☽ Masterlist ☾ | Ao3 | ko-fi🍵 | Eilidh’s Glossary | Fic and Author Recs | Mood Blog | Rdr2 Blog | The Pitt/Animal Kingdom Blog |
This is an 18+ space, created by an adult for other adults. Minors and blogs without age indicators will be blocked!
This blog has a zero-tolerance policy in regard to generative ai. DO NOT upload my work—or any of the works reblogged here—to any variant of the aforementioned models!!! I would like for ai to do my dishes and sweep my floors so that I have more time for writing, not the other way around, thank you.
Seeing you from Venezuela is hilarious. Honey, you’re the bourgeoise. You’re the rich. You’re the spoilt ignorant brat who doesn’t know how good they’ve got it because they haven’t spent the last quarter of a century in countrywide shortages
Reply or don’t. I have water to fetch and will likely be in a power outage and won’t see it anyways (because seizing the means of production destroyed production, including energy production—wjo wouldve thought?!)
Like Real People Do
previous + masterlist + AO3
Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au
CW: sexual harassment, posessive/protective Doctor Riley
"Are you the primary for crib A?"
“Yes.” The new resident scans the length of your body, and smiles. Except it’s not friendly or kind, it’s pointed and almost predatory.
“We need to get an art stick and then I want to start the Furosemide Doctor Riley and I talked about earlier.” Okay…
“Okay. Once the order is in I’ll-”
“I’m giving it to you now.” Your eyebrow raises. The protocol up here is very clear. Verbal orders may fly in the ED, but not in the NICU, and for good reason. You can do an arterial stick fine, but you’re not starting a new med without an order.
“I know but you’ll still need to put it in before I start it.” His upper lips curls and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Here we go.
“The last time I checked,” he looks at your badge, locates your name, and smirks, “Daisy, you’re a nurse, and I’m a doctor. It’s your job to do what I tell you to do.” This dude better be joking.
“I understand my job perfectly fine,” you mimic him, looking at his badge and slowly dragging your eyes back to his, “Doctor Beckert, which means you’ll still need to put an order in before I start the medication.” Please god let this not be his speciality. If it is, being stuck with him for years is going to suck.
Residents like this give the rest of them a bad reputation. They're more likely to be nice, excited, and eager, fresh and ready to learn. Med students and residents always excite you, they reignite the why that sometimes gets lost, but some of them carry a chip on their shoulder and it makes them mean. Entitled, like this one. He sighs, and something unnerving flashes in his eyes as he leans in. Something worrisome.
“Be a good girl Daisy, and get the medication, okay? By the time you get around to it, the order will be in. How does that sound?” You grit your teeth. You can’t afford a complaint from a provider, so you swallow your tongue and nod.
“Okay.”
“I’m scared.” The little girl grips the mask in her fingers so tight her knuckles are white.
The OR is in a dance around you. Lights, camera, action. They’re all taking their well known places, performing their well known duties.
You’re not even supposed to be in here. Doctor Riley is not even supposed to be in here, but the patient on the table, sweet little four year old Sophia, has a very specific heart defect leftover from her being born at twenty nine weeks, and Doctor Riley is the only one who has experience repairing them on this side of the country.
He’s standing at the table, talking to Doctor Beckert, and Doctor MacTavish is being you, checking dosages and pumps and everything else, stopping to give you a look. You don’t need to be an OR nurse to interpret it. It’s time to go to sleep.
“You know, I know a little girl who had a surgery just like this.” Okay it’s a lie. Not quite like this but you’re going with it.
“You do?” You pull the mask from her surprisingly strong grip and smile.
“Yeah. You know what she told me after it was over?”
“What?”
“That she had the best day ever because she got to eat all the ice cream she wanted, and the nurses let her watch her favorite movies that night.” Sophia’s eyes go wide with wonder.
“Wow. Will I get to do that?” Your vision turns fuzzy for a second and you see Riley on the table, small and fragile. You shake it loose. Focus.
“You will. But only if you go to sleep. Do you think you can do that?” Her apprehension is mostly gone now, soothed.
“I want chocolate ice cream.” She insists, little brows coming together in determination.
“Okay.” You squeeze her arm encouragingly, and then hand her the mask, keeping your palm over it to guide her. “Deep breaths for me, okay? And then I’ll see you afterwards.” She holds out her pinkie.
“Pinkie promise?” You loop it through yours and nod.
“Pinkie promise.” She goes down after that without issue, and when you stand and turn back to the room, Doctor Riley is watching you. In his scrub cap and mask, only his eyes are visible, and they bear down on you with enormous pressure, that gentle-tender thing in them from the other day framed by barely there blonde flecked eyelashes. It's confusing, it's frightening, it's chipping away at you and making your needs weak. You swallow.
“All good?” He never drops his gaze from yours, even with the flurry of activity spinning in a circle around him.
“All good.” You whisper, but somehow, it’s loud.
You’re circulating.
And sweating.
Thank god the OR scrubs are dark blue because you’d have stains right now. Plus the cap is tied so tight to your head, too tight probably, and it’s giving you a bit of a headache.
Of all the things in the unit you’ve learned or are still learning, the OR is the biggest, but you’re doing okay. You might be stressed on the inside, but you’ve got the room under control.
It helps that Doctor Riley is a meticulous pro. He never drops anything. He never questions anything. He’s methodical, and you’re learning to anticipate his needs pretty well, like the lap pads. You notice they’re getting low and grab a refill, replacing them silently and sliding back to your space without a word. No one even notices... which is the problem when Doctor Beckert looks up at you and asks for them. You incline your head to where the refreshed stack is, but he misses the cue.
“Are you deaf?” Your mouth drops open behind your mask.
“They’re right-”
“I asked you for more lap pads.” Oh my god this fucking guy. Doctor Riley’s head shoots up.
“Is there a problem?” He looks at his resident and follows his line of sight to where you’re standing, flustered and taken aback. For a split second, a nanosecond, his brow wrinkles before smoothing back to normal, his attention going right back to where he has a small child’s chest open, her beating heart under his instruments. “Doctor Beckert?”
“I asked Daisy for more lap pads.” You know he’s sneering at you, you can see it beneath his mask, and your tongue turns to sandpaper. It won’t matter that you’ve already provided them, it won’t matter than they’re sitting right there. All that will matter is that he’s an MD and you’re a nurse and you’re pissing him off, and there will be consequences.
“Daisy? Lap pads?” Doctor Riley asks, clearly not realizing either, which you don't fault him for.
“I-” You lose your words. Something about you is breaking. You’re not yourself. There are chinks in your armor you've never seen before. Doctor Riley is chipping away at your foundation, your control, and you hate it.
No one else says anything. They know the drill, they see the ticking time bomb that is this resident.
“Daisy.” He says sharply. He’s maintaining focus on his work, not bothering to look, which of course, is the correct action. Doctor Beckert snorts.
“I think your nurse is defective.” Doctor MacTavish inhales sharply, and his stool creaks beneath shifting weight.
“Daisy!” Doctor Riley barks this time, and you suppress your flinch. The OR is so silent you could hear a pin drop.
“They’re right there.” You whisper, staring at them. He finally looks, finally, and his chest expands with a deep breath.
“Have they been here the whole time?” You nod. You don’t say anything. You can’t. “Doctor Beckert,” he says slowly, returning to his work, “next time, let’s actually take a second to look at what we’re asking for before insulting one of my nurses. She’s clearly paying attention. I’d like you to too.” Doctor MacTavish chuckles, and the OR breathes a quiet sigh of relief.
You’d be relieved too, if the next thing that happened wasn’t Doctor Beckert scowling at you, his eyes holding a promise.
He makes good on that promise.
On top of putting his orders in one at a time, he’s been asking you to do things like find him a pen, or get him a coffee. He's made comments about your ass more than once. He locked you in a supply closet. He criticizes you at every turn, so much so your coworkers have started to notice, and Key is frequently frowning at you.
She probably thinks you’re a fuck up now too.
Being treated like a waitress, the comments about your ass and tits, even being locked in the supply closet... they're not the worst things. The worst thing is the stuff he says to you when no one else is around, when he corners you in a hallway, or ends up alone with you in the break room. He brushes up against you, he calls you a slut and whore, whispers things in your ear like maybe sucking dick is all that you’re good for. You've told him to fuck off, to stop, but it does nothing.
