Based on [this] and [this] awesome art by @honeyhobbs
Now imagine being with snowy owl!gaz in the middle of the snow covered forest, right?
It's freezing even with your gear on, lying on your stomach in hiding with snow pressed all along your front. Gaz had ordered you to stay low, to keep hidden until the zone is announced clear.
Just to your left, your sergeant seems to be faring better than you. Large, white wings obscure most of his body, and a thin blanket of snow has accumulated on top from the hours lying here. He doesn't seem phased at all, almost enjoying it all.
"You okay, soldier?" Gaz glances sideways at you, brow raised in amusement at your shivering. Teasingly, he lifts a wing "need to warm up under mommy's care?"
Usually, you'd tell him to piss off, that he won't phase you. But. It's freezing, and you swear your lungs are making an effort to actively seize up from how cold it is. So you glare right back at him and huff "yeah, actually. I'm fuckin' freezing, sir."
After a stunned silence, gaz is sliding on top of you, blanketing you both under thick wings.
The sudden temperature change is almost dizzying, your sergeants warmth and the insulation from his wings. You bask in it, thankful for him invading your space for once and—
"Fuckin' christ, sir?" You shift, heart stuttering "are you seriously...?"
The hard line of gazs cock nudges against your ass, gloves hands moving to your waist while he chirps above you "can't help it when I've got someone like you under me. Figure it evens out the closet, yeah?"
You blush at the reminder of the closet, tuck your head down and arch your back to a pleased "hah, knew you'd like it."
Gaz begins rocking into you, not at all bothers by the mutliple layers when he settles his whole weight into it. Christ, you wish you were back in that shitty motel so you could fuck him properly–
"Close." He warns, one hand sneaking under to give you a palm to rut into as well.
The cold from earlier is a distant memory, forgotten beneath the heat of his wings and the pleasure between you. Gaz chirps, coos–
"Really, soldiers?"
Ghost, stood directly over you both. Fuck, you were so close too.
No thoughts just retired!ghost who gets along better with bugs than people...
Sure, he goes to therapy, but that's only to fill the mandatory requirements price set for his allowance. Sessions are spent stubbornly answering questions in the vaguest terms and only reassuring his therapist that he has no intentions to hurt anyone.
Truthfully, he doesn't have any intentions to hurt anyone. For the first time since his forceful retirement, ghost feels somewhat balanced.
All because of the various bugs he keeps in his apartment.
An entire wall enclosures specifically curated to each critter inside. Beetles, isopods, millipedes. Each one hand-selected by ghost, lovingly raised. Something about the company of such small creatures loosens his tongue, has him mumbling "I'm home. Rough day, store was out o' my bread." To them.
Where ghost is a sealed vault to anyone else, his bugs know everything. He whispers to them each night, vents about his day, tells them about the weird duck he saw by the park.
He also tells them about his crush. You, the neighbor who always brings him cookies.
"I really like 'em, betty," ghost tells his beetle over dinner, sprinkling food into her enclosure "real nice. Never judges me. Great ass too–"
The...only downside being that ghost doesn't realize just how thin the walls are. Nor the fact his bugs share a wall with your bed.
...maybe one day you'll get the guts to actually talk to him.
the first time you blow john 'soap' mactavish it's in the dingy bathroom in the pub just down the road from credenhill with more than a few drinks in your system.
it's not the first time you've been in this bathroom with him. not the first time his mouth has been on yours tasting of beer and terrible decisions. he's not someone you should be doing this with. not a teammate. you're pretty sure there's rules against it.
and even if there's not, there's a million reasons you shouldn't be getting involved with someone you walk into gunfire with.
but after one drink his eyes look even prettier than usual.
after two, you can't help but imagine his bicep tucked under your chin whilst he fucks you.
and three? three leads you here, to the cramped bathroom with cracked tiles and a singular bare bulb swinging from the ceiling.
the last time it was you perched precariously on the edge of the porcelain sink with johnny's fingers buried inside of you, his mouth on your neck, his free hand cradling the back of your head like you were something more than just a drunken hook up.
but this time it's you doing the giving; sinking to your knees, tiles cold and uncomfortable even through the thick denim of your jeans. his hands cup your jaw, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.
as you pull his belt undone you wonder - does he like it slow? sloppy? messy? does he want you to use your hands as well?
you get his belt open. then the button and zipper. shove his jeans and black boxers down just far enough.
and there… it is.
inked in simple black letters, just above his pubic bone, nestled under the hair of his happy trail.
worship
you freeze for half a second, fingers still hooked in his boxers, staring at the word. johnny freezes above you, thumbs stilling on your cheeks
you glance up. he’s watching you with a particular look he gets sometimes - the one that sits somewhere between challenge and shame. the one that makes you wonder how many times he's spoken through the wall of a confessional just to go out and do something that would make the priest's heart stop in his chest.
you drag your thumb over the letters, feel his breath hitch.
