffles the fronds as it intersects with the leaves. You dry the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, and knock again.
âL.T.,â you say, trying to sound chirpy. âSpecial delivery!â
Silence.
You lean to the side and try to peek through an overgrown bush into one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn shut. You bring your thumb to your lips and nibble at a cuticle.
Knock.
âLieutenant!â Again. Worry seeps through the cracks. âItâs me! Itâs lieutenantââ
You chew on your name. It dies on your tongue.
âItâs L2!â You yell instead. âItâs El!â
Blood beads on your thumbnail, bitten short.Â
Knock knock.
âPlease open the door?â You venture. Your heart pounds in your ears. âIâm so fuckingâso fucking tired and worried.â
Knock knock knock.
âWhere the fuck do you live anyway, uh?â You sniffle. Your nose stings. âWas right, wasnât I? You are fucking Snow White.â
Nothing.
Loudest silence youâve ever heard.
You hate it. You want to fill it with more knocks, with more yells, with the sound of his footsteps, with the gravel of his voice, the crackle through comms, the clicking of his ankle when he rests his weight on it for too long, the burn of his cigarette in the coldest nights, the breath of a laugh he wants to swallow but doesnât manage.
âLieuââ You gulp. âSimon? Please.â
On the far right, thereâs a bench whose greyish paint is chipping away. Old wood rots in the centre because of rain and constant humidity. Even though you sat in that godforsaken car for the past four hours and some, you feel your knees buckling the more you keep standing.Â
So, you carry yourself over there. Drop down. The bench creaks. As predicted, itâs wet and it seeps through your jeans. You sigh.
âI brought you food!â You go on, âAnd if you donât open the door Iâm gonna eat it. Everything. Even your stupid chocolate biscuitsâIâm gonna gobble them up in one sitting.â
The milk will go bad if you donât put it in a fridge. The ice cream will melt.Â
âThe bourbon too,â you yell. âGonna drink it all. Gonna get comatose on your stupid bench in thisâin this fucking fairy grove you live in.â
The fruit will start softening. The meat will start rotting and smelling. And flies will run to it, conquer it, eat it raw, and lay their eggs inside. Their buzz will drive you insane, and youâll lose your mind on this bench, in the middle of nowhere.
âAnd Iâm gonna sleep here until you open that fucking door, you hear me?â Your voice cracks. âAnd Iâm gonna get sick andâand itâll be your fault, because you didnât open the bloody door.â
You wonder whether youâd smell the same thing if you broke it down. If the buzz would be heavier, more persistent. If it would be something else driving you insane.
The image flashes bright and real. Smells like you have it within reach, before you, hanging from a chandelier, drowning in a crimson bathtub, or melting on the bed, stomach filled with pills and nothing else.
Your heart plummets at your feet. You feel claustrophobic, boxed in a square of cement that pushes in your shoulders and compresses your chest.
âSimon!â You yell, voice cracking. Droplets stain your jeans. Itâs not raining. âYou fucking cunt open the fucking door!â
Elbows on your knees, you drop your head in your hands. Youâre so tired. You donât even know if you can drive back home, especially now that the sun is setting. Youâd gladly sleep in your carâfuck, youâd sleep on this bench if it meant finding him at the door the next morning, looking all cranky and grumbling about the mess you made.
All you can do is plead quietly, a breathy prayer you hope he can hear, even if only whispered.
âPlease open the fucking door, please open the fucking doorâ"
Are you strong enough to break it down? Youâre special forces, but youâre not a battering ram. You donât have the tools that would helpâyou didnât think you were gonna need them.Â
Stupid.
Are you brave enough to open the door? To find whatâs inside? Should you call the police? An ambulance?
The thought makes you retch. You cover your mouth and bite on your palm.
âThis fucking idiotââ You whisper. Swallow thick. Your throat stings as bile rises. âI swear to God you selfish bastard, you better not. You better fucking not, Simon, I willââ
âWhich bourbon?â
Your head snaps.
His shoulders, wide and hunched, fill the doorway, open enough for you to see him entirely. A grey shirt hangs loose around his torso. Heâs got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, but thereâs a strain in his arms. Corded and rigid, tied in a way that shows in his neck, too.
A scar runs thick down the side of his head, starting from the centre of his forehead and tipping at the shell of his ear, following a curved line clearly left by a surgeon. Bulbous near his temple, where the flesh was too soft and took longer to heal.Â
Darkness blossoms under his eyes, swollen and sunken at the same time; puffy with sleep, hollow with tiredness. Heâs paler than usual, his cheeks are gaunt, and heâs so much fucking thinner.
But heâs alive.
His chest rises. His blood runs.
You blink.
A tear threatens to stream down your cheek, but you anticipate it, drying its path with the back of your hand. Your bones soften, muscles unclenched. Clumsily, you take a trembling breath, and it feels like itâs the first time youâve ever done it.
âI-I donât know,â you stutter. âDonât drink the stuff. Asked the clerk for his favourite and he justâjust tossed it in there.â
âMh.â
His eyes look for the bottle amongst the mountain of food and drinks stuffed in the bags.Â
âYou better like it.â You sniffle and nod at the bags. âFifty-five quid just for that thing.â
He snorts. Sighs. âGood enough then.â
You exchange looks.
Then, he nods his head inside.
âHelp me out?â He drawls.
Dizzy, you nod. Your legs tingle as if theyâve just been awakened, your stomach rumbles like you havenât eaten in days. The world turns upside downârelief so visceral and thick you feel like itâs drowning you.
You stumble to the doorway. Your guts squeeze and thrash. You might throw up, but you donât, swallowing the tightening feeling clawing up your throat.
You stuff the smaller pharmacy bags inside the Tesco ones.
Simon leans in too, taking his hands out of his pockets.
You hadnât seen the aftermath yet.
Heâs missing the last two fingers on his left hand. Surgery scars run along the back of both, slicing the tattoo on his forearm in a cobweb of thick, ruddy lines. That is, where the flesh isnât rubbery and burnt, convoluted as if yearning to weld itself back together in the aftermath of being torn apart.Â
They shakeâfiercely, like heâs experiencing an earthquake inside his body; unfolding before your eyes, shattering his bones.
You look at them. Transfixed. At the mangled flesh sewn back together, at the tremble that runs through his veins and tips at his nails. The strain of his muscles clawing up his arms, taut to the point of painâlike heâs putting all his effort to keep them still, to exert control over them.
Control he lost.
When you lift your eyes again, you meet his face.
Stone cold. Dreadfully frigid.
âThe bags are heavy,â you croak.
âCarried worse,â he replies flatly, and his hands curl around the handles of two.
His fingers tighten, knuckles painted white. Nails bite his palms, but he perseveres. Swallows a groan of pain that rumbles in his throat and lifts the groceries off the floor.Â
The plastic bags crackle like a gale is blowing furiously through them. The glass of the bottles clinks. You see, as he walks inside, the tension in his gait: forcing his legs to cooperate, to work by themselves, as he focuses exclusively on the stability of his hands.
Without looking back, he leaves the door open for you to follow.
You stand frozen stock still, arms down your sides, and eyes brimming with guilt.
Carried worse, he said.
Carried you, months ago, when the bomb went off.
Six Months Earlier
Intelâs rarely faulty when the source is the police themselves.
Granted, even in these cases, one should always take statistics into consideration: a mole, a diversion, the original source. However, things sometimes are so obvious that statistics fall flat.
Because in front of you, right now, thereâs a big, fat bomb. No doubt about it.
A squared box, half as tall as you. Itâs raggedly painted black, as if someone decided to spray the colour on the metal slabs at the last minute. Rust gathers at each corner, likely due to the humidity building up in this underground tunnel, which is also chipping away at the paint and leaving ruddy streaks scattered down the sides.
Itâs not much different from the ones youâve dispensed of already, at least at first sight. Thereâs no timer, not a visible one at least. Though from the looks of it, you donât think this one is timed at all. If youâre fortunate, it needs to be manually detonated on site. Worst-case scenario, it can be set off remotely.