But you let it go. Let it roll off your back. You aren’t going to let this asshole get the best of you, trip you up.
You have it handled. You have it under control.
“Daisy.” Doctor Riley calls down the hall, and you tense, turning towards the sound of his voice. “My office.” You’re fucked. You’re fired. You’re getting sent back to the ED. You’re losing this pay raise. Key intercepts your death march.
“It’s going to be okay.” She looks sad, and she probably is. She put so much work into you, tried so hard.
“What?”
“Just tell the truth, alright?” About what? You give her some kind of numb response, and then you walk the plank.
“Is there an issue with Doctor Beckert?” Shit. He probably complained about you, reported you for something. You don’t know what to say, so you lie.
“No, there’s not. Or at least I don’t think there is?” Doctor Riley is half sitting on the front of his desk again, legs stretched out, his thighs straining in his scrub pants with his arms across his chest.
“Did he not lock you in a storage closet?” Your mask slips with surprise. You didn’t think anyone knew about that.
“I think it was an accident.” You need to sell it, assure him.
“How long has this been going on?” His voice is icy, frozen to the core, and you don’t know what to do. You don’t see a way out of this.
“How long has what been going on?” His jaw flexes. It’s one of his signals, a warning that tells you his patience is growing thin.
“The harassment, Daisy. How long has he been harassing you?” It’s going to be okay, Key’s voice floats in your head, just tell the truth alright? You had it backwards. He didn’t report you at all, she reported him. “Keona says she thinks she overheard him talking about your body, and Isa says she saw him touch you. Is that true?” Your blood ignites in shame, your mouth falling out of sync with your brain, and you can’t catch up. “Is that true, Daisy?”
“He’s… he’s said some things, but…”
“But?”
“I need this job.” You blurt, and his head snaps back like you’ve struck him.
“Excuse me?”
“I need this job. I took it for the pay raise, and I know I’ve been underperforming. I didn’t want to… make waves. I can handle him. He’s not my first asshole resident.” He’s quiet for a long time. Long enough you start to squirm, study the carpet until the rich, rough cadence of his voice fills the room.
“I don’t know how it is on other floors, but in my unit, I don’t accept anyone being harassed for any reason. It doesn’t matter if you’re a resident, a nurse, or a bloody scrub tech. That’s not how it works here.”
“Okay.” You whisper.
“But I guess that doesn’t matter to you, since you can handle him. You have it all under control, right?” It's like he's cast a line under your skin, hooked some vulnerable piece and is starting to reel it towards him, coax it to the surface. You nod and he stands. An alarm blares in the back of your mind and suddenly it’s hot in here, too hot, and he’s too close to you, taking all the air in the room. “And you don’t need help, do you Daisy? It doesn't matter that he's called you a slut, because you're fine.” You nod again, on autopilot. You're in control. You're fine.
“I don’t need help.” You, agree but it feels wrong, and your voice should be steel, but it wavers. Just enough to be there, surprising you.
“You can handle him. You can handle someone touching you," like a switch has been flipped, his gaze turn murderous, dark with anger and your heart pounds. "After you've said no. After you've told them to stop, because you don't need help." You’re on that ledge again, the small flicker of need in your heart growing a little bit bigger, a little bit bolder, begging you to let go. He's in your head, like a hunter familiar with his prey he senses it, striking and sinking his teeth into your soft flesh. “Did you think I would let someone do that to you? That I would let someone say those things to you? That I would let him touch you?" You can taste his mouthful of rage in the air. It’s shocking. Confusing. Makes you dizzy as he stands directly in front of you, sterile soap and freshly peeled orange surrounding you, going to your head. You have to hold onto the chair to keep from losing your balance, tipping from one side or the other.
You can't breathe. This weight will crush you.
“I'm going to fix this Daisy," He's all around you and there's no escape. Not here. "But I want you to admit to yourself that you need it, that you need help with this.” You hang your head in shame. It’s more than just admitting it. It’s a white flag, it’s defeat. You’re not strong, you can’t do it, you don’t have things under control. You’re failing. Riley, yourself, Tess and Liam. Everyone. Everything.
Slow, methodical fingers fold over yours, the heat in his skin forcing your grip on the back of the chair to loosen as his thumb rubs careful, encouraging circles into your skin. This isn't cold or clinical, this is not the surgeon you've known. This is the paradox, an illogical side of a coin that you somehow always knew existed.
“Tell me what you need Daisy.” The breath you’ve subconsciously been holding leaks from your lungs, and you tip your head back, searching for a lifeline, only to find him.
And in that moment, that one fluke of a moment, that one this is never happening again moment, you acquiesce. You fall.
“I need help.”
You open your email when you get to work the next day to find a unit wide message reminding everyone about harassment policies for the hospital and the NICU specifically.
Below that, is a personnel announcement.
Doctor Beckert has been fired-
and that small flicker in your heart turns into a flame.
Like Real People Do
previous + masterlist
Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au
CW: none
Riley is pouting.
She wriggles in her seat, hands on her hips, nose turned up in the air. “I don’t like carrots.”
“Okay well, that’s too bad because they’re part of your dinner.” You don’t have the finesse of a parent. You’re not a mother, there’s no natural instinct, and there’s certainly not a guidebook.
But you’re trying, even if it’s not enough. It’s all you can do, try for her, do it for her.
“I don’t want them.” You sigh.
“Riley, please. Come on, you have to eat vegetables.”
“Says who?” This girl is going to be the end of you.
“Says me, okay? I’m in charge.” You always thought ‘you’re not getting up from this table until you’re done x y or z’ was stupid, but now, it’s making a lot of sense. She scowls at the carrots, but spears one with a fork. “I cooked them in brown sugar, they can’t be that bad.” Even if they were good, she wouldn’t admit it now, but after the first few bites, she eventually finishes all but one straggler.
“Can we watch a movie before bed?” You shake your head and try to cut off the guilt that’s already building from having to deny her.
“You have time for a shower and maybe a few pages of your book.”
“Why?!” She stomps her feet and you pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Riley, we went riding after school, and that takes up those extra two hours you have between dinner and bed. Right?” She huffs. Crosses her arms and then-
“You’re mean.” She doesn’t understand and you don’t hold it against her, but it still stings.
“I know,” you sigh, defeated. “Now up you go.”
You don’t wish your dead sister and her husband ill will, but sometimes, you do curse them for very good reasons.
One those reasons is the fact that they sunk Tess’s earnings into buying a horse farm with too much land, used all of their savings to help finance building a house from scratch and a new barn and now…
You’re paying a mortgage you can’t keep up with.
You stare at your phone, the open banking app. You wait to stress out over money after Riley goes to bed as a rule. She’s a kid, she’s been through enough, she doesn’t need more… anything. Stress, worry, fear. That’s for you to handle, and at the end of every month, when the payment is due, you feel like a ticking time bomb. Checking your accounts obsessively, adding up numbers again and again, going to sleep and waking up thinking about it.
It’s exhausting, but what are you supposed to do?
Sorry Riley, we have to sell the house you grew up in, all the horses, and your mom’s legacy. Let’s go live in a two bedroom apartment?
Yeah, no.
“Daisy?”
“What?” Ava is blinking at you from across the table and Olivia is frowning.
“We asked you what you thought? About the new job?”
“Oh. Sorry I wasn’t paying attention.” Too busy doing math. “It’s fine. I’m getting used to it. It was a steep learning curve at first, you know? The babies are so little.” They exchange a look. “What?”
“Have you talked to Doctor Riley?”
“I mean, yeah? He’s basically in charge of the unit, so…”
“No. Have you talked to him.” Ava emphasizes, and you sigh.
“No. I haven’t figured out a way to bring it up, and he only recently stopped laying into me all the time. It’s not like I planned this I… I’m trying to figure it out.” Olivia nods thoughtfully, and points her fork at you.
“Maybe you should let it slip during pillow talk.”
“What?!” Ava’s eyes go as round as the moon, and Olivia snickers.
“Doctor Riley has a thing for Daisy.”