"didn't know you had this." you murmur.
johnny swallows audibly. "aye." a beat, "you know what they say, love. prayer's best done on your knees."
you lean forward and press an open mouthed kiss to the word; feel his cock twitch against your cheek. when you glance up at him again his eyes are on you, jaw slack.
"well then," you say quietly, wrapping a hand around the base of him. "guess i'd better get to it."
you drag your tongue over the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock; press a kiss to the spot underneath his head that makes his thighs tremble. one of his hands shifts to your hair - not pushing, just holding - the other dropping down to his side loosely. as you take him into your mouth properly, johnny's breath leaves him all at once.
you keep it slow, at first. wet. the kind of messy that leaves his skin shining and your mouth swollen. every time you flick your tongue against him, or hollow your cheeks, he makes a quiet, wrecked sound that doesn't quite make it all the way out of his throat.
like he's trying not to be loud. trying not to enjoy this. like maybe the bare bulb or the cracked tiles or the people on the other side of the door might report him to someone higher than command.
you glance up once. his head is tipped back, throat working visibly, eyes shut tight. there's a tiny crease between his brows. you can almost see the war happening in his head - the part of him that wants to fuck into your mouth and the part of him that still thinks about sunday school and the weight of a rosary and the fact that he’s got a teammate on their knees in a pub toilet with his cock halfway down their throat.
“fuck -” the word is cut off with a hiss of breath. he tries again, quieter. “you’re… christ. you’re good at that.”
you hum around him and his hips stutter forward before he forces them still. the hand in your hair tightens - not rough. desperate.
you take him deeper. angle your head and let your throat open, sinking down him until your nose touches the tattoo and johnny can't think of anything other than the way your throat flutters around him and the way he feels like he's going to burst at the seams.
he lasts less than another minute. his thighs start to shake and the quiet, suppressed noises turn into something almost feral. when he comes it's with your name half formed on his tongue like a prayer (or a curse) and his free hand slapped across his mouth to try and keep the rest of it in.
you stay on your knees until his breathing evens out. until the hand in your hair turns gentle again, thumb stroking once behind your ear like a wordless apology.
you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and stand, knees cracking.
johnny tucks himself away with slightly unsteady hands. doesn’t look at you while he does up his belt. when he finally does meet your eyes there’s colour high on his cheekbones and something complicated and guilty sitting right behind the usual blue.
“we should -” he starts, then stops. clears his throat gently. “table.”
you both wash your hands in the cracked sink like that somehow undoes what just happened. johnny holds the door open for you on the way out.
no one looks twice at you. all the other punters too busy with their drinks and stories.
you slide back into the booth. the others are mid-argument about something that happened on the last training exercise. ghost glances up once, eyes flickering to you, then johnny, then back to his pint again. price frowns. gaz rolls his eyes.
no one says anything.
johnny sits down beside you. close enough that his thigh presses against yours under the table.
he doesn’t move away.
you take a long drink from whatever is left in your glass.
johnny’s knee bumps yours once. deliberate.
when you glance at him he’s already looking at the football playing on television above the bar, jaw tense, ears still faintly pink.
and his hand in his pocket, fiddling with the cross you know he keeps in there.
fingers wrapped around his cock any time he's not on set, a constant refrain of your breathy,
"nobody fucks me like you"
that drives him mad.
maybe he's been too lenient with you, let you go off script so much that he can't tell what you mean and what you've been coached on. but he doesn't think it matters anymore,
nobody fucks you like he does.
presses you down into the mattress like he does, ruts their fat cock between your wet folds like he does. when he wraps his hand around your jaw, pulls your head up to drool for the camera, it's not because he's the best it's because he won't let anyone else try. you're meant to be his, you just met him at the wrong time for it.
doesn't matter, he supposes, not when you keen and moan, legs shaking and hips swaying at the first touch. you don't want anyone else, do you sweetheart? no. no, he shakes your head for you, shoves his fingers into your mouth to make you slur the words.