Thank fuck youâre wearing sturdy PPE, then.
With a huff, you flop on your knees before it. Thereâs a soft puff as the pressure pushes air out of your suitâa big, cumbersome thing that safely cradles you from head to toe.Â
âCaptain,â you call through comms. âYou sure itâs off, yeah?â
The static preceding his voice buzzes softly through your ear, before Johnâs usual rasp fills the helmet shielding your head.
âLocal bomb squadâs had a look already,â he says. âSaid itâs old.â
Though the bomb in front of you looks untouched by the deft hands of a demolition specialist. You wonder how they concluded that the device is too old to be active, since there doesnât seem to be a sign that it has been studied at all.
âDoesnât look like they did anything, though,â you offer.
John grunts. âDonât shoot the messenger.â
âRight.â
His voice rumbles even through the distortion of the radio. âJust passing it on, L2. They want us to check it before they move it.â
You roll your eyes at the nickname. You knew it would stickâSimonâs convincing like thatâthough it is the first time John actually uses it.
You let it slide.
âAnd whyâs that?â
âSigned by Konni.â
You tilt your head and easily spot the mark of Konni group sprayed on one side, dried red paint drawing a path downwards from where it dripped.
âAlways nice to see an old friend, isnât it?â
âKeep us updated, yeah?â
âOn it.â
You squeeze your eyes through the visor of your helmet, focusing on possible entry points. Each breath you take is measured and quiet as you clear your mind to steady yourself.
âAlrighâ?â
Though considering the questioning drawl coming from beside you, youâd wager the suit is amplifying not only your voice, but also the heaviness of your panting.Â
Itâs fucking hot in this thing.
âYou shouldnât be here.â You give him a sidelong glance. Heâs not wearing an EOD, only his usual uniform with an added clunky helmet, a bulletproof vest, and his stupid skull mask. âEspecially not naked like that.â
âNaked, uh?â He snorts. âBetter get a good look, then.â
You bite down a smile and return your eyes to your job. âCaptain, the lieutenant is padding around in his birthday suit.â
Priceâs voice crackles through the comms in your ear. By his tone, you can practically see the tight set of his jaw and the roll of his eyes.
âGhost, either wear the EOD or leave the premises, for fuckâs sake. Donât fancy scraping you off the walls.â
Simon gently kicks the side of your boot. âRat.â
You turn your head around just enough to stick out your tongue at him.
âI asked the second lieutenant a question anâ she ainât answered yet,â he drawls with his usual dispassionate tone. âPermission to kick her off the team?â
âYou wonât hear a single fuckinâ word she says if youâre ground meat, Simon,â Priceâs voice rasps. âWear the bloody PPE and then weâll talk.â
Static replaces Johnâs orders as communication cuts off on his part.
Only then does Simon pitch in.
âI asked you a question.â
You sigh, but itâs neither weary nor exasperated.Â
âYeah, Iâm alright,â you huff, already tinkering with your toolbox. âWhy arenât you wearing the gear?â
âIâm in good hands.â
âThanks, Iâm immensely flattered,â you quip. âPlease go wear it now.â
âThought it was too old to still be active.â
You donât have time to roll your eyes, because as soon as he mutters his thoughts, you notice a familiar indented square in one of the panels. A carefully hidden entry point that, once popped open, will show you the intricacies inside the device. Itâs like spotting an oasis in the desert.
You reach for a flat tip in your toolbox at your knees. Carefully, you wedge it in the embrasure.
It only takes a few tries, and it unhinges seamlessly. Metal clinks as you gently place the lid on the ground.
Thereâs no need for you to look his wayâhis presence is like a heavy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A shadow sewn to your own.Â
âI wonât support your suicidal tendencies, so please, for the love of Christ, listen to the engineerââ you point at yourself with the screwdriver, ââand go wear the bloody bomb suit.â
Simon stays silent for a handful of seconds, only filled with the tinkering of metal of your tools.
âWorried âbout me, are ya?â
You huff. No use pretending, when he can see right through you. âPlenty.â
âGood heart.â
âChop chop, Riley.â
âAye aye, El.â
With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Simon turns on his heel. His footsteps become distant until the soft thud finally vanishes behind the creaky door that first led you down here, slamming shut behind you.
You donât turn around, too focused on studying the wires wrapped around each other in the panel you just opened. Thereâs an entire bundle crossing the opening diagonally and so shrouding most of the circuit board in the back. Theyâre held together by a couple of cable ties that look awfully cheap, like the rest of the device.
âWeird,â you mumble to yourself.
âWhat is?â John pitches in.
You flinch, not expecting an answer to your musings.
âUhm, uhââ You shake your head to recollect yourself. âThe bombâit looks quite cheap. Not their usual MO.â
John hums. âCould be one of Konniâs earliest works. Disposal said itâs old, innit?â
âYeah,â you huff. âI donât trust a single word those fuckers said.â
âRight,â he grunts, though you recognise that hint of agreement in it. âDo what you can with it. Keep me updated.â
âRoger that, captain.â
Back on track. First thing to do is get rid of those ties to isolate the cables.Â
You work quietly for a while, removing your gloves to minimise errors while doing such minute movements. The flush cutters are sturdy but the blades are small, and the thickness of the cable ties is stupidly non-existent. You want to avoid cutting things you shouldnât.
However, you canât quite ease the knot of doubt forming in your guts.
This device has literally nothing preventing you from disposing of it. Everything is poorly put together. The control centre was placed under a thin slab of metal, which you simply popped off using the flat tip of a screwdriver. There are corner store-level cable ties keeping together a bundle of wires. Each cable isnât isolated, but either overlaps with others or knots on itself.
This is amateurish.
And you know, with utmost certainty, that Konni isnât. The same Konni group that blew up an entire airport wouldnât DIY a bomb and spray paint their signature on a slab of metal like a mere local gang of criminals.
Unlessâ
âEl? You with us?â
Simonâs voice snaps you out of it. He sounds muffled and echoey, as if heâs speaking from behind a glass. You recognise that distortion: he put on the bomb suit.
Relief floods through you.
You shake your head to clear your mind. Sweat collects on your forehead. You feel each drop brewing on your skin, only to then slowly make its way to your brow, then your eye.
Your fingers close around the cutters, and the first tie snaps off.
Then, you squeeze your eyes to get rid of the burn.
âYeah,â you huff. âThey should invent more comfortable suits for us in demo. Itâs fucking sweltering in here.â
Priceâs voice crackles once more. âWeâll hire a fashion designer.â
Simon snorts.
âLook at you, captain,â you croon. âProviding jobs for the youth.â
Youâre sure heâs rolling his eyes. âDo yours or youâll lose it.â
But you know itâs an empty threat. Jokes tossed around to defuse the tension as you defuse your bomb. High stress situations require ways to destress in order to keep your mind clear and at ease, even as your life is on the line.
âAye aye.â
And from then on, silence lingers, only interrupted by Simon shifting his weight on his feet behind you. The crinkle of the suit folding as he moves, the tap of his fingers against the pack he must be holding in his hands. Thereâs the occasional clink of metal when you drop a tool in its box, or the snap of plastic as yet another tie comes off.Â
And finally, you manage to isolate the cables from one another. Carefully you pinch one between two fingers and shift it to the side, only so you can have a broader vision of the circuit board in the back.
Itâs entirely dead. Singed in places, the lights are off, no sounds fill your ears unless it's the ones youâve already recognised as familiar. The blasting cap has an old serial number on it, different from the most recent ones you came across. The base was once attached to a couple of red cables that have been cut from their root.
You exhale, emptying your lungs in a single, long breath.
âItâs dead.â
John huffs through comms. âThank Christ, eh. Sending Garrick over. ETA 20.â
But you stay put, staring holes through the jungle of wires that intersect and crisscross like vines in front of you, draped on the circuit board.