“No he doesn’t, she’s full of shit, and lower your voice, Liv. Jesus.” Gossip spreads like wildfire in a hospital. She shrugs.
“He stares at her all the time-”
“He’s just intense-”
“And she saw him naked-”
“Just without a shirt on-”
“Oh my god.” Ava laughs. “You like him.”
“No, I do not.”
“Uh huh. Look at you. You’re getting flustered and you never get flustered.” She’s cackling now, head tipped back, and you have an urge to punch her in the throat. “I don’t blame you. The older man thing is hot.”
“Oh my god, it’s not an older man thing and I-”
“It would be okay, you know.” Olivia interrupts quietly, “if you did. What happened-”
“Well I don’t so it doesn’t matter.” Her focus shifts, attention turning towards something behind you, and the tension in your spine releases.
“Paul Revere.” She coughs into her hand, and as you freeze, Ava perks up.
“It’s just dad and Doctor MacTavish.” Ava has called John dad since he dressed her down in a hallway one time and punctuated his lecture with ‘I’m not mad at you Ava, I’m disappointed.’ She waves. “Hi dad!” He shakes his head from across the cafeteria, mirth shining in his blue eyes, and she sighs.
“I don’t care what you say. The older man thing is hot.”
“Excuse me?” The woman startles at the sound of your voice. “Can I help you?”
“Oh I’m Samantha.” Okay? And what the fuck are you doing at Ellie’s crib? And why is your hand in there?
“Is there something I can help you with Samantha? Take your hand out of the crib, please.” You edge closer. She’s right at the rail, looking down at Ellie, your patient, your baby for all intents and purposes, with a small, sad smile on her face. Panic flares in your blood.
“How is she doing?” She does remove her hand, thank god, because if she hadn’t you don’t know what you would have done. Twisted her fingers until they broke, maybe.
“Who are you?” She blinks, and you look her over, checking for a visitor pass or an ID badge of any kind. When you don’t see one, your hackles raise even higher. “This is a secure floor, how did you get in here? And where is your mask?”
“Oh I’m her aunt. Her dad let me in.” You look around for the father, Seth, to find he’s nowhere in sight. There’s no way for you to verify this woman is who she says she is, and this is your baby. You’re not taking any chances.
“Okay. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Her laugh is quiet and awkward as she gives you a weird look.
“I’m staying here until he gets back. He asked me to.” Your stomach ties itself into a knot. This woman could be anyone, she could be sick, she could be a baby-napper for all you know. She hasn’t been checked in, she doesn’t know any of the protocols. She could touch something. Pull something. Disconnect something. She had her god damn hand in the crib, and who knows if she washed it or what she was doing.
“That’s fine, but you’re not wearing any identification and you haven’t checked in so you’re not supposed to be in here.” It’s a struggle to keep your voice even keeled, and you have to press your nails into your palm to keep your hand from shaking.
“This is my niece,” she snaps, “I can be here if I want to be.”
“No actually,” you reach past her towards the wall and slam one of the buttons. “You cannot.” She goes from irritated to angry when security appears at the sliding glass doors but before your shoulders can drop from their position beneath your ears, you see him. Your ghost. Doctor Riley.
He’s a step behind Henry, a scowl already pulling at his lips. Great.
“What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is I was trying to tell this woman I’m Ellie’s aunt, but she freaked out and got aggressive with me.” Anger licks up your spine.
“I’m not some woman, I’m her nurse. I’m responsible for her, and this woman is not supposed to be in here.” Your heart rate is climbing. You don’t know why this situation is digging under your skin, but it’s escalating, you’re escalating. “She hasn’t been checked in, she has no ID and says Ellie’s dad let her in. She doesn’t have a mask and she hasn’t been screened for upper respiratory or fever, and she had her hand in the crib. She could have been touching her without washing her hands, she could have been touching her lines or…” you trail off. Isa is watching from her patient’s crib across the room with a thumbs up, and Key is at her side, smiling. Proudly. You take a deep breath. “She needs to leave. Now.” Your pulse is pounding under your jaw like you’ve just run a marathon. You look to Henry for back up, and he’s swift with it.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but Daisy is right. You can’t be in here.” Her eyebrows shoot into her forehead.
“This is ridiculous. I’m family!” She’s still ranting as he ushers her out, yelling about getting you fired, but it feels inconsequential. Your responsibility is to Ellie, not some stranger who claims to be family. You don’t care.
But you are shaking.
“Daisy.” Doctor Riley’s voice is that gentle tone, the one that’s smoothed out around the edges and endlessly patient. “Take a breath.”
“I’m sorry, I-”
“Take a breath.” You suck in a short burst, but he shakes his head. “Slowly.” He takes stock of Ellie’s monitors before looking down at where she sleeps. “You have nothing to apologize for. Your patient is vulnerable and cannot advocate for or protect herself, so she needs you to do it for her. It’s your job to take care of her and that’s what you did.” You nod, horrified at the lump starting to grow in your throat. What is happening to you? Where is your control? Your chest rattles with an exhale, and his eyes find yours. “You kept her safe.” Riley flashes through your mind. Safe. Healthy. Happy. The lump in the back of your throat grows bigger, and you look away immediately. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” You croak. One syllable, because you’re afraid your voice might break on two.
You take a breath. You hold it. The world disappears for a moment as your lungs start to burn and you refocus, repair these cracks, this loss of control, and when you reemerge, when you release your air, everything is fine again. Normal.
Except Doctor Riley is studying you, and after a deep breath of his own, he frowns and walks away.
something something standing on the balcony of your flat, leaning up against the railing to watch the neighbors set off fireworks. you can hear the door open and close behind you and don't have to turn around to know it's simon, coming to check out the commotion.
"i think they're just getting warmed up, only been sparklers and ground fireworks so far." you tell him without turning to look at him. "based on the size of that stash over there, i'd say we're in for a real show."
warm palms slide over your wide hips, fingers gently digging in with a loving squeeze as simon settles in behind you to watch over your shoulder. even with the stickiness of summer heat, the feeling of his hands on your body and his chest pressed against your back is welcome. he's gone so much that you can't help but luxuriate in his presence, no matter how sweaty it is.
"gonna be loud, i reckon." he rumbles into your ear, thoughtfully.
"yeah, probably."
"should protect your 'earin', sweet'eart. s'important." he says with another loving squeeze. you don't laugh, but it's a near thing- simon always has some sort of hearing protection on, even off the job. says the world is too noisy, that it's overstimulating to the point of annoyance, that wearing it is the only thing that keeps him from being, quote, "a right ornery wanker all the bloody time".
"should i go inside and grab your big fuckoff earmuffs?" you half-tease, watching the neighbors down below play with sparklers and start pulling out huge cardboard tubes wrapped in colorful designs and obvious warnings. time for the main event, you suppose.
"nah, i've got 'em on right now. don't worry, i've got ya."
the hands on your hips retreat, only for warm palms to press themselves flat against the sides of your head, covering your ears. simon's timing couldn't be better- it takes less than the count of four before an explosion of color appears not too far overhead, the volume of it vibrating in your chest.
oh, that absolutely would've hurt your ears without your handsome, improvised earmuffs on. it's just one of the many, many ways he looks after you, taking care of you when you don't think to take care of yourself.
the fireworks continue to launch themselves loudly into the air just above you, loud booms and pops playing percussion against your ribcage, so loud you can feel it- but they're muffled entirely, eardrums safely hidden behind loving palms. the sky is filled with glittering whites, reds, greens, blues, and pinks, each flaming floret more mesmerizing than the last.
you feel two gentle taps of simons finger to your temple- a pre-established silent check-in, typically reserved for big social engagements and kinky sex.
you okay? is this working for you?
you nod just enough for him to feel it, returning the check-in with a gentle touble-tap against the back of his wrist, and can't help the wide smile that spreads across your face when you feel him press a kiss to the crown of your head just as an explosion of blue and green shimmers right above the two of you.
underdog / chapter 1
ghost x f!reader / cyberpunk au / masterlist
cw: extremely dubious consent, power imbalance, alcohol, reader is in over her head, antagonistic ghost, everyone has ulterior motives, liberties taken with the cyberpunk 2077 lore/universe - full tags in masterlist
Stars flare above the crown of your head.