"i'm yours," he loves it "i'm yours," he loves you.
so maybe you've been too lenient with him, let him take more than he's owed.
but nobody fucks you like ghost does, and you're too cockdrunk to ask someone else to try.
cw: afab+f!reader, potentially overlooked beach sex. two freaks in love and on holiday in ibiza. 1.5k words.
"love, where th' fuck did you get that bikini?" simon's voice cuts across your silence just as his frame cuts across your sun, casting a shadow over where you're sprawled out on a beach lounger.
you glare up at him from behind your sunglasses.
"you're in my sun." you pout back. "and uh, from one of the little shops in town here. why?"
"because i want to buy you ten more. yer tits look crackin'." he deadpans back, before dropping into a plastic beach chair tucked under the shade of the umbrella next to your sun lounger. "they're the best thing about this fuckin' holiday. can't believe i let you talk me into this."
you roll your eyes, "didn't see you complaining last night when you bent me over the balcony post pina colada consumption."
"never gonna complain when i'm inside you now love, am i?" he shoots back. "but… ibiza. we're in ibiza. the 'ome of fucking twenty year olds doin' too much molly at club nights."
you reach over and swat him, actually swat him, palm connecting with the skin of his calf. "simon!" you admonish. "we're going to a vine yard on thursday. and a fucking UNESCO heritage site. don't shit talk ibiza. there's… culture as well as parties. you sound like a grumpy old man."
his nostrils flare, but he doesn't argue.
he does sound like a grumpy old man.
there's a pause as you adjust your sunglasses in your nose, relaxing back against your lounger. "but we are going to a party tonight. starts at 11pm. no molly required. but i'll buy you more cocktails."
simon groans. "fuckin' 'ell, pet."
the club is everything simon hates.
dark except for the glow of neon, ever changing lights; packed with sweat slicked bodies moving against each other. no clear exit routes. limited cover.
but the cocktail complete with little umbrella in his hand almost makes up for it.
and the way you're moving your hips to the sound of the slow baseline that's currently shaking his bones definitely makes up for it.
you're just over an arms reach away from where he's leaning against a wall, right at the edge of the crowd; body wrapped in an outfit that he's going to make sure to find an occasion for you to wear again.
and he's mesmerised.
by you.
with the way you have your arms thrown in the air and your head tilted back; heartbeat thudding in time with the music just under the skin of your throat. he could watch you do this forever. watch the way your lips curve in the corners and your eyes go glassy under flickering lights; the way you lose yourself, let yourself just feel.
it occurs to him that the only other time he sees you this free and relaxed is when he's fucking you. a thought that makes his cock twitch in his jeans and his ears go red at the tips; before he promptly shoves it to the back of his head - for now, anyway.
then suddenly you're turning to face him fully, looking up at him through lowered lashes, holding your hands out in an invitation as your hips sway.
he blinks once. shakes his head.
you pout. eyelashes fluttering. fingers waggling.
he sighs, downs the rest of his drink, and closes the distance between you.
even he can't argue with that.
he spins you, presses your back against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you pressed close; his free hand finding your hip, body slowly swaying with yours.
"i fuckin' hate dancin'." he mutters, breath hot over the shell of your ear.
you tilt your head, eyes finding his in the neon flashing lights - and for a moment his breath catches in his throat almost painfully at how alive you look. he ducks his head enough to catch your words over the music, uttered with the smugness of a woman that knows she's right: "yeah, but you love me."
he doesn't answer right away, just tightens his arm around your waist and allows his body to follow the slow movement of yours; trying to find his feet literally and figuratively. then finally he sighs, "yeah. i do love you."
you smile, triumphant, and push back against him; grinding in a lazy circle that has his fingers digging into your hip. every time you arch or sway he follows, face tucked into your neck; breathing in the scent of the perfume you picked up at the airport and the sweat accumulating on your skin from the heat of the lights and the crowd. you grind back against him again and he groans softly, ducking his head lower to nip at the exposed skin of your shoulder. "keep doin' that and we're not makin' it back to the hotel petal."
your lips curve upwards, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, tilting your head to give him better access, "promise?"