Simon shifts from behind you and comes to crouch by your side. The same puff of air exhales from his suit. You turn your head to look at him, though with the helmet itâs hard to have a good view of his face.
Heâs taken off the skull mask to favour the protective gear placed around his head. His eyes arenât poised on the bomb, though; theyâre on your face. He must pick up on something there that doesnât reassure him, because he knows you better than he should.
âHang on, Price,â he rumbles.
You stall for a moment.
Itâs only a hunch that spurs you to negate certainty. Youâre special forces, an engineerâsixth sense isnât enough to support evidence.
But Simon believes in it. He trusts that tiny spark he sees in your eye, the tautness of your fingers as they curl into fists atop your knees. You hear him sniff, shift on his knees to get closer.Â
âEl?â He whispers, perhaps not wanting the radio to pick up on it.
Your stomach lurches.
âI meanââ You gesture vaguely at the device. âIt looks dead. The circuit board is gone, and the wires have been cut from the detonator. Some of this shit could be older than meâ"
John cuts through your conversation. He sounds irritated, and in turn, it irritates you, too.Â
âGet to the point.â
You stare at the dead circuit board. The main piece of this puzzle. It doesnât take an engineer like you to recognise that itâs long gone, but in a very peculiar way that you donât know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic, it looks too long gone.
You smack your lips. âSomethingâs wrong. It feelsââ
âDonât care how it feels, lieutenant. Is it dead or not?âÂ
âListen, John, Iâm not here to fucking playâ"
âNeed to have another look at it, boss,â Simon cuts in. âGive us a minute, will ya?âÂ
âRoger.â
You sigh. You wish you could scratch your forehead. Your scalp stings as sweat collects on it. Each tiny, uncomfortable thing happening to you is amplified, including the knot in your guts.Â
âI hate him with passion each time he acts likeââ
âHe can still hear ya.â
âGood.â
If John can actually still hear you, he doesnât voice it. Thankfully, you think, because if he pitches in again with some more of his caustic sarcasm, you might just say things before your mind can properly filter them.
You take a couple of seconds to recollect your thoughts, guiding your eyes to study the device. Itâs composed of rusted metal plates welded together and protecting the bomb inside. Youâd need a plasma cutter to breach the plate, but the heat could set the thing off if itâs live. In fact, there are no entry points aside from a small, squared panel that youâve opened with unexpected ease.Â
Considering how the rest of the thing is protected, however, it feels out of place. Conveniently put there for you to declare that the device is gone, when it actually isnât.Â
A hunch isnât enough to negate evidence, that is true, but itâs there, and you wonât allow it to gnaw at your guts.
Easy is never the right answer, not with Makarov.
âPass me the snake cam.â
You hold your hand out to Simon, palm up, without sparing him a glance.Â
Your ears pick up on sounds even if youâre entirely wrapped in protective gear, even if your heart pounds madly up your throat. A zipper being opened, a cable as it unfolds. His hands are warm when they place the cold wire in your palm, steady when they close your fingers around it.
âGet it in,â he says. âIâll hook it up.â
In the corner of your eye, pale hands reach inside the pack at his knees to pull out a pad. It blinks to life as he taps his fingers on it.
Gently, you insert the tip of the snake cam into the opened panel, carefully steering the camera underneath the knotted bundle of cables and behind the seemingly dead circuit board.Â
âGot anything?â You ask Simon.
âToo dark.â
âTurn on the flash.â
The pace of your heart matches the rapid tap of fingertips running across the pad. In a blink, a soft glow fills the darkness behind the board.Â
Simon hums.
âGot something.â
You inhale sharply. Your eyes flicker around, sifting through your thoughts as if you can see them, rushing unrestrained with endless possibilities. You squeeze them shut, clearing out the sting of sweat as it builds up on your brow and fogs up your sight.
âFuck. Letâs switch.â
Simon shifts until heâs kneeling behind you. The rustle of his suit precedes his arms as they come around your head, carefully taking the cable from your fingers.Â
âGot it.â
Ever so slowly, you remove your hands, shuffling on your knees and ducking your head to leave the shelter of his body. With no minimal effort, considering the weight of your blast suit, you manage to stumble to where he once sat, grabbing the pad he left lying on the ground.
As he said, thereâs something. The flash clearly highlights a darkened silhouette, bulky and squared, but the quality of the camera doesnât allow you to make out much more of it.
Only one thing stands out.
A light.
âJesus fucking Christ.â
âThought so,â he spits. âFucking Makarov.â
You donât have time to curse him as well, though you quietly share the sentiment.
âJohn.â
Like lightning, his voice crackles in your ear. âSend over.â
âWe got something.â
âDetails.â
âIn a sec. Stay on.â
You look at Simon. Heâs perfectly still, not a tremble in his fingers, exactly as youâd expected. Heâd make an incredible demo specialist, though you know heâs an even better sniper.
âGentle, Simon,â you murmur. âNeed you to go south.â
He follows your orders, sliding the cable down inside the box.
âGentle,â you repeat. âSlower.â
And without a single word, he heeds you. Trusts you. Lets the camera cover each corner, bit by bit, moving his muscles imperceptibly as he snakes the camera through the jungle of wires.
Now closer to the device, you can better make out its details on the screen. Itâs not old nor rusted, not singed nor dead. It sits attached to one side of the box, each cable perfectly isolated and running on sinuous curves around the circuit board. One that blinks red, then green, then red againâbeating like a heart, shifting its colours inside the darkness.Â
Stacks of white rubber are slathered around it, bulky and thick. You curse under your breath.
âC4.â
Simon clicks his tongue. âChrist.â
âJohn, tell the local authorities to clear out the area now,â you order steadily. âAdd that theyâre a bunch of lazy cunts, too.â
âWill do.â Then, quietly, âgood work, lieutenant. Stay safe, both of you.â
âRoger.â
The static on the radio goes dead. Thereâs only your heart pounding in your ears, falling in rhythm with the switch of colours on the screen.
Red, green. Red, green.
Simonâs voice reaches out to you. âSee a blasting cap?âÂ
âYeah.â You tongue your cheek. âSouth. Then move to the right.â
He follows suit, once again trusting you entirely. As the camera moves, you try to take stock of each tiny detail you can make out. The quality is poor, but youâre starting to have a general idea of what youâre working with. The serial number stamped on the blasting cap matches those of more recent detonators, causing the theory of the local bomb squad to completely crumble.
Red, green. Red, green.Â
While you canât make out the logo on the circuit board, you recognize the finish immediately: factory-made, not cobbled together in some basement workshop. New. Polished clean. A pale square chip mounted against the green lacquer of the board.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
You blink.Â
âStop.â
Simon falls still.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
There. Blinking in the shadows, off to the side.
âRight. Go to the right. Quick.â
Simon doesnât put up a fight, though you can see the uncomfortable shift of his knees. Imperceptible and yet conveying the same nervousness festering in your eyes as they fly across the screen. He is quick with his hands to find the source of the light.
It ticks, ticks, ticks.
âShitâSimon, drop it!â
And if the clock is right, it will tick only for two minutes more.
âDrop that shit and run!â
Simon bolts on his feet, awfully quick considering the bomb suit clinging to him. You hadnât accounted for that. Fuck, you hadnât accounted for any of this.
You told him to wear it. You put that extra weight on him. He wouldâve been out of the place and far away enough to be safe if you hadnât insisted, if youâd let the overwhelmingly stupid trust he had in you to win, for once.
âFuckââ You drop the pad and stand up. Your knees buckle under the cumbersome weight of your suit and the sudden dread gripping your stomach.
âItâs timed, John!â You bellow. Your yell echoes inside the EOD helmet, ringing in your own ears. âWeâre leavingâno time to defuse it. Less than two minutes and it goes off!â
An old, singed circuit board as a decoy to mask the real bomb ticking away just beneath its surface. Only a demolition specialist like those in the UKFS wouldâve thought of venturing further inside the device.Â
Makarov knew it.Â
He knew the local authorities would have called the anti-terrorism unit as soon as they saw the Konni group mark. Makes sense that he signed the device so clearly, like a fucking amateur.