The bottle in your hands sweats beneath the heat, condensation running in rivulets over your fingers as you hoist it high. The show dazzles the men crammed into the sticky booth, the light scattering across their sweat-glossed skin and the dark, thumping walls. The arms unoccupied by dates welcome you into the mix.
Their ringleader, a man in green, beckons with the click of his tongue. You tuck yourself between his spread legs and perch passerine on the edge of the low table. He leans in to get a better look, and you meet his gaze with an obliging smile as he presses a glass into your hand.
You chat. You entertain. His hand finds your knee, and you let it sit. You laugh at all of his jokes and nod when he rambles on about securities. It’s all part of the game: constructed intimacy, scaffolded by clever flirting and veiled detachment. Roleplay.
Everyone knows why they are here. It’s another night at Prism.
You get a name. Win. Short for Winston, as though that should mean something. The smile plastered to your face holds, miracle of miracles. Corny nickname aside, he’s not terrible company. A smooth-talker, sure, but you’ve endured worse. An hour passes, and somewhere between bottles three and four, he draws out the shorthand of your life story.
It’s the same tired song every transplant sings: a kid from a struggling town runs away to Night City with no backup plan. Men with money love an underdog.
When he asks what you ran for, you brace for condescension: fame and fortune. Cliché. Naïve. You rattle off your meager resume of adverts on vending machine and elevator screens, and a demo reel stitched from a handful of microbudget horror films. Painful dialogue and dated effects, but you scream like hell and look good doing it. And, being devoid of all extraneous cyberware, you’re a novelty on sets. It’s your thing. It makes directors want to cut you up.
That gets a grin.
“So you’re all natural?”
What a line.
You smile, aiming for sultry, and sweep the backs of your nails up the chrome along his jaw. You push a stray lock of hair behind his ear, quip ready—
—and a massive gloved hand snatches yours in a painful grip.
You yelp, hauled to your feet with such alarming ease it’s as though you float to the toes of your high heels. The rest of the arm seemingly materializes from shadow, and a body follows.
Big.
It speaks, low-pitched and slightly modulated. Two words scrape the air.
“That’s enough.”
A pale, hulking man looms. A brutal silhouette swathed in clothes whose tailoring can’t even hide the reinforced bulk of his frame. An expressionless, matte-black mask sculpts tightly around the lower half of his face, and above it, a thick, lowered brow hangs like a mantle over a pair of dark, depthless eyes tinged red.
Head razored down to the skin, a nasty scar rides along his hairline—a fleshy welt that begins near a temple and arcs around the skull’s curve like a failed autopsy. Crude, stapled shut with dermal rivets. A network of thin wires disappearing into ports behind his ear and snaking beneath his collar.
He squeezes. An invisible choke chain demanding your wandering focus. His optics contract, and an iridescent eyeshine shimmers for the briefest instant.
Violation pulses in your gut.
Win rises to his feet. “Hey, Ghost–”
“Do we have a problem?” Irina’s rasp purrs like a revving engine in your ear. There’s well over a foot of height between her and this Ghost.
Win grabs Ghost’s wrist, and you inhale sharply the speed at which his eyes snap to the offending appendage. He glares at the ringed fingers as if they’re slathered in shit.
“C’mon, buddy. Be friendly.” Win chuckles nervously, oblivious. “Sorry about that. Bodyguard. A mite overprotective.”
You snatch your wrist back once the shackle on it loosens, and gently rub. Bodyguard. Between his build and his spendthrift employer, he’s probably packed with implants. Probably could’ve pulverized every bone in your hand. That alone makes you a little dizzy.
Irina herds you with the crook of her arm. “Excuse us.”
You resist instinctually, chin tilting to catch her ear, “Our tips?” You can’t afford to forfeit an enny.
“Don’t worry. Go ice that, and tell Mal.”
At the booth’s edge, she pats you on the ass with a wink. There’s no arguing.
You glance back at the edge of VIP. Win’s shoulders quake mid-tirade, laying into his bodyguard, but Ghost’s not paying attention. His gaze is locked on you. Sweeping down and up in study.
Creep.
Finding your overworked manager is a chore. You wade through bodies in stinking, perfumed air, fastening a cryopatch to your wrist with a pair of nylons as you go. It’s worth the hassle, though, Mal barely blinks before slapping a service surcharge onto the tab, no questions asked.
A cigarette’s clamped between your lips when Irina finds you in the alley. She kisses your cheek, then your wrist. The tenderness is a balm. Short of a housemother, more akin to an older sister. She’s been where you are.
“Your friend asked for you. Says he wants to tip you himself.”
You snort. “Of course he does.”
“Mm, he gave me a stack. Imagine what he has for you, pretty girl.”
Your neck cracks from the speed at which you turn, searching for the joke.
“You’re serious.”
“I would never lie to you.”
Her soft laughter chases you indoors. You slow as you return to the main floor, not wanting to appear too desperate. Irina didn’t even speak to Win aside from rescuing you from his brute. You spoke to him. Touched and fawned over him. If he wants to apologize by paying your bills for a month, who are you to protest?
The booth’s quieter, thinned out. Most men have migrated to the rail to survey the crowd writhe below. Win clocks your approach, his money clip gleaming like bait on a hook. You check the corners. Ghost is gone.
Win stands with a lacquered smile. “So, she found you. I was hoping you didn’t bolt.”
Not with a month’s rent possibly on offer. “Of course not.”
“Brave. Ghost’s intense. Wouldn’t be the first girl to run.”
You’ve met your share of monsters. Been chased by them on camera, for money or exposure. “I don’t scare easy.”
Win’s tongue glides over his teeth, and he thumbs through the wad of cash. Your pulse jumps in your throat. Eyes up, like the money isn’t there at all.
“Maybe I’ll have to replace him,” he muses. “Half his job is being scary.”
With the watchdog gone, you walk your fingers up Win’s arm and squeeze his bicep. “Let’s not talk about him,” you murmur. “Let’s toast to you. One more round. My treat.”
He tilts his head at that, smile tightening. For a second, your stomach knots—you’ve misstepped.
“Oh, babe, you really don’t know who I am, do you?”
His fingers close around the money.
Fuck.
You scan him again. His hair. The suit. The rings.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” he winks. “The name ‘Goforth’ ring a bell?”
Double fuck.
Goforth. As in, The Goforth Agency.
The agency behind half of Night City’s elite—icons, influencers, politicians, idols. They don’t merely build careers—they launch them into orbit. They pluck hopefuls from anonymity and remake them into household names. Manufacture stars the way All Foods cultures meat. Their reach is long, their clients and business spotless. At least, on the surface.
Beneath that veneer? The rumors are endless. Blackmail. Extortion. Trafficking. Murder. The kind of power that doesn’t just protect its assets, but erases threats wholesale.
Any family with that many zeroes to their name has their fingers in unsavory pies, and you’ve been flirting with an apparent scion.
All your flirty bravado dissolves as realization washes over you. He’s not some run-of-the-mill spoiled kid spending daddy’s money. He’s pedigree. Legacy. Stands so tall because there’s a pile of bodies beneath his feet courtesy of his family.
“Does it?” he repeats.
You nod.
“Tongue-tied, baby?”
You force a breath, light-headed, bubbly with panic and too much cheap champagne. “I had no idea.”
He chuckles. “I see that. Well, I don’t advertise it. Don’t want to attract the wrong type of attention, you know?”
Your smile wavers. Yeah, you fucking know.
It really makes sense now, why his huscle’s a chromed-out, hand-crushing titan.
“That’s why you have Ghost.”
The money finally slips into your palm.
“Exactly. Everyone wants a piece once you’re worth something.”
After a shared smoke and no small amount of cajoling on his part, you flick him your demo reel. He watches it there and then, cigarette burning down to the filter, and by the time you’ve crushed it under your heel, he’s calling himself your agent.
On the ride to his place, he drops your robo-agent, and in the morning, you sign paperwork in his bed. No need to step foot in a Goforth office when you have direct access to the future CEO. Non-disclosures, exclusivity contracts. Things you don’t fully understand, but initial anyway. Industry standard, he explains.
That night, in the afterglow, he presses his teeth to your neck and murmurs a promise: I’ll make you a star.