a low, almost pained, sound rumbles from his chest as he presses an open mouthed kiss against the pulse hammering under the skin of your throat. he straightens, eases his grip slightly - but doesn’t let go completely. “c’mon. before i do somethin’ that gets us thrown out.”
you let him pull you through the crowd of bodies towards the exit; out into the cooler air that's carrying a tinge of salt from the ocean. simon keeps you close as you start the walk back to the hotel along a quieter stretch of beach, sand soft under your shoes.
halfway there he stops.
you turn, a question already half formed on your lips; but when you see the expression on his face your jaw slams shut.
want.
that's the only way to describe it.
before you can blink your back is pressed against sand tucked away behind a low wall, his mouth on yours - hungry, tasting of the last cocktail he drank. his hands are everywhere; cupping your tits through your dress, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they pebble under fabric, then lower - pushing your dress up over your hips and dragging your underwear across so he can drag two fingers over your slit. he hisses through his teeth when he finds you warm and soft and wet. he doesn't push inside, just gathers wetness with the pads of his fingers before dragging them higher to glide over your clit until your hips buck.
"i love seein' you dance." he mutters. "you always look like… like yer free." there's a brief pause as his lips quirk, "an' it makes me 'ard."
you grin, capture his mouth with your in a kiss that's all heat and fire and love, reaching between you to pop the button of his jeans, shove them down around his hips. he frees himself; drags the swollen head of his cock through your folds once before pushing into the tight heat of your cunt in one long stroke that knocks the air from both your lungs.
"simon-"
"i know, love." his voice is wrecked, one hand bracing in the sand next to your head. "i fuckin' know." he starts to move; deep, steady strokes that fill you completely with every thrust. the sound of the ocean is loud enough to cover the sound of skin on skin and the broken sounds you're both making. he fucks you like he’s been wanting to all night - like the club and the dancing and the way you looked under the lights snapped something inside him.
you roll your hips up to meet every stroke, his fingers find your clit again, press hard enough that you whine; a broken sounding noise that's lost to the sound of waves crashing.
"c'mon petal. reckon you can come for me? even though someone might 'ear?" he murmurs, lips twitching into a smile that's almost a taunt. the thought, the words, the relentless drag of him inside you - it all crashes together. you clench down around him, pleasure rolling through you in waves, muffling the sound you make by biting into your own forearm. simon follows a handful of thrusts later, burying himself inside you as his whole body shudders.
for a long moment neither of you move. there's just your breathing. the sea. the distant thump of bass. simon's forehead resting on on your shoulder.
eventually he pulls put, puts your knickers back into place - tugged tight against where he's leaking out of you like he's trying to trap the evidence of your little tryst on the beach. he tucks himself away, pulls you to your feet, presses a kiss against your forehead, face softer around the edges when he looks down at you. "hotel." he mutters, "before i decide that the sand is comfortable enough for round two.
you laugh, tangle your fingers with his, tug him in the direction of the hotel. "round two's in the shower. pretty sure there's sand in my fanny."
his shoulder shake with silent laughter, "aye. shower then. unless you want t' give the sea a go?"
People get genuinely concerned whenever ghost flirts with you in public, right?
Maybe it's the fact violence nurtured every moment of his life, maybe he's just a little twisted. Doesn't matter the reason when he looks your outfit up and down and grunts "you'd look good tied up in my basement in that, lovie."
Gaz and soap pause their conversation mid-flirt to cast equally judgemental looks at ghost. Price, who's met you plenty of times before, doesn't react when ghost hooks a finger into your belt-loops and tugs "blood stains wouldn't come out, either."
To the sergeants horror, you just smile at ghost and rest your arms over his shoulders like a love-sick fool. Gaz is about ready to ask if you've drank anything when you hum "yeah? Would you chase me through the woods?"
"For you, dove? I'd have a snare set up already. Herd you right to it." Ghost's arms around your waist, eyes soft when he pulls you closer. "You'd make a perfect, adorable victim."
Later, the bartender will try to get you alone and ask if you need help. You'll have the joy of watching her face fall into horror as you explain ghost is just flirting with his soon-to-be fiance.
Your eyes rolled back as Nikolai scratched behind your ear. The spot making your body tingle wonderfully. Leg kicking out as you leaned closer to his touch.
"Yes you will... so good, Milaya."