He wanted Johnâs team there.Â
He knew those bastards wouldnât be arsed to check further. Why would they take on the burden when they could leave it in the good hands of better-trained professionals.
Call the big guns and then call it a day.
âRun. Donât look back and run, both of you.â
He doesnât need to tell you twice. Youâre already panting, forcing your legs to move against the strain put onto them by the suitânot protection anymore, but a cage. Your knees donât bend as they should, your feet struggle to hold you up. The sting in your eyes, the heart in your ears.Â
Simonâs ahead of you as you trudge behind him. But heâs faster, strongerâable to carry the added kilograms of his blast suit as if itâs only a mere annoyance to him.
Though he must hear youâor rather, he must feel the lack of you by his side.Â
He halts in his steps and looks behind to find you.
âFuckâfaster, El!â
âI know!â Youâd like to yell at him to shut the fuck up, but that would be a waste of precious breath that you need to focus on using to run.
âGo!â Your voice cracks. âFucking run, Riley!â
Though heâs been standing still for so long that youâre now by his side.Â
You stagger past him, grabbing his hand to tug him with youâthough thatâs one arduous thing, rooted on the ground as he is.
âWe got one minute at mostârun ahead for fuckâs sake!â
Itâs like you can hear it, nowâeach ticking breath exhaled by the device behind you. You wonder if it had always been there, signalling his presence as you knelt next to it, but you were acting too cocky to notice it.
Your fault. Your fault. Your faultâ
Your rushing thoughts recede to a trickle the moment you feel Simonâs hand slipping away from yours. As it does, he takes your own heart with him, as you feel it skip a beat inside your chest.
The momentum of your run makes it hard to stop, and you almost stumble on your own feet as the weight of the suit drags you forward. Thankful for a wall next to your side, you slam your palm against it to avoid falling face-first into the ground.
Though when you turn, itâs your stomach that touches it.
Simonâs already pulled at the quick-release cord hanging from the front of his jacket.Â
âWhatââ
The contraption strapped around his torso unlatches from the back. While he struggles with it, heâs impressively steady as he rips at the sleeves to take it off, shimmying his shoulders out of it with easeâchest plate and all, until everything falls on the floor at his feet.
Initially, your eyes widen in shock. Then, your face morphs into a mask of unadulterated rage.Â
âAre you fucking mad?!â
But heâs taking his helmet off, too. The thud of it as it hits the ground is deafening, echoing ominously in the otherwise quiet underground tunnel youâre stuck in.
âSimon what the fuck!â
âCome âere anâ shut yer mouth.âÂ
He charges forward, running much faster as most of the extra weight that was hindering him now lies uselessly on the floor. He bends at the waist, using gravity to his advantage, and reaches towards you with his arms.
You donât have time to think as breath is knocked out of you. His arm wedges between your legs, and the world turns upside down. Darkness and grey bricks swivel and roll before your eyes as the air catches in your lungs.Â
Your stomach curves around his shoulders. He holds your leg with one arm, curled around your knee, and your opposite sleeve with his offhand.Â
He stumbles at first, trying to find his balance.
âSimonââÂ
âKeep still.â
And then, he runs.
Thereâs a rasp in his breathing that makes it sound as if his chest is being crushed. The gravel of debris crunches under his boots, stomping heavily down the tunnel. Each sound is amplified, but youâre unsure of what is real and what isnât.Â
He trembles. Groans fiercely for each step he takes, baring his teeth as if to scare an invisible monster ahead of him.
âIâm slowing you down!â You yell, hoping the chaos wonât mask your voice too much. âPut me down! IâI have the bomb suit on, Iâm going to be fine!â
Though thatâs a lie. He knows it, and you do as well. If the tunnel collapses, no miracle can bring you back.Â
But at least your head would be protected, giving you a chance. Your chest, too. Your legs. A minuscule, tiny possibility to have a minute more to breathe as you wait for Search and Rescue.
A chance he doesnât have, not with half of his suit now lying uselessly on the floor.
However, Simon doesnât answer, just runs. Runs and runs and runs, towards the exit at the end of the tunnel. Itâs close, maybe another handful of meters, and yet now it feels like an endless chasm ready to suck you in.
A black hole hidden underground.Â
You donât know how much time you have left before the bomb goes off. Your breathing picks up, hand reaching around to fist his shirt around his collar to make him please, please listen.
âPlease Simon, please!â
His eyes are fixed ahead, feet as quick as can be considering the weight heâs carryingâyours, his own, the suits. He stumbles, pace naturally slowing down due to the effort, but it doesnât deter him. Hits walls with his shoulders, slams your helmet and your boots against corners, but he never stops.
He just looks ahead, drunk on adrenaline and ignoring the unfathomable strain heâs putting on his body.
Your eyes sting with panic and tears. His face is red with exertion and lucid with sweat as it beads on his forehead. Then his run turns into a stagger, trembling legs forcing themselves ahead.
Simon bursts through the door. Your helmet knocks against it.
At the same time, the tunnelâs darkness turns blinding white.
after price kills shepherd, he has a finite window of time to grab his things and say goodbye to his wife.
cw: angst
You hear the front door swing open and hit the wall behind it and your first thought is heâs early.
Youâre at the stove, wooden spoon in your hand with the skillet throwing up steam, onions gone soft and golden at the edges, music murmuring from the speaker on the windowsill.
The word âearlyâ is halfway up out of your throat, light, a little teasing, but it dies there when the sound coming from down the hall isnât the sound of a man home for the night. Thereâs no pause to toe his boots off, no keys dropping in the bowl. Just the stairs taken too fast, two at a time, the whole house shivering under the weight of him going up.
Your hand finds the gas dial and turns the flame down. You open up your ears, straining to listen. Then youâre moving, following the sound of him up into the dark of the second landing.
The bedroom doorâs open, and inside, Johnâs just a blur of motion against the moonlight behind him. The wardrobeâs flung wide open, the duffle is out â the one that lives at the back of the closet behind the winter coats, the one you were trained long ago not to touch nor ask about â and now itâs unzipped, open on the bed. His hands are working through the canvas with a fervor that turns your blood cold before heâs said a single word.
He hasnât looked up, heâs too focused. And thereâs something practiced and deeply troubling about the speed of which his hands are movings â it tells you more than his face even would.
âJohn?â you try, his back is to you now.
âHey,â he says, a drawer slides open, he rifles through it, turns around, and whatever he took from the drawer disappears into his bag. âListen to me a minute.â
âWhatâs happening? Wh- whatâre you doing?â
You take a tentative step toward the bed.
âI have to go,â he says flat, pared down, slotted neatly into the rhythm of his packing. âRight now. Tonight.â
âGo where? Youâve only just got back. Is it aâ,â
âItâs not work,â he cuts in roughly, then shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.
His hands go still over the bag and he turns his head and finally, finally looks at you, blue eyes hooking under your ribs. He takes a steadying inhale through his parted lips, then out his flaring nostrils.
âItâs⌠itâs not a job, dove.â
You feel so behind him in this, like youâre still standing in the warm kitchen five minutes ago, still on the version of tonight where dinnerâs almost ready. You can feel a tickle of dread crawling up the back of your neck.
Youâve never seen him like this.
Heâs never like this â frantic.
âThen what is it, Jâ,â
âShepherdâs dead,â he spills. He says it the way youâd pluck a splinter from a soft palm, all at once because slow is worse. âIt was me, I did it. Thereâll be people cominâ here to look for me, and I canât be here when they come, and I canâtââ His throat bobs. âI canât be anywhere near you. Dâyou understand me?â
You donât.
His confession arrives in pieces and your hands rise to your temples as the words work their way into whatever corner of your mind is properly conscious.