And like that, you’re in. Folded into his world—and beneath him—as though you’d belonged there from the start.
Weeks pass in a blur.
The time funnels into an eight-week intensive—scene study, cold reading, and dialect. You wake early to attend classes, and crash late after work. The confidence built hustling in Prism is laughable, stripped bare under the scrutiny of instructors and a gaggle of other ambitious hopefuls. Failure, though, isn’t a luxury you can afford. You dig in. Rebuild.
Your wardrobe flips. Third and fourth-hand clothes cycle out for fabrics you’ve never worn before—silks, cashmeres, synthetics engineered to shimmer like liquid. Cuts that hug and drape right. Win parades you around to his friends, arm snug around your waist. Introduces you as the next big thing. To remember your face.
Appointments multiply—salons, spas, clinics. No mods, though. Win’s adamant. What was once something you joked about, your ‘organic integrity’, becomes your edge. Your brand. The only exception is your optics. Top-shelf Kiroshi, in any color you want. Preloaded with a trimmed-down version of his own contact net—names, affiliations. Everything you’ll need to navigate the circles he moves you through.
You jump from a ten-second clip for Budget Arms to an Avante microfilm. No lines, visage buried under makeup—but when your image appears on the side of a Westbrook tower, it almost bowls you over. Your coworkers whistle when you clock in.
It’s a high like nothing else.
Despite everything Win gives, there are lines you’re not allowed to cross.
You learn not to pry. You don’t challenge the boundaries he draws on the city map, districts you’re to avoid unless he’s with you. Don’t protest your dismissal from conversations and meetings. Don’t question why he requires that you report any strange cars or customers that idle at the club. Don’t press when he vanishes without warning, unreachable for days, only to return with gifts and no explanation.
You don’t ask, because deep down, you already know. And knowing the wrong thing, knowing anythingat all, can get you killed.
Still—when Win’s around, things are good. Even if it means Ghost is, too.
Win repeatedly tells you to ignore his turret on legs. Easier said than done.
To Ghost’s singular credit, it is his job—hypervigilance, threat assessment—but you find yourself the subject of his near-constant surveillance. Unapologetically, unashamedly. Not an ounce of professionalism in how he stares. Dissecting like he’s visualizing how to peel you open and study whatever softness hides inside. As if you’re the biggest threat in every room.
When you meet his gaze, daring him to look away first, he doesn’t. He holds it. Leans into it. It sears, lingering even after you drop your eyes and pretend to listen to Win’s laugh. A hot, needling thing that slices clean through whatever butterflies Win manages to stir.
You catch Ghost watching from doorways, mirrored surfaces, the rearview. Especially when you’re in Win’s lap, his tongue in your mouth. He glares, repulsed as if you’re shit to scrape off his boot.
It gets worse when Win starts sending him with you on jobs.
Suddenly, he is your shadow. Your unwanted chaperone. He makes it clear he believes the assignment’s beneath him. He’s mean about it.
Grumbles when you lag behind, sighs loud enough for all to hear. He skulks about during meetings and auditions, draining the air from every conversation. At shoots, he posts up out of frame—arms folded, jaw clenched. When stylists fix your hem or photographers adjust your posture, his brow sinks in open contempt.
You learn fast: every time Win—or anyone else—touches you, Ghost finds a way to remind you he saw.
Which is rich, considering how little he respects your space.
Booths. Bar stools. Car seats. He spreads out. Takes up all the room he can, leg pressed against yours, arm draped behind your head, elbow brushing your ribs. And when you try to squeeze past, he stays exactly where he is—forcing contact, your body dragged along his like static cling.
He doesn’t leer. Never says a lewd word. He doesn’t need to.
One night, the belt jams in the Caliburn, and you wrestle with it uselessly. Ghost watches for maybe two seconds before sighing like you’re a dense child.
“Ever ride in a fuckin’ car before?”
You bristle, poised to snap back, but he leans across you without warning. One big hand grabs the belt, yanks it into place. He pulls back, knuckles skimming your waist, your belly, your hip—deliberate and utterly unnecessary.
He slaps your thigh after, like a mechanic shutting a hood. Hard enough to sting. You yelp, more startled than hurt.
Ghost laughs. It coils in your belly and stays there.
“So I take it I’m not going to Palm Springs.”
“What? Baby, no, no. I told you last week, it’s all business—you’d be bored out of your mind.”
A slice of pain. You worry at a hangnail, peeling it until blood beads. Your thumb finds your mouth, teeth closing gently around the torn cuticle, tugging it like a loose thread. You’d hoped he might change his mind, but after losing the Jinguji Spring-Summer campaign, you had an inkling.
“Maybe, but I’d be bored out of my mind by a private pool.”
Win steps out of the ensuite, monogrammed toiletry bag dangling from his hand. He grins, finding you perched expectantly at the bed’s edge. He chuckles, tossing the bag into his suitcase before crouching, warm palms landing on your bare knees.
“Trying to make me late?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
He pushes your dress to your thighs, unhurried, clearly weighing the pros and cons of rearranging his scheduled AV in real time. His eyes flicker, that peridot gleam catching the light as he kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Not going to work this time, Stella.” He teases, sorting through a stack of shirts. Stella. His nickname for you, the one that stuck—vintage, all tied up in your inevitable stardom. It’s not great, but it’s better than—
“Princess.” Ghost flatly intones from the doorway. “Your carriage awaits.”
You don’t look, instead grabbing Win’s sleeve. “Fine. Why don’t we plan a trip for when you’re back? Just the two of us? How about Seattle—”
“Stella,” Win breezes your name through his perfect, clenched teeth, and his hands stall. “I can’t make any promises. We’ll see if our schedules allow for that, okay?”
You release his sleeve, staring at the silver in his skin. There’s a balance here, one you can’t afford to upset.
A finger lifts your chin, and for a fleeting moment, guilt flits across his features before he kills it stone dead. “Hey, I love the excitement, baby. Really. But I’ve got a lot riding on this trip, okay?”
Nothing new there. The future always hinges on some deal.
Another chance to put your recent education to work. You smile. Silly you, sticking your nose into your not-boyfriend’s business. “Yeah, of course. Say hello to your dad for me, and call me.”
He pauses, glancing past you. “I will, baby.”
The kiss he steals is abrupt and consuming, too much tongue and enough to siphon air from your lungs. His hands close over your thighs, possessive, rings biting into flesh hard enough to mark.
Ghost clears his throat. Win doesn’t seem to hear it, but you do. A crystal clear reminder.
When he pulls away, you whisper again, creaky, “Call me.”
He nods, guiding you to your feet and nudging you toward Ghost. “Make sure she gets to the car.”
Ghost drums his fingertips boredly on the rail. You regard the floor counter as a countdown. A fuse.
You hate being alone with him. It isn’t enough for him to invade your personal space, he must always come armed with some cruel barb to stick you with. Every word’s a test, a tripwire. Designed to keep you constantly bracing for the next snap of his teeth at your heels. It’s suffocating. A loaded gun pressed to your skull.
More than once, you’ve begged Win to dismiss him. Told him the man makes your skin crawl, but it doesn’t matter. He’s blind to his guard’s behavior. Ghost’s safe. Ghost’s vetted. Bullshit. It doesn’t account for the way Ghost looks at you. His talent for backing you into corners, physically or otherwise.
Even now, it’s a matter of time until he—
“Shame about the trip,” he sneers. “Sunshine, little umbrella drinks, sunning your arse by the pool. That what you thought was gonna ‘appen?”
You stiffen. He needs no reply to continue.
“‘ate to break it to you, but Junior’s never gonna bring you home to ‘is daddy. Never was. Thought you’d’ve caught on by now.”
Forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight.
“You’re eye candy when ‘e’s got downtime. You’re not on the itinerary. You’re a piece of meat on the menu.”
That one flays to the bone, because you can’t deny it. Because you’ve tried not to believe it. Shoved every creeping doubt down, smothered them in excuses and daydreams, wrapped them in every sweet, flattering thing Win’s ever said. You’ve clung to the idea that you matter. That you’re more than another client to manage and a warm body to enjoy when it’s convenient. That he keeps you at arm’s length from his business because he cares. Not because he’s ashamed or following some cold-blooded family playbook you wouldn’t even know how to begin reading.