The moment he turned to open the door you sat up straight. Nervously fixing your hair and collar to be presentable. God forbid you embarrass your papa.
There were more men than you were expecting. Four of them filing into Nikolai's lush living room. One by one catching sight of you and freezing. Staring in shock. You recognised them. But your thoughts were so slow. A warm swamp that just wasn't worth slogging through to come to a conclusion.
"Is that..." John mumbled. Eyes wide with surprise.
"The rookie that disappeared six months ago..." Ghost replied. Just as zeroed in on your nude form.
"The rookie that could not follow orders and nearly got us killed." Nikolai finished. Petting your hair and smirking when you leaned into his hand. "Useless soldier. Much better pet, yes?"
He didn't get a response.
"She enjoys it. Don't you, pup?" His grin widening when you nodded eagerly. His voice the only clear thing in your mind. "Would you like to show Papa's friends your tricks?"
At the little 'arf' you let out, Johnny muttered under his breath. Entire face bright red. Already chubbing embarrassingly fast in his pants.
"Steamin' bloody jesus..."
Nikolai moved to sit on the couch. Hands on his knees as he watched you. Fidgeting in your seat while you waited for an instruction.
"Roll over."
In an instant you twisted on the ground. Tongue lolling out of your mouth as you rolled just like he said. So desperate to be good for him.
"Shake."
You immediately jumped up. Sitting on your haunches and rocking slightly so your tits bounced. Kyle let out a half cough, half curse. Quickly looking away in respect. As if you had any dignity left at this point.
The soft flesh of your chest jiggled with each bounce. Continuing until Nik nodded with approval before finally settling back against your heels. Something akin to embarrassment clawing at the back of your throat. So close to registering. But any sense of humiliation had been trained out of you months ago.
"Present for Papa."
Not a moment of hesitation. You were suddenly on all fours. Ass pointed in the air so your bare cunt was exposed. All the men in the room now able to see how obscenely slick you were. Pussy soaked with arousal.
"Good girl." Nik hummed. The praise going straight to your clit. "You want a treat?"
Even though you didn't move from your spot, they could tell how badly you wanted. Entire body nearly vibrating with need.
"Come get a treat, Milaya."
In less than a second you were between his legs. Nose pressed against the hidden bulge of his cock. Huffing deeply with a pathetic whine. Rubbing your face against him like a proper mutt. Eager to smell like your owner. Your papa.
"Fuckin' hell, Nik." John said. Breaking the tense silence. "Can you do Johnny next?"
No thoughts just dove!reader and bearded vulture!ghost...
Of course you have a crush on him, one of the few avians on base. How ghost can fly so easily, soar for hours on missions to scout ahead of the group. Large wings, sharp talons. they invade your every waking moment.
He never really looks at you, why would he?
You're just some soldier he occasionally works with. The only time you really talk is after missions when you and a few others have to stay late in the locker picking out the largest debris from your wings. Even then, he's nothing but a bit chatty in the way adrenaline makes anyone chatty.
That is, until you come back from a mission covered in blood.
It stains your wings in deep red splotches, seeps between feathers into a hazy pink. Ghost doesn't take his eyes off you for a moment, stalking behind you and pulling you into a hallway before you can duck into the showers.
"You look stunning in red," talons rake through your feathers, making you shake. You hoot, chirp, instincts crooning at your desired mate so close to you.
One thing leads to another, leads to you in ghosts nest with his hand between the sensitive skin at the base of your wings.
rotten work, chapter three: captivity. please see series masterlist here. 3k words. cw in the tags check the tags.
the night you spend in the cage feels endless.
the basement is cold without all the camera rigging on, damp lingering in the air, your thin scrubs offering almost no protection from the chill. the ever present red light emitting from the single bulb left on makes time meaningless, minutes stretching into hours immeasurably.
you can't stretch your legs properly. can't lie down fully. the steel bars press cold and unforgiving against your back if you try to sit; the cold of the metal base sinks into your bones if you try to curl up on your side. your wrists throb where the zip ties cut into them.
sleep doesn't come. not really.
you drift in and out of a shallow haze - jolting awake at every creak of the house above you, every drip in the pipes, every distant sound of floorboards settling. your mind spins, so very aware of the chair in the centre of the room bathed in a bloody glow. very aware that the time you're spending in the cage is just a brief respite from your fate in this room.