Heâs gone back to moving, the zip of the bag closing like something tearing in half. Itâs the moving you canât deal with right now because the moving means itâs already decided. It was decided before he came through the front door. Youâre hearing the end of a conversation heâs been having with himself for god knows how long.
Sick turns over in your belly, hot and acidic as it ascends your esophagus, burning the back of your tongue before you swallow it back down.
âStop.â Your hand closes firm around his forearm. âStop, justâ just look at me. Goddamnit, justâ Stop moving!â
To his credit, he goes still for a moment, turning fully toward you now and lifts both hands to your face, cradling your jaw, and every scrap of that frantic velocity drains out of him. His forehead comes down to yours, warm, a little slicked. And suddenly you would give anything to have the frantic version of him back, because stillness means heâs made time for it. John doesnât make room for things that donât matter. Heâs making room to say goodbye, and knowing that opens up beneath you like a trap-door.
His thumbs sweep the tears you didnât even feel on your cheeks. âLook at me,â his hands stiffen and close tighter when they rest on your face, forcing your gaze onto his. âI need you to hear me.â
âNo.â Youâve got two fistfuls of his shirt now, the cotton crushed in your hands, your head moving side to side against the cage of his palms. âNo. No! You donât get to do this, weâllâ weâll fix it,â you try to sniffle but sob instead. âYouâll go to someoneâ Kate! Thereâll be a wayâ,â
âThere isnât,â he murmurs, almost pleading.
âThereâs always a way.â
âNot for this.â He says it so softly it takes the legs out from under you. His breath is warm against your mouth. âNot this one, dove. Not this time. Iâm sorry.â
Part of you doesnât quite believe the apology. It was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. You know John. Or, maybe you thought you did. The blood in your heart feels like itâs curdling, heavy, turning to tar as you continue to process exactly whatâs happening here.
What heâs done.
You wrench your neck and free your face from the heat of his hands.
âHow long?â you ask, voice breaking.
He doesnât answer.
You strike his chest with the flat of both hands, again and again, then again. You canât even shift him an inch and the both of you know it, itâs just somewhere for the fear to go as it bubbles. His chin tucks, watching with a curling devastation as you keep connecting with his body. In a flash, heâs got both of his hands on your wrists, yanking you forward against him. âHow long, John?!â
Youâre starting to learn how long.
He says nothing.
This isnât a tour. It isnât a season away with a date at the end of it. Heâs running. There is no number because there is no horizon he can point to, no morning he can promise you heâll be standing in this room again.
The realization comes out of you barely above a breath as you tip your head back to see him. âYouâre not coming back.â
His eyes fall shut. He presses his mouth to your forehead hard and holds there, and when the words come they come muffled into your hair just above your ear, into the warmth of you heâs trying to memorize.
âI love you.â Itâs not an answer to your question by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls back again to meet your eyes. âWhatever they say about me, whatever you hear â thatâs the only truth, yeah?â His knuckles lift to your chin, the pad of his thumb pushing against the front of it, holding your gaze. âWhen they come, you tell them I was here, I threatened you, and I left in a hurry.â
Your lip wobbles as you look at him, your throat is so tight it hurts.
âSay it back to me.â
âY- you were here, you left in a hurry.â
âI was here, I threatened you, I left in a hurry,â he repeats.
âYou were here, y-you thre- threatened me, you left in a hurry.â
âGood.â
He kisses you and you can almost taste both halves of him in it at once: the half thatâs yours, and the half that's already gone. You give it back to him like you can hold him in the room by your mouth alone. But you canât. And you feel the precise instant he decides to stop, the breath he takes to force himself away.
âLock the door behind me,â he says.
And the velocity is back. He swings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder, and heâs past you before youâve turned, out the bedroom door, and you spin and rush after him with his name tearing out of you, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood.
âJohn! Please! John!â
But heâs already at the foot of the stairs, already crossing the hall, always faster than you, and youâre only halfway down when the front door swings open and the cold of the night pours in over the threshold to meet you. You reach the bottom step, lurch for the door.
The street is empty.
You look left, you look right. Itâs as if you dreamt the whole thing. As if you made him up, boots to beard.
Behind you, the speakerâs still playing music from the kitchen. The onions have started to catch, the sweet smell tipping over into something bitter and charred.
@ghouljams when people think his baddie girl is locked in the room with him, but really he's locked in there with her. (18+)
she can't look at his stupid face. she presses her hands against his puffed chest, squeezing her thighs around his waist as she gets comfortable. her acrylics dig into the scar-lined skin there, making him hiss as she mewls, sitting down on his cock and rocking her hips.
she's a performer even like this. wants to look good. she moves like there's a camera watching her (there is, but simon knows how to cover the red light, he's not a fucking amateur). arches her back, pushes her tits out, moans like a pornstar as she curls her toes and rides him all desperate-like.
he's getting hot, sweaty, wants to kiss her more. he moves to take his mask off, but as soon as it makes it just over his nose, she smacks his hand down, making a displeased sound as she frowns at him and moves a little faster.
"what the fuck are you doing?" she spits, and simon holds onto her hips tight, bruising them, bending his knees and choking. he feels like she's gonna break his dick off if she clenches any harder, holy fuck. "i don't want to see your face. no one wants to see that shit."
"fuck youâ" simon hisses, shaking his head. "bloody soaking me. you love it."
"i like you quiet and out of my fucking way."
she grabs the pillow from beside his head, covering his face with it. he groans into the cotton as she presses it down over him. he has to swallow parts of the pillow, but he can't concentrate on breathing when she starts slamming her hips down on him harder and harder and harder. she's leaking like a faucet, and he wants to comeâhe needs to comeâ
he takes in deep, struggling breaths after he comes. she tosses the pillow aside, rolling his mask back down, and he smacks her ass to watch it shake as she laughs and wiggles her hips so he can poke at her cervix. fuck, he's deep.
"awwww..." she coos, "poor boy. can't last for shit."
when she kisses him over the mask, he grunts at the show of affection.
CWs: smut!!! PWP. Established relationships, freaks who love each other, choking, light dom/sub dynamics, sub!simon, dubcon if you squint because the consent isn't explicitly stated but I promise you they had a conversation beforehand whatever
CoD Masterlist | Masterlist đŚ
Simon prefers sex in the morning.
First thing, as soon as he opens his eyes.
At night, heâs far too tired to put in the work. Youâre rather knackered as well, considering your shifts often end right by dinner time. Not that youâd refuse him, if he asked, but heâs noticed how you tend to simply lie down and let him do the hard work.Â
And it doesnât bother him. Not at all.Â
He thinks you look glorious when your lashes are fluttering closed and your moans are breathier. Thinks you look delicious when heâs pistoning his cock inside you, tits bouncing on your chest, and sweat glistening on your brow. Fuck, he could eat you up the moment you start babbling nonsense, looking syrupy soft and slack beneath him.
But he has preferences, one might say.
Honestly, heâs tired of being in charge.
Responsibilities drown him when heâs wearing the uniform. Heâs called left and right by sergeants who need his supervision. Runs up and down the hallways of HQ to do Priceâs bidding. Takes the stairs two, three at a time, ditching the elevator to favour speed. His quads burn because heâs way too old for this shit. His chest aches because he smokes way too much and he should quit.Â
Heâs tired. So, so tired.Â
And while youâre positively gorgeous, taking the whole of his cock as you lie down, youâre even better when youâre sitting on top of him.
A preference of his.
Sunlightâs still dim, not intrusive. It sits there, just behind the drawn curtains, flickering past whenever the breeze brushes through the window, left ajar.
And it loves you, just like he does.Â
Caresses your skin, plays with your features. When itâs this gentle, the sun highlights the parts of you he likes the most. Granted, itâs hard to pinpoint what he loves best when the entirety of you is his favourite sight.
But there are pieces of you that come out exclusively during this time of day, when the sun is just shy of rising. When youâre naked, specifically, with his cock sunk inside you and your thighs spread wide to accommodate him.