But Ghost? He doesn’t share your delusions nor will he entertain them. He cuts straight to the ugly truth, and what’s worse—
You’re not sure he’s wrong.
Your shift leaves you dusted in glitter. Steeped in cologne and stale cigar smoke. You swear Muttonchops and his buddy were deliberately testing your patience. Dragging out their stay, trading smug looks over their glasses like you couldn’t hear their crude commentary. Irina nearly backhanded the younger one after the third time he called her Bonnie.
At least the commute home was painless. With Win and Ghost both out of town, you’re flying solo. Cabs aren’t a luxury you can afford every night, but tonight you indulged. Worth every eddie.
Your feet throb, your head’s pounding. All you want is a shower. The elevator hums softly, coaxing you into a stupor as it inches up the tower, floor by floor, until finally, you’re home.
But something’s off the second you step into the corridor and find it empty.
No neighbors loitering. No one passed out on the floor. No muffled music or screaming. It’s as if everyone’s abandoned ship, but you know that’s not true. The lobby was bustling when you walked in.
Then, you see it, halfway down the hall.
Your door’s ajar.
No—not just ajar. The edge of the metal slab is crumpled. Peeled back and then slammed shut again, bent and twisted like foil. You see it clearly in the dim hallway light: four deep gouges in the frame. Finger-sized.
Your stomach drops. Déjà vu strikes, raising goosebumps with a memory from a space horror you were cut from last-minute.
For a moment, you stand there, pulse rabbiting in your ears, then reach down slowly to slip off one heel. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s the only thing in reach. You hold it tight, and nudge the door open.
Silence.
You tiptoe in—and there’s no one. No scavs. No psycho.
But the place is wrecked.
Your studio’s been torn apart. Every drawer gutted, every surface overturned. The tiny space you kept so meticulously neat is unrecognizable—your vanity-slash-dining-table a messy sprawl of open perfume bottles, the scents mingling in a sickly, cloying mist. Combs and brushes fanned out like tools. Even the bathroom’s been ransacked, med cabinet doors yawning wide, contents obviously rifled through.
You cross the room in stiff steps.
The bed’s a ruin. Pillows and duvet shoved into a corner, sheets completely gone. The wall beside it, once a carefully curated shrine of posters—movie stars, idols, your own small pantheon—is stripped. Torn down, scraps left fluttering.
The worst of it, the very worst, awaits by the wardrobe.
You move like a ghost, detaching piece by piece. It’s easier to pretend you’re watching this unfold instead of living it. Stepping over the heap of clothes tossed carelessly across the floor, your gaze locks on the open drawers.
Your underwear’s been pawed through.
Hands trembling, you count—at least three pairs of panties. The silk slip you bought with your first real paycheck. Sheer and impractical, but you cherished it.
All gone. Nothing else is missing.
Violation.
Whoever broke in didn’t come looking for valuables. They came to touch. They wanted you to see their work and for you to know they’d been inside.
The heel slips from your hand to the floor. Behind you, the door collides with the warped frame. Tries to shut, unable to latch. Thud. Again. Thud. Then it gives up.
When the fog lifts, you call Win—tears bubbling and spilling fast. He doesn’t ask, only promises Ghost will pick you up. Take you somewhere safe.
Thought this might happen. Stalkers, baby. You get used to ‘em. Sickos get obsessed. It’s time anyway, you’ve outgrown the place, Stella.
You gather the essentials. When you pull back the shower curtain to grab shampoo, you shriek.
There, wadded and soaked at the bottom of the tub, are your sheets. Half-heartedly washed and stained.
You turn away and puke.
It’s a small mercy that Ghost doesn’t say anything awful when you slip into the passenger seat, sniffling and hugging your bags.
“I thought you were in Palm Springs.”
“Clearly not.”
He’s damp, a sheen to his skin. Soap clings behind his ear, suds drying around the edge of his neuroport. His knuckles are pink, scrubbed raw along the joints and plating. There’s a gym bag tossed in the backseat, and for a brief moment, guilt twinges hot in your chest.
This clearly wasn’t how he planned to spend his night.
When he reverses, one hand braces behind your headrest, and it stays there.
It takes a few red lights before you notice the touch: a single finger brushing the back of your neck, tracing through the gap in the seat. Featherlight. Absent or intentional, you can’t tell with him.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look your way.
You let it happen.
Strangely, it helps—though whether that’s despite him or because it’s him, you’re not sure. It disarms you, comfort arriving from a man so typically merciless. It unsettles even as it calms. By the time he pulls up to a hotel, your breathing’s evened out. The trembling in your limbs gone.
You’re caught off guard when he accompanies you inside, that same hand migrating to your lower back to guide you through the lobby. You move in a fog, not fully grounded in your own body, allowing yourself to be led like a skittish animal. The unexpected gentleness soothes—until his palm glides north and curls possessively around the nape of your neck.
He tilts your head with enough pressure to shatter that fragile calm.
“You call mefirst when there’s trouble. Understood?”
You nod tremulously. He doesn’t let go.
“Say it.”
“I’ll call you,” you stammer, nodding harder. “I’ll call you first.”
Satisfied, he grunts. Taps a knuckle to your chin in odd punctuation.
“Good girl.”
The next night, Prism’s slow. Not unusual for a weekday, but it lands you in the stockroom, elbow-deep in crates of bottles. A fresh-faced barback chattering nonstop beside you.
You made the mistake of venting to Irina about the break-in, and now the whole staff knows. Every other person’s offered their own horror story, or reminded you—so helpfully—that you were lucky not to be home.
Home invasions go hand-in-hand with scav kidnappings. Which leads to organ theft and implant harvesting. Which leads to no one ever finding your body in a garbage heap.
Really sets a positive tone for the day.
You beg the universe for distraction. Anything to drag you away from the kid babbling about where secondhand Kiroshis come from.
As if summoned, Mal rescues you.
“Small party. Upstairs. Garnet booth.”
You’re already brushing past with thanks as she flicks the details over. You check your hair, grab the selected bottle, fasten the sparkler, and head for the stairs.
You pick up speed, double-timing it as the sparkler sputters, warming up to its full show. Slowing only near the top, you adjust your grip and smooth your expression, pulling on your brightest smile. You’ve got a lost rental deposit to recover.
Small group, indeed. No overlapping voices, no bodies spilling out of the edges of the private crimson booth. Maybe it’s a promotion or deal. Whatever it is, you’ve got your lines ready.
Then you see who it is. Ghost.
Sprawled in the booth with one leg kicked out, the other propped up lazily. His arms drape along the backrest, a jacket folded neatly beside him. The top buttons of his shirt hang undone, and the ambient light catches the silver veins of wiring tracing from his temples beneath the fabric.
You hesitate. Briefly entertain the idea of tossing the demi-sec straight at his smug face.
You know he’s smirking under the mask when he crooks two fingers, beckoning you closer.
“Champagne’s shit.”
Ghost mentions for the fifth time. Sat between his legs on the table’s edge, you find yourself staring at the faint outlines of panels beneath his shirt. The champagne flute in his mitt looks more like a test tube.
“I can get you another drink,” you repeat, also for the fifth time.
The sum of his visit: you, trying to do your job, and him, a useless asshole. Whatever ounce of kindness he showed last night, he seems determined to wipe it clean from your memory.
“No.”
You glare as he turns away to pull his mask down for a drink, then look over your shoulder. The club’s still solidly dead.
“If you don’t want anything, can I at least go—”
“No.”
Your patience frays more by the millisecond. “If I’m just going to sit on my ass all night—”
“You’re getting paid. You’re comfortable.”
“Hardly. Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be with Win? Umbrella drink in hand?”
Ghost stares flatly, then slowly leans forward, forcing you to duck awkwardly to avoid contact. He sets his empty glass near your hip.
This close, you can’t help but peer down his open shirt at the exposed cyberware of his chest. At the protruding veins and cords. The champagne in his breath mingles with smoke and a twist of mint. You’d scrunch your nose if he wasn’t technically a guest and you weren’t on the clock.
“Never left,” he mutters, finally leaning back and giving you space to breathe. “Junior’s old man got plenty of security.”
“So you were bored and decided to stalk me at work.”