or you assume that's still his - ghost's, you saw the name on the chat - plan, even after he decided to not spill your blood all over the floor immediately.
can't believe this is how i fucking die, you think as your teeth chatter, as entertainment for a bunch of fucking weirdos. fucking… messy.
you’d be carved up for entertainment. turned into content. your screams would live forever on some encrypted server, replayed by sick fucks who got off on your pain.
the worst part was the small, traitorous voice in the back of your head that kept whispering: you chose the alley. you let this happen.
by the time you hear the creak of the basement stairs, you're exhausted, freezing, and hollowed out. your eyes burn. your body aches. and the fear has lodged itself firmly in your stomach.
by the time the basement door finally swings open, you're wide awake and watching him approach like a feral cat that's been trapped.
that morning simon had been ripped from sleep, heart pounding against his ribs, eyes flying wide open.
for a few disoriented seconds he stared at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom, chest tight. then it hit him like cold water.
she's still downstairs.
still in his basement. still breathing. still alive.
he sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, dragging a rough hand down his face. he never keeps them overnight. ever. the job was simple: grab, play, dispose. clean. repeat.
efficient. safe. controlled.
but this one…
this tired, mouthy thing with the same dead-eyed exhaustion he saw in the mirror everyday - still sees, if he's truly honest with himself, which he rarely is. the one who’d chosen the alley like she was begging the world to end her, then spat in his face like a challenge when he put her on camera.
he’d meant to kill her last night.
he should have.
instead he’d put her in a cage like some fucked-up pet he couldn’t bring himself to put down.
“fuck.” he sighed, voice rough with sleep.
this isn't just breaking routine.
this is dangerous. the longer she stays alive, the more complicated it becomes. evidence. risk. and worse - the uncomfortable flicker of something human in his chest that he thought had rotted away years ago.
he didn’t want to feel seen. feel recognition.
he didn’t want to feel anything, particularly.
it was easier not to.
simon stood, jaw clenched, and forced himself through the familiar motions — mask on, gloves on, tea brewed, toast buttered. but his hands are tighter than usual. his mind louder.
he told himself he’ll finish it tonight.
he almost even believed it.
but first? breakfast.
ghost appears carrying a polystyrene cup and a paper plate - nothing you could turn into shards and use as a weapon. the skull mask is firmly back in place, hiding any trace of the man who had just been borderline panicking upstairs.
he crouches, knees creaking, shoving the items through the gaps in the bars of the cage: two slices of buttered toast and a cup of black tea.
you glare at the provisions, then at him, mouth pressed into a flat line.
“eat.” he says flatly. an order, not a suggestion.
you stare at the pathetic little meal again, then up at the mask. “fuck off.”
ghost tilts his head. “not very grateful for room service, are we lamb?”
he crouches down so he's closer to eye level with you, brown eyes boring into yours through the gap in the balaclava. "eat." he repeats, voice forced into something colder now. "you're going to need your fuckin' energy tonight, okay?"
you swallow. audibly. visibly. snatching the toast and eating it in angry bites while he watches. the tea was good which somehow made things worse - a brief glimpse of normalcy in hell.
when you finished, he took the mug back through the bars, tilting his head again.
"you need to piss?"
you flinch at the bluntness of the question - and at the realisation that yeah actually, you do need to.
you nod, a tiny jerk of your chin, eyebrows pinching into a frown as you wonder what exactly your bathroom situation might be.
ghost nods, disappears to the opposite corner of the basement, barely visible in the low light as he digs around for… something.
he returns moments later with a bucket.
a black, plastic bucket.
you stare, eyes flicking from his masked face to the bucket, connections firing in your sleep deprived and terrified brain, shame and anger twisting in your gut when you realise that is going to be your bathroom situation.
"scoot back. not havin' you try and claw my eyes when i open the fuckin' door." he mutters, reaching to unlock the padlock keeping the cage door shut. when you don't move, when you continue to stare wide eyed, his own eyes narrow behind the mask.