The goosebumps down your arms, for example. With no blanket sheltering you from the cold and without his arms caging you to his chest, even the softest of breezes can make them rise.Â
Fuck, he loves to look at your skin as it wakes up. And he could watch you for days like this, bathed in gentle sunlight and stretched wide.
But it isnât only how you look that strikes him. Itâs how you act.
Heâs the breathless one when you straddle him. The one whose lashes flutter when you sink fully, rolling your hips until the tip of his cock touches deepest. Itâs his brow that glistens with sweat, his jaw that works to keep his mouth closed; otherwise, his words would come faster than his thoughts.
Though youâre catching sounds right out of his lipsâhook, line, and sinker.
âLook at you,â you croon, settling your palms on his chest.Â
Your biceps press against your tits as you lean forward, peering down at him. His eyes fall on the way they bounce, plump and still slick with his spitâhis mouth having been on them just minutes before. Then, your face: glossy lips, hooded eyes, sharp and attentive.Â
His silence doesnât go unnoticed. The tight line of his mouth makes you frown, and you roll your hips once, twice, until heâs forced to open it just to breathe. There, you catch his lower lip with your thumb, fingers curled under his chin.
âMh,â you hum, voice velvety and low. âLike this, uh?â
And you do it again, stretching yourself wider until your pussy is flush at the base of him.
âYou like it when youâre deep, yeah?â
By then, Simon can barely catch up.Â
âYeah,â is all he mutters.
Through his lashes, he can see the smirk that blooms on your cheeks, like you could eat him up whenever he speaks so reverently.
You lift your hips.Â
âAgain,â you demand.
And sink down on him.
âF-fuck,â he croaks. âYes. Yes. Do thaâ again.â
You do, leaving him just a speck of choice. Making him believe that he has one at all.
With a smile, you grind yourself down. Though he can see it falter when the curls on his pelvis scratch your clit. So, you do it again, and again, and again. Until your lip is trapped between your teeth. Until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head.Â
âGod, youâre so big,â you breathe, spoken so quietly he wonders if youâre talking to him at all. âSplitting me open, baby.â
His eyes flicker to where you two join. The curls growing below his navel glisten with the wetness dripping from you. Your folds split in half where youâre impaling yourself on him, the knot of your clit grinding down hard each time you surge forward.
Fuck, he has to look away if he wants this to last.
âFuckinâ hell yer killinâ me,â he croaks, eyes hooded and breath hoarse when he finds your face again.
Simon takes the lead there, if only briefly, sucking on your thumb thatâs still resting against his mouth.
Breath is punched out of you, stumped as you blink yourself out of your bliss to return your focus on him. The look of complete surprise and adoration blossoming on your face might be enough to make him cum then and there.
How he loves to make you proud of him.
You push your thumb deeper, working your other fingers to grasp his jaw instead of his chin. Tight grip, forcing his eyes on your face.
A smile dimples your cheek, tender and still cheeky. âThe lengths you go so I donât hear you, uh?â
His skin is ablaze, heat stemming from all the places you touch. Chest blotched red, cheeks flushed pink. Diligently, he sucks on your thumb, welcoming it in the cradle of his mouth. He hums around it, with his lips pursed around the last knuckle.
Then, he pulls his head back, knocking it against the pillow, and releases your thumb with a pop.
The smirk he gives you is lazy and subdued, stretching just below the press of your finger.Â
âMh. Caught red-handed.â
You donât hesitate to smear his spit all over his mouth and chin.
âCanât give me those pretty noises, Si?â
You roll your hips. His grin falters.
You click your lips. âLike to be quiet, donât you?â
âYâknow I ainât much of a talker,â he quips through gritted teeth.
Then, youâre lifting yourself off of him languidly. His nostrils flare, tongue tied and swallowing a groan down his throat.
âMh,â you chuckle breathlessly. âBut I bet I can make you sing.âÂ
You sink again. Roll your hips, over and over, until the crown of his cock is entirely engulfed by you, somewhere so hot he thinks his skin might melt off. God forbid you rip yourself off of him now, of all times. He uses his hands on your hips to keep you firmly placed there, slotting his fingers in the crease between your thighs and your hipbones.
Heâll apologise later for the eventual claw marks left on your ass.
âJesus, bird,â he curses, rolling his eyes to the back of his head. âWonât last long if you keep thaâ up.â
Your hand holds his head steady, wrapped around his jaw. But then, you shift.Â
Dainty fingers slide down the column of his throat, barely brushing the skin. He thinks you might go further down and start touching yourselfânothing better than to feel you clench around him as he finishes inside you.Â
Heâs left speechless when your hand curls around his neck instead.Â
Your fingers press against the sides of his throat, palm flat against his windpipe, but exercising barely any pressure. Though he feels that, anywayâa tightness that rapidly wraps around his jaw and runs upward. His cheeks grow red, heat brimming just under the surface of his skin.Â
Simon is completely disarmed. Utterly at your mercy.
âF-Fuckââ
âYeah?â You grin. âYou like that, donât you?â
âShit,â he croaks.Â
The air in his lungs is rarefied, so much so that each word pains him to speak. And still, he does, unable to control his tongue.
âFuck, sweetheaâoh shit.â
Itâs then that your pace picks up. Your ass slams against his thighs, hips working tirelessly to milk him for all heâs worth. Until the room only echoes the slap of skin on skin, the wetness of sex, the shortness of his breath. Until thereâs only the smell of sex, cloying and sharp, imbuing those rare gasps of air he can take in.
âYes, you do.â
His body feels so good that itâs shocked in place, with only his nails digging into the fat of your hips and his toes curling by the edge of the bed. He feels like heâs floating, even as your hands weigh him like a chain around his neck.Â
Simonâs brain is fogged, his thoughts misty and scattered. Doesnât know what his mouth is babbling, only feels its movements, totally out of his controlâbecause you have it. You hold the reins. You guide him through this otherworldly bliss, cooing and tutting each time he manages to rasp a sigh.Â
His vision is hazy, fighting against the lack of oxygen. How ironic that it only took the softest of hands to make a sniperâs sharp eyes tremble.
âFuckinâ hell.â A breath, staggered and worn. âFuck I love ya. God yerââ
The shape of you, fuzzy and soft, tilts her head. âOh, whatâs that?â
ââperfect.â He croaks. âYer perfect.â
The plump lines of your mouth curl in a smile, ever so gentle.Â
âThen cum for me, Simon,â you whisper.
Briefly, you release the hold on his throat. It only lasts a couple of reluctant seconds that he uses to gather some air to fill his lungs with. Though the natural relief coursing through his body has goosebumps rise along his skin, making his cock twitch inside you.
Then, youâre closing in your fingers again, and Simon groans.
You havenât stopped for a single moment, not even to catch a breath yourself. You keep fucking him undeterred, and with how wet you feel and sound, heâs sure all itâd take is a brush of his fingers on your clit for you to shatter.Â
But you seem to have other ideas in mind, as his own floats in between reality and heaven.
âShow me how much you love me.â You pant. âCum for me.â
Heâs lost sight of you nowâeyes rolled behind hooded eyelids. He can barely feel anything anymore that isnât the waves of unbearable heat and pleasure that ripple from his thighs up to his throatâwhere your fingers grow tight, tight, tighter.
âFuckââ He mouths, breathy and quiet, losing control of his tongue. âFuck I love ya. Love yââ
âThen cum, baby,â you bark like itâs a command, slamming your hips down. âCome on. Fill me upââ
The groan that rips from his chest crackles, breaks on his tongue. His orgasm is earth-shattering, seizes his body, and only his hips react as they uselessly rut upwards to meet your ceaseless grinding. Dark spots in his vision, tinnitus in his earâloud, cottoned by the clouds heâs still floating upon.
Only then do you release the hold on his neck.