He snorts. “Ain’t exactly ‘ere by choice. I’m babysittin’ on account of your place gettin’ tossed.”
“That’s a terrible demotion.”
“We’re agreed.”
Your thoughts unwillingly circle, returning to your apartment. The sheets. Your missing panties.
“Guess it’s sweet of Win to care enough to send you, though, after the break-in. Did he say when—”
Ghost knocks a knee against yours. “Aren’t you supposed to dance?”
You clench your jaw so tight you might crack a tooth. “No.”
“Seen others do it, and more.”
“It’s up to the individual, and I don’t dance.”
“So, what, you just sit here?” His chin dips. There isn’t a trace of red in them tonight, only a dark, cold brown. “And if I gave you…dunno, five grand? That get me somethin’?”
Your lungs empty in a silent rush. You stare, waiting for a sign. The twitch of a brow. A tell that this is another of his sick tests or pranks. That’s all it is, a ploy to catch you out. He doesn’t want anything like that from you. Not really. He wants to watch you squirm.
The thought creeps in anyway, uninvited. You picture it. The narrow space between his legs, the roll of your hips, teasing him. Skimming your hands up his thighs and chest. His hands on your waist, gripping—
You swallow the fantasy down, seeing for what it really is, a product of his mind games.
“No way.”
“Took a second,” he murmurs. “You think about it?”
You clamp your mouth shut.
“Oh, Princess,” he chuckles. “You did, didn’t you? Bet you played it out start to finish in that pretty little ‘ead. Poor thing. Sellin’ yourself so short.”
Drawing his legs in, he rises to his full height. The glass topples with a clink as you scramble backward. He shrugs on his jacket.
“I’d tell you not to let it keep you up tonight, but we both know it will.”
Then he jerks his chin toward the stairs.
“Go get your things. Taking you ‘ome. Got a surprise.”
‘Home’ doesn’t mean the hotel, as it turns out.
Ghost only stopped there long enough for you to grab your things before hauling you off to Win’s place—then disappearing without a word. No instructions, simply disappeared to his wing of the penthouse.
So much for the surprise.
You curl into one corner of the massive sectional, legs tucked, water in hand. You absently scroll the newsfeeds with a glazed stare, mentally adding review lease terms to your ever-growing list.
Heavy footsteps from the hall draw your attention. You double-take.
Ghost emerges from the corridor wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung shorts.
He’s patchwork. Hardware and skin fused and sewn together in layers. Stripped of his usual gear, there’s nothing to distract from the sheer force of him. Where his arms meet his torso, there are visible seams—gaps an inch wide, metal meeting synthetic tendon and wire, connectors and open ports exposed. His forearms are massive, encased in pale, durable polymer and synthskin toned to match his face. Even his knees have been replaced, joints fortified all the way to the ankle.
You can’t look away.
The familiar cables of his neck trail like roots into the panels across his chest. They disappear into the ridges and seams of plating. The scars on his skin there are more precise and cleaner than the one circling his head. But he’s littered with others clearly left by way of violence. Warped, jagged patches that he, for whatever reason, never buffed out.
From this distance, he resembles the surface of the moon. Pitted, cratered, shaped by impact after impact.
And even now, in private, he wears a mask. Plain fabric looped around his ears. Dressed down.
You snap back to the feed the second he pivots toward the living room, and feign disinterest. When he stops in front of you, you glance up like you’ve only just noticed him.
“You’re in my spot.”
You bite your cheek and shuffle over without fuss. Ghost drops into the vacated space with a groan, and sinks into the cushions. He kicks up a leg and the massive screen that dominates the far wall powers on.
He scrolls through endless titles in silence. You try not to stare, but your eyes drift anyway to his hand. The long, thick fingers curled around a beer bottle, one finger easily twice the width of yours.
“You think about it?”
A sip goes the wrong way, and you choke, coughing hard. In the corner of your eye, Ghost twitches as if to clap you on the back, but he lets you fight for your life.
“First time?” he deadpans once you’ve finally sucked in air.
“Asshole,” you croak, wiping your mouth.
“Not very nice when there’s a surprise on the line. Could decide not to give it to you.”
“If it’s from Win, you don’t get a say.”
“Maybe. I think I’ll ‘old onto it ‘til mornin’ all the same.”
You roll your eyes, but he shifts, angling himself slightly toward you, one hand resting on a thigh.
“I am willin’ to negotiate.”
The unspoken implications quarter your thoughts, wrestling them in different directions. You’d call it another stupid test, but he doesn’t look like he’s kidding around. Twice in an hour? He must be in the mood to break something. And without Win around as a safety, you’re the obvious target.
His eyes drill into you, brown irises tinged with a boiling red, dying coals hungry for a spark.
Nerves swallow you whole. You shake your head. “I’ll wait.”
He huffs, the red dulling. “Shame. Sure we could’ve worked something out.” He gestures lazily at the screen, unbothered. “Ever see this one?”
During the final act of Psycho, your eyes spot a dark splotch on the couch.
At first, you don’t understand what you’re seeing—then you spot the curve of an earloop and freeze. Your gaze darts up to confirm it. The film fades in the background.
Ghost remains as he was, locked on the screen, one knee bouncing idly. The light from the film dances white-silver over his skin. Not synthetic, not chrome, not painted and molded polymer. Flesh.
It’s the first time you’ve seen his whole face, and it’s not what you expected.
Pale lines crisscross the bridge of his nose—surgical, maybe another full replacement or reconstruction. Scars litter his chin like buckshot, interrupted by one that cuts through his upper lip. Another traces the line of his jaw.
More than the damage, it’s the humanity of his face that rattles you most. All that modification, and he’s still so plainly a man.
“Lookin’ at me a lot tonight.” He says suddenly, still glued to the film.
You jump, stutter. “Your face—”
“Yeah? Good work, isn’t it,” Amusement pulls the scar at the corner of his mouth up as he twists to set his glass down, and with that, you get a clearer view of the other side.
Fibrous burn scars mottled with white and pink cover his cheek. A deep gouge, long healed but brutal, cuts a half-moon-shaped hollow beneath his cheekbone from what looks like a failed excavation of his mandible and molars.
“Like what y’see? ‘ave I made an impression?”
It’s unlike any prosthetic or monster-of-the-week mask you’ve seen. It’s real. Gruesome. Alluring in its own strange way.
You look away, ignoring the confusing heat tickling your neck. “An annoying one.”
He chuckles, settling back. “So you say.”
Win gives the surprise away when you call him later. His friend owns a building downtown, and wouldn’t you know it, there’s a unit free. A massive, sun-drenched loft. Partly furnished as the last tenant skipped town after she fell behind on rent. Steep discount on the rent, too, if you want it.
You scroll through the listing while he talks, near-hyperventilating at the sheer size of it. High ceilings, tall windows, polished concrete floors. The location’s perfect. One NCART stop from Studio City. Within reach of work and Win. And with the discount, it’s affordable.
No more thin walls, broken fixtures, or loud neighbors. No more non-existent security.
“Win, this is—this is incredible. Are you sure? I-I mean, I want to say yes…”
He chuckles, shooting you a wink on the screen. “Then say yes. C’mon. You think I’m gonna let my girl keep living in a busted shoebox? Nah, Stella. You’ll learn. You protect your best assets.”
Morning finds you humming as you shimmy on your day-old clothes. Your skirt’s rumpled, the glittery tights split when tugged on, and your feet protest as you shove them into heels—but none of it dims your mood. You skip breakfast, too eager to get going.
When you smugly mention that Win spilled the surprise, Ghost doesn’t say a word, just grunts. Grips his coffee a smidgen tighter. You don’t let it spoil your excitement, either.
On the drive over, you buzz with anticipation. You picture where the bed will go, how the morning light will flood the room. Rugs, colors, textures—maybe splurging on a new couch instead of another dumpster find. A window nook. Real plants. Real art.
It’s more than an apartment. It’s a leap. More tangible proof you’re making it.
“Got a tear.”
“What?” You blink, breaking from your own little world.
Ghost shifts his arm where it’s draped over the center console. Not quite touching, but near enough to edge into your space, causing you to shrink closer to the window.
Then it moves.