"i said fuckin' scoot back." his voice comes out colder this time, more of an order than a suggestion, harsh enough that your stomach clenches with fear. "fuckin' move, lamb. or i'm takin' the bucket away and you can just piss in your scrubs instead. leave you like that so chat's got somethin' to look at later."
chat.
later.
the thought of being put back in the chair was bad enough. the idea of being back in the chair covered in your own urine added an extra layer of humiliation that had bile crawling up your throat; a sharp acidic sting that makes you gag slightly.
you move. press yourself to the back bars of the cage, metal digging into your back, making yourself as small and inoffensive as possible whilst he yanks the door open and shoves the bucket in.
ghost turns, gives you a semblance of privacy, registering the sharp twinge of guilt that flares in his chest. guilt he shouldn't feel. guilt he hasn't felt before in this basement when he puts simon back in the box he'd built to contain him during his military service and let's ghost run free. he doesn't let it show. just stands rigidly near the cage, arms crossed over his chest, attention firmly on the wall and not you.
you notice.
the privacy.
but you don't know what it means.
this is ridiculous. this is your life. not some low budget horror movie. kidnapped by a man in skull printed balaclava.
pissing in a bucket.
you hate him. hate this. but most of all you hate that the tea tasted nice.
the basement is silent except for the sound of both your breathing and the stream of your piss hitting the plastic bucket that you've somehow managed to crouch over, scrub trousers and underwear pulled down to your knees.
eventually the silence becomes more unbearable than filling it.
"this is a shit hotel. wouldn't stay again."
ghost's back straightens, but he doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't turn away from the wall.
but the corners of his lips twitch under the mask. not that you can see.
when he doesn't respond you continue, "pretty sure the piss bucket is a health and safety violation."
this time ghost makes a rough sound in the back of his throat that could be annoyance or amusement but still doesn't turn.
you finish, tug your trousers back into place, push the bucket towards the door of the cage. "done."
he retrieves it in silence, locks the cage door, disappears back up the basement stairs wordlessly, leaving you alone again in the red tinged room.
you wonder if he's coming back or if you're going to spend however many hours until he hauls you back into the chair in lonely silence - and you're not sure which is the worse option.
you're not wondering for long.
heavy footsteps descend back down the basement stairs, followed by the screeching noise of metal dragging against concrete as he brings a small folding chair over, propping it open in front of the cage, taking a seat with his arms crossed over his chest like you're a particularly interesting exhibit in a zoo.
you glare up at him, waiting for him to speak first.
he doesn't.
so instead you do.
"one star." you say flatly. "'accommodation poor. staff hostile. bathroom facilities lacking.'"
ghost makes another rough noise in the back of his throat. you still can't tell if it's annoyance or amusement.
he's glad his mask hides his expression. he's glad you can't see the flicker of humanity that crosses his features every time you make a sharp little comment, every time you show more spine than he expected the woman who picked the alley to show.
"continental breakfast choices limited." you continue. "tea surprisingly good."
"...'s yorkshire tea."
you blink. "…what?"
"'s yorkshire tea," he repeats, like that somehow explains everything.
you blink again. "tasted like pg tips."
ghost levels a look at you through the mask, "tastes like yorkshire tea."
you stare at him.
"you're arguing tea brands with your kidnapping victim."
ghost shrugs one shoulder. "you started it."
"you kidnapped me!"
he pauses. stares back at you. then shrugs the same shoulder again. "...fair."
you blink.
that wasn't defensiveness. or justification. just a flat acknowledgement that yes, he had in fact kidnapped you, drugged you, locked you in a cage, and is now discussing tea brands with you like this is any other day.
you swallow. once again very aware of your current predicament.
"the bucket dragged the rating down." you add, but it's got more waver to it that before.
he sighs, glad you can't see the way his lips tilt downwards under the mask when he sees realisation flicker across your features, also once again reminded of his own role here. "it's a fuckin' cage. what do you expect, an en suite? christ, you're demandin' for someone locked up."
you fix him with a flat look. "i worked a fourteen-hour shift in the shitshow that's NHS before you grabbed me," you snap. "i've earned the right to complain."
ghost goes still.
not dramatically. just enough that you notice.
"NHS?"the question slips out quieter than the others. less mocking.
you immediately regret opening your mouth. "...yeah."
his gaze settles on you properly for the first time since he'd shoved a bucket through the cage bars.
you have the uncomfortable feeling of being assessed. not as prey or entertainment.
just… observed. evaluated.
"nurse?" he asks, voice quiet, head tilted to the side.
your mouth flattens into a thin line as you look up at him. "if i say yes, are you going to let me out? freedom would be worth more than the fucking applause we got thursday nights during the panny d."
his lips twitch slightly at the fact you referred to the covid pandemic as a panny d but when he replies its flat, no room for argument: "no."