Simon splutters, coughs. The pitch in his ears ratchets up, ricochets in his skull. Thereâs a fierce tremble in his hands as they abandon your thighs, exhausted as they fall onto the mattress.Â
There are bruises left by his fingertips on your skin, cuts marked by his nails. Heâll kiss you there, then, when he remembers how to breathe correctly.
His breathing is staggered, broken into tiny puffs of air that meddle with his vocal cords. Itâs why each breath takes the shape of his voiceâwhimpers, cries, moans. Some softer, some louder. Some lower, others more shrill.
Simon can barely hear them as he comes down from his high, almost slamming onto the mattress from the heaven heâd inhabited for a while.
He looks at you like youâre insane. He looks at you like maybe he hasnât left that heaven at all.Â
âYer mad,â he wheezes in awe, taking pleasure in the sharp aches in his chest. âFuck I love you.â
Your hips come to a slow, measured pace. Your hand finds his cheek. Nose to nose, lips to lips.Â
i really love the idea of Simon's and Johnny's entire relationship being built on freak finding freakâor two hunters sussing each other out. but being very sly about it.
like Ghost knows Johnny's whole persona is a facade, and that the doe he keeps huffing about, the one that keeps wiggling away from him, isn't actually a deer or an animal, but a person. and when he makes these little remarks about needin' tae tame a doe or get a stronger rope, a bigger cage; or when he tells them that the scratches he has on his arms and neck are from finally bringin' his doe home, he isn't talking about improving his husbandry.
just like Soap is pretty sure that the lil birdie keepin' 'im up all night isn't a pidgeon or a sparrow, but is instead the tourist who went missing a few months ago.
The alpha at the counter doesnât really speak to you.
Itâs not abnormal. You get plenty of folks, all ranges of them in here. Itâs a pass through town. People pulling off the interstate to get gas and a bite to eat, a revolving door of strangerâs faces.
So, he doesnât really say much, but it doesnât really bother you. He orders coffee with milk and a standard breakfast, eggs scrambled, toast, sausage, the usual. And then after that, heâs quiet. Either lost in his thoughts or he doesnât care to share them, and you donât care either way.
Youâre here regardless. In this diner, waiting tables, gritting your teeth, faking smiles, just like you have been for the last six months.
Since them.
They haunt you like a phantom. A cold you canât shake. Their proximity triggered your basal instincts, your buried need, and put you into heat. A miserable, painful one that you spent alone. One you almost died from, and once the smoke cleared, you were left with the sickness, the very kind you didnât even believe existed.
Bond corrosion.
Poisoned.
Since then, itâs been non stop suppressants, scent blockers and whatever you can get your hands on for pain relief. Every day, for six months. Cleaning out your checking account, your savings account, everything just to buy medication.Â
The over load of pills canât be good for your health, but neither is the alternative.
But does it matter?
Youâre nothing, after all.
The man clears his throat. You realize youâve zoned out and heâs watching you, waiting.
âCan I get a refill?â He motions to his empty mug. Thereâs something wrong with his face, something off. A serrated blade of foreboding, something sinister in his eyes.
A shiver runs down your spine.
âOf course, sorry.â You lean over with the pot, careful to pour slowly, and at the same time, he drifts forward, close enough you register his breathing.
His sniff.
Heâs smelling you.
You pull back, startled. Alphas donât smell you, not anymore. Not with the blockers.
âThought youâd smell different.â He drawls, eyes sweeping your body, hips to face. âSweet, or somethinâ.â
âIâm sorry?â What the fuck? He just shakes his head.
âNever mind,â he lifts his mug in a salute. âThanks for the top off.â
âUh, sure.â You try to calm the uneasy feeling thatâs now swirling in the pit of your stomach, the off kilter axis youâve been thrown into. You chance another look at him, but heâs gone back to ignoring you, reading something on his phone, and you take the opportunity to slip away, mentioning to your coworker that youâre going on break, before stepping out into the back parking lot and cool crisp air.
Gravel crunches under your feet.
Donât think about it.
Your matesâ rejection has become a living, breathing thing inside of you. A tumor taken up residence in your brain, something that white and grey matter grows around, accommodates, changes shape for like itâs a part of you now. Permanently altered down to your DNA. Every morning feels like it only happened the day before, even though itâs been almost seven months, but your designation, your biology, the crux of who you are, makes it impossible to move on. Time ticks forward, but you stay stuck, frozen in place with empty bonds that grow heavier and sicker inside your soul, poisoning you from the inside out. Trapped in a moment where your scent matches throw battered bills at your feet and turn their backs on you. Leave you.
Pathetic.
Desperate.
You didnât think it was possible, biologically, for mates to leave one another, to want to be separated. Rejections are so rare, theyâre like ghost stories told in the night to scare little children.
But here you are, alone with rot in your soul where two bonds should be.
Dogs bark in the distance. Somewhere past the parking lot, the trees, a trio of howls start up, loud enough that it startles you. They donât stop, not after a few seconds, or a minute. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, that unsettling feeling turning to wariness, discomfort.
Itâs enough to force you back inside, locking door and double checking it.
When you make back into the dining room, intending to check on your sole customer, you discover heâs gone. Mug emptied, cash left next to the napkin, empty sugar packets wedged under the saucer.
His absence lightens a load, loosens your shoulders, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
Heâs gone, and thatâs one good thing at least.
You keep checking your rear view mirror on your drive home. The sky is starting to purple, bloom like a bruise, and while there are no other calls on the road, you canât shake your discomfort, the unease thatâs crawling up your spine. Something was off with that alpha. Something was wrong. You canât shake it.
And why does it feel like he was there for you?
The light in the hallway is out, naturally.
It never gets changed. Just another shitty part of this shithole building that houses your even shittier apartment. The one with uneven floors and drafty windows and water stains all over the ceiling, ones that gradually grow larger and larger, leaving you to wonder when itâs all going to come crashing down on your head.
Some place to call home, even though thatâs what it is. Your home, the only place you have, in this backwoods town that caught you in its snare.
You rub your chest with your knuckles as you fiddle with the lock, jimmying the key just right, getting it to the point where it finally pops and lets you turn the handle.
The door swings open, to a dark apartment.
You frown.
You always keep the hallway light on. Always. You hate coming home to pitch black apartment, hate the way it makes you feel, like nothing is waiting for you, no one. Youâve thought about getting a dog or a cat, more than once. Just so thereâs someone to welcome you home, snuggle with you at night.
For a brief second, a split moment in time, your brain breaks. It goes blank.
And then-
You smell it.
Cardamom.
Tobacco.
Sea salted leather.
Honey black tea.
Itâs muffled. Covered by what you suspect is blockers, but for you, for their mate, itâs clear as day.
Your hand flies to the wall, slapping against plaster, looking for the light switch in a panic as your heart pounds in your ears, but as your fingers graze it, something moves in the dark. A mountain cuts through shadow, faster than you can even blink, and then your mouth is covered.
âDonât scream.â The rough voice says in your ear. A voice you recognize. A voice who called you desperate and pathetic, a voice belonging to the man, the alpha, that left you behind in a gravel parking lot.
Your body knows him immediately. Instinctively. You hate yourself for it. Your omega hindbrain lights up like a jackpot has been won, trying to drag you under, soften you, turn you into some starved, pathetic thing, reduce you to nothing but everything they think you are.
Alpha.
Mate.
Safe.
No.
You bite. Hard. Jerk back and then unhinge your jaw, bringing your top teeth down onto what youâre assuming is his gloved palm, as hard as you can.
He doesnât even flinch.
So then you scream. You let your lungs loose behind his hand, thrashing in his hold at the same time, causing enough of a disturbance that he loses his grip for a nanosecond, enough time for you to pull far enough away, far enough to reach the light switch and flick it on.
He lets you go.
The living room light floods your surroundings, illuminating him in all his cruel glory.
Dressed in black from head to toe. Combat boots. Black hoodie pulled up over his head.
Skull mask covering his face. Skeleton gloves on his hands.