Two fingers extend, and for a second, you assume he’s just pointing out the tear—until they land on it. High on your thigh, beneath the hem of your skirt. They press firm, then slip beneath the nylon.
Before anything else registers, you think: his fingers are cold.
“All tha’ money, and you wear this cheap shite?”
“Ghost—what—”
The tear widens with a whisper-soft sound as he hooks his fingers, tugging. The fabric parts without resistance. You suck in a breath, struck dumb by the sensation, the casually invasive creep of his knuckles against bare skin. His touch trails along the curve of your thigh, stoking heat in its wake despite their chill.
“Fuck, you’re soft…”
Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. A disconnect, a short circuit. It stutters, looping again and again, unable to bridge the gap between his shitty mood all morning to this.
“Sloppy girl,” he murmurs. “S’posed to keep up appearances, ain’t ya? Wearing tights with runs in ‘em. What would Junior say?”
His hand glides a fraction higher and drags every nerve to the surface, burning like live wires. His pinky ghosts along the inside of your thigh. Testing.
You gulp, horrified to feel your heartbeat sink low into your pelvis. “Ghost—”
“What?” His hand flexes, pressure ticking up by a degree—just enough to make the implication clear. There’s not a thing you could do to stop him, not really. “You got somethin’ to say, Stella? ”
That stupid name again—drawled like a leash being yanked taut.
Your body finally comes online. You shove his hand away hard, and to your relief, he lets you. He retracts, humming, like you’ve done exactly what he was waiting for.
“Touchy,” he finally looks your way, the faint red glow of his optics simmering. “Relax. Curious is all. Haven’t touched real skin in ages.”
“You didn’t even ask,” you manage through a stutter, fixing your skirt and pressing your knees together tight. Willing the uninvited want, slithering under your skin and burrowing deep, to die.
“Tryin’ to figure you out.”
You turn on him, near apoplectic. “Figure me out?”
The audacity floors you.
“Yeah,” His arm returns to the console. A threat. “You wanna run in the big leagues, but you fall apart as easily as those cheap tights, don’t you?”
The words hit like a slap, flummoxing you into another bout of speechlessness. Rage and shame twist together inside you so tightly they grow indistinguishable.
“S’not worth it.” he mumbles, an afterthought drowned beneath the wail of a passing horn.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
You don’t chase it. Can’t tell if he meant for you to hear it at all. It wouldn’t matter if he had. He clearly thinks you’re an airheaded piece of arm candy. A dumb girl who’s bitten off more than she can chew.
The car finally stops outside a sleek, mirrored high-rise. You try to hop out immediately, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching your bags, but the lock won’t budge. It forces you to look at him again.
“In a rush?” Ghost eyes you for a moment, then his attention drops to your hemline. His chest rises with a deep breath, and for a second, you think he might do it again. Instead, he looks up, and hits unlock. “Don’t let me keep you.”
You hesitate too long, and of course, he catches it.
“Unless that’s what you want?”
That’s your cue. You’re out of the car in a blink, the door snapping shut behind you. But the window rolls down.
“See you soon, Princess.”
You don’t look back. The run in your tights unravels past your thigh and to your knee. The morning air bites at the exposed skin, chasing off his touch.
Tags: age gap, size difference, implied/referenced incest
The lecture hall hums with low voices and the scratch of pens against paper when your phone buzzes. You glance down, careful not to draw attention, and slip it out of the pocket of your skirt. His message is short, flippant.
— Send me a photo.
— I’m in class.
The next buzz is seismic.
— I know where you are. Send me a photo.
The ground beneath you shifts.
This isn’t the first time he’s asked for a picture. But it is the first time he’s asked while he’s home. You picture him right where you left him that morning, in his chair at the table, lap still warmed by your body—
Heat spreads across your cheeks, and you can’t refrain from glancing around, as if his request is projected on the board. No one is looking at you. Your classmates are busy, their heads bowed or tilted toward each other. Your professor, nose in his book. Still, your chest tightens. You’re doing something you shouldn’t. You’re always doing something you shouldn’t.
The professor keeps talking, gesturing at the board without turning. You watch him for a moment, weighing the risk, though you already know you’ll comply.
You swipe the camera on, and avert your eyes immediately from your own embarrassed, shy expression. You hesitate. But he’s waiting. Your thumb hovers, you pull your lips into a smile, then press the button. The screen blinks, and your image stares back at you.
He smells like the inside of a pub. The scent of smoke and beer filling the space of your bedroom. His deep voice curls into your ear, low and amused, barely louder than your panting. You feel the weight of his arm draped across your collarbone and stretched up along your neck, his hand firm beneath your chin to angle your face towards your vanity mirror. The bed creaks as he shifts, sinking in deep, stretching you over his cock. His eyes watching the bounce of your tits, the stretch of your cunt over his cock.
“Thank fuck, y’look nothin’ like me.”
You shiver in your seat at the memory. You don’t give yourself a second to regret it. You press send.
-
When you return home hours later, you slow down at the sight of his boots flung carelessly on the floor. You pause, staring at them, then remove your shoes and place them neatly beside his. You tiptoe down the hall, your heartbeat quickening at the faint scent of tobacco and the sound of a football match. You find him on the couch instead of his chair and lick your lips. He must’ve really liked your picture to be there.
He acknowledges you with a brief glance cut over the neck of a beer bottle, then flicks his attention to the screen. You watch his free hand drop to his belt, tugging it open, then the zipper.
Your bag and coat hit the floor in a heap. You cross the room with a nervous giggle and slip into the space between his legs.
Before you sit, you lean in and kiss his cheek, the stubble tickling your lips. It’s only polite.
“Hi, daddy.”
-
She’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, or ever will. Her eyes are half-closed, glazed with need and want, sweat beading at her hairline and temples. It trickles down her skin, dropping onto him and seeping into his clothes. Simon’s eyes flit down to her tits, pulled free from her bra, nipples tight, and marked with his teeth.
Her cunt chokes his cock much better than his fist, tight as a vise and warmer by far. She mewls and hiccups as she bounces as best she can. She bites back the little whimpers determined to bubble up and escape her kiss-swollen lips. She’s being so good, being quiet as can be, while he splits his focus between the match and her pussy.
She hasn’t come yet. She can’t. Not without her dad’s thumb jiggling her clit. Unfortunately for her, the game isn’t over, and he still has a few sips left. She’s close, though. Her cunt pulses impatiently around him, walls fluttering, and staining his lap.
He gets close, too. Downs the rest of his beer in one long pull, pitching the bottle to the far end of the couch, something he’ll have her clean later. Then he hoists her up, rough hands scraping and lifting her by the waist. His fingers press into her, hard enough to bruise, dimpling the softness of her perfect skin. He holds her, squirming and wordlessly gasping, the wet hole of her cunt twitching over the tip of his cock.
Only when the match is called does he yank her back down, burying himself to the point where she howls and fights him a little. His cockhead to her cervix and testing. He flips them easily, crushing her between the couch cushions and his weight. She’s lucky Man City won.
His thumb finally drifts to her clit, and he hisses at how tight she goes.
“D-Daddy, please…”
“That’s it, baby. Take what you need. Need dad’s cock, hmm? Need to come?”
She can’t even speak. Simon pinches her clit and smiles at the yelp and squeeze it gets him.
“I asked you a question.”
“Y-Yesss, yes! I need to come!”
Simon laughs loudly, then drags his tongue up her cheek to catch the overstimulated tears running down her face. He pistons into her, hands firm on her hips, pulling her to meet his rhythm. Her eyes are closed now, but he doesn’t need them open to see the pleasure he’s etching into every pore on her face and every fiber of her being.
“Atta fucking girl, come on dad’s cock.”
He hammers into her until she comes, and until he comes. He unloads deep, as far as he can go, and she takes every drop she gives her. He feels it pushing out around the plug of his cock. “Look at you,” he taunts, then chuckles breathlessly above her. “Thank fuck y’look nothin’ like me.”
Her eyes flutter open, red-rimmed and wet. She sniffs quietly and reaches up for his face, her hand trembling from the aftershocks. Her fingers press against his jaw, soft and insistent, guiding him down. When she kisses him, it’s slow, sweet, and unsteady. Not like him at all, thank god.