"then what difference does it make?" you snap back, hands curling into fists where they rest on your thighs.
he shrugs, "doesn't. but we might as well fill the time."
a lie. he doesn't just want to fill time. for some sick, twisted reason… he wants to know you. wants to know what made the woman in the scrubs choose the alley.
even if that makes the basement all the more dangerous for both of you.
his eyes flick down to your scrubs. to the trainers you'd still been wearing from your shift. to the dark circles carved under your eyes that looked permanent at this point.
"nurse." he confirms, almost to himself, before he glances away again. "should've guessed. you've got that look about you."
you huff out a humourless laugh, wrapping your arms around yourself against the lingering cold.
"rather be dealing with blood and shit and arsehole patients that this." you mutter, more to yourself than anything. "patients are usually less stabby."
"'aven't stabbed you." ghost cuts in.
"yet." you sigh quietly, lead lining your stomach.
ghost doesn't respond immediately.
but his gloved fingers tighten against his biceps where his arms are folded across his chest.
when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter.
"...yet."
your stomach twists.
the reminder settles heavily between you.
because that's the thing.
this - the tea, the bickering, the complaints - none of it is normal.
he's still the man who built this room. the man who bolted that chair to the concrete floor. the man who had stood under red lights while strangers paid to watch people suffer.
the man who could decide tonight that whatever hesitation had kept you alive so far had finally worn thin.
you glance towards the chair without meaning to.your pulse stutters, you swallow audibly. "how long?"
ghost tilts his head to the side, "what?"
your voice drops into something almost inaudible. "until tonight."
he doesn't answer straight away and for a moment you think he might simply refuse. "got a few hours. no point logging in early."
the words land like a lead weight in your stomach.
you nod once. "right."
a few hours. a few hours before the cameras switched back on. before the audience returned. before he remembered what this room was for.
silence stretches between you again before you decide to fill it - talking, even with him, is better than thinking. better than counting the minutes until you're put back in the chair.
…or maybe you just want to see if there is a man under the mask.
"what did you do before this?" you ask quietly.
ghost goes completely still. the atmosphere in the basement shifts instantly into something heavier, deeper.
ghost contemplates ignoring you entirely. or telling you to shut up. or lying.
instead, "military." it comes out clipped, like it's not something he thinks much about anymore.
your eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. but it… makes sense. considering how comfortable he is around blood and guts and knives. "how long?" you ask quietly.
he shrugs, "eighteen years."
you blink. once. twice. "is the… military to murder basement pipeline a well established one?"
he freezes. and for the first time since waking up in the basement you hear it - a genuine huff of amusement from behind the mask. brief. almost reluctant. gone almost before you can register it.
but there.
ghost straightens immediately afterwards, like he can physically pull the reaction back inside himself. "no. the military to murder basement pipeline is not a well established one." he pauses, like he's weighing his words. "just didn't 'ave many options after."
you're silent. absorbing. wondering exactly what he saw in those eighteen years that meant he ended up like this. against your better judgement you hear yourself ask, "have you always been like this, or did the military do it to you?"
the silence that follows is longer this time. ghost doesn't answer straight away. doesn't look at you. his gaze settles somewhere over your shoulder instead.
when he finally speaks, his voice has lost some of its edge. "...bit of both." he finally meets your gaze again, a far away look lingering in his brown eyes - like he's not quite in the room with you anymore. he shakes his head, "'nough about me. why the fuck did you pick the alley, lamb?"
you freeze.
completely.
look up at him like he's asked you to solve world peace and not a fairly simple question.
but it's a simple question that doesn't have a simple answer.
you're quiet for a long time, staring down at the metal floor of the cage. the so quietly it's almost more a breath than words, "just… tired. i'm just so fucking tired."
he watches your lips press into a thin line, your shoulders curl inwards on yourself, hands tucked against your stomach like you're protecting your soft parts.
"tired." he repeats - hating how soft his voice is. "it's not really tired, is it. it's more like done, in't it lamb?"
you nod, once, without looking up. "yeah. more like done."
he hates the crack in your voice more than he hates the softness in his.
"get some rest, lamb. i'll be back for you later. you'll need your energy."
you don't look up until you hear the basement door click shut - when you do, you stare at the metal chair he was just occupying like maybe you imagined that whole