Itâs terrifying. Heâs terrifying. He looks like the grim reaper.
Heâs larger than life in your apartment, towering inside it like a monster in a doll house, dark eyes focused on you with such brutal intensity you have to look away.
âWhat⌠what are you doing in my apartment?â The words are rusted metal scraping up your throat and out of your mouth. Metal and bitter and painful. His jaw flexes under the mask.
âYou need to come with us.â Us?
Johnny appears over his shoulder in the hallway at the exact right time, a zipped up black duffel in his hands.
He looks the same. Brilliant blue eyes, impossibly handsome face. Only the mohawk is different, longer.
He offers you a small smile. It shocks you. Getting hit by a truck would be less surprising.
âYou canât⌠You canât be here. What are you doing here?â
âWeâre here to take ye.â Johnny says, taking a slow, careful step towards you, palms flat and non threatening at his side, duffel still slung over his shoulder.
âTake me?â
âAye. Take ye somewhere safe.â Itâs at that moment you realize thereâs something strapped to Johnnyâs thigh.
âIs that a gun?â You squeak, the already loud pounding of your heart now vibrating in your ears, your blood turning to ice as fear churns in your belly. Youâre not sure youâve ever seen a gun in your life. At least, not up close. âWh-why do you have a gun?â Johnnyâs smile disappears, his face turning severe. Serious. His eyes flick to the window, then to Simon with a nod, a silent conversation unfolding in the room, one youâre not a part of.
You should run. Flee. Try to make it around the blockade that is Simonâs body and make a break for the door. But you canât, youâre stranded, a ship run aground, lost in the fog. Your body is already shutting down, at war with your instincts and your brain, an impossible fight unfolding inside your tissues, a battle all the way down to the molecular level.
âGet yer shoes.â Johnny motions to the pair of sneakers next to the door, the best pair of shoes you have, better than your worn out work non-slips. You shake your head.
âNo, what? My shoes? I donât⌠I donât know what youâre d-doing here, or whatâs going on, but-â
âWhatâs going on is youâre cominâ with us.â Simon nods to the duffel Johnny is still holding. âGot everything?â Itâs your duffel, you realize with dawning horror, the one that lives in the back of your closet, unused and mostly forgotten.
Now, itâs stuffed full.
âWhy do you have that?â Why, why, why. All these questions in a room full of deaf ears.
âWe had to pack your stuff. Now get your shoes.â
âPack my stuff?â You ask weakly, because itâs all you can do. Youâre a parrot, repeating everything, trying to make sense of it.
âI got everything I think yeâll need.â Johnny says gently, face soft. âSome clothes anâ yer toothbrush. Yer meds.â Your face heats with shame. Your meds. The suppressants, the blockers, the pain killers, all on display on your nightstand. You imagine them, in your room, in your space, going through your things, cataloging them, studying them. Seeing them. Seeing your pain, your destroyed nest, the one you built meticulously and then tore apart after they came and went. âAnythinâ else ye need weâll-â he stops dead, face turning towards the living room window.
Simon kills the lights. You open your mouth to ask, again, what is going on, but words die on your lips when a small red dot appears in the room, itâs trajectory lined up right next to your head.
The rest of it happens very fast. Too fast.
Thereâs a crack, like a whip, and then the window explodes, spraying glass everywhere. Youâre suddenly in someoneâs arms, Simonâs, his body curved over yours, a shield that takes you down to the floor and keeps you there with an impossible weight.
Thereâs more cracking, popping, Johnny and that gun, firing into the shattered glass, your frightened screams covered by the gloved hand on your mouth, and then youâre being pulled onto your feet.
âMove.â Simon barks in your ear, and your body automatically responds, a puppet played by a master. Heâs half dragging, half pushing you through your apartmentâs front door and then down the hall, thundering towards the emergency exit. Everything is happening so fast, too fast, and you canât process it, canât even begin to put the pieces all together as the door opens and the three of you spill out into the night.
What is happening?
The alley behind your building is pitch black, and you stumble, tripping as Simon pulls you in tighter to his side, an impenetrable force, pinning your body against his.
Another crack splinters the air and you scream as Johnny swears, his gun coming up from his side.
âKeep your head down.â Simon orders, and you close your eyes, following along numbly as he leads you past your building and around the corner.
This canât be happening.
Whatever this is, it canât be real.
Johnny appears on your left. You get a whiff of him, honey black tea steeped in raw fury, the violent edge of it tainting that honey sweetness you smelled before, and heâs so close, close enough you can feel his heat through your shirt.
âAlmost there,â he murmurs low, and you hate, loathe, how it sinks into your bones. How it tries to warm you.
Thereâs a black SUV parked at the end of the alley, engine running, lights off, waiting. Waiting for them, you realize numbly as youâre propelled forward, waiting for you.
You try to dig your heels in.
âIâm not going-â Simon yanks open the back passenger door, grabs you by your arm.
âYou are.â Thereâs no room for an argument, no room for even a single word. Before you know it, youâre being tossed into the back seat, door slammed at your back before Johnny is climbing in up front and Simon is sliding behind the wheel.
The engine turns over.
The locks click.
And then you watch as your apartment building fades into the distance, your life and everything you ever knew slowly disappearing from view.
Okay, so based off the kidnapping group chat, I think to think that every once in awhile, they'll meet up and let their kidnapped partners interact with each other while they drink beer and watch football together.
It's like, a really fucked up hangout session.
Hereâs how you can tell whoâs who at a meetup like this!
cw: kidnapping, dark, references to physical violence, etc
Gazâs girl is wearing leggings, a sweatshirt, and one of his baseball caps. Sheâs giving everyone dirty looks and picking at the skin on her fingers.
Priceâs girl is in a knee-length dress, a delicate gold chain necklace, and dangling gemstone earrings that match the dress. She keeps looking over at Priceâ like sheâs trying to make sure he can see her behaving. She has some heavy eye bags.
Ghostâs girl is wearing one of his t shirts and some loose shorts. Sheâs got bruises in the shape of his fingers on her wrists and the column of her throat. Sheâs handcuffed to him with a few feet of chain for slack between them.
Nikolaiâs girl is wearing long sleeves that come to a cinched ruffle at the wrist, with a shapeless corduroy dress overtop (a bit of a smock) that goes to her knees, with stockings underneath. Sheâs perfectly behaved, and has a little silver cap on the remainder of her left pinky finger.
How can you spot Soapâs girl, you may ask.
Well, Soapâs girl is the one wearing a metallic collar with a red light on it. Iâll let you guess why that is.
so kidnapper!gaz used books. kidnapper!ghost uses a cat.
straight up adopted a cat solely for the purpose of luring you out of the public eye, courtesy of the infamous cat distribution system, and using it to capture you. he takes off her collar, which is all he needs for you to feel the need to intervene. and it works masterfully from the moment you spot his cat just minding her business.
âoooh, kitty!â you exclaimed. but when you tried to come closer, the cat moves away, which then encourages you to follow while trying to coax her to come to you. âpspspsps! here, kitty kitty!â
his cat meows and keeps running away, further to where there were less and less people. and closer to where Ghost was. in a dark alleyway.
you slow down to a screeching halt once you see the hulking figure at the end
he knew that you knew you were crewed when you heard his devilish ehehehe, followed by an ominously mocking âhere, kitty kitty.â and really that was all he needed to catch you.
there wasnât even a chance to scream before he was on you.
Kyle talks you through it while he's balls deep. You're on your back so he can see that pretty face as he fucks you, and you've long since given up wrapping your legs around his waist; they're trembling so badly. It's good, so bloody fuckin' good for you both that Kyle comes before he wanted to. Thrusts uncoordinated, hips stuttering, getting tongue-tied, lost in your tight pussy, losing count of how many times you've come already... Jesus fuckin' Christ.
"Look at me. That's it, beautifulâshit."
And now it's Kyle's turn to be a fuckin' mess.
But, he keeps goin'. There's more to fuck out of you, gorgeous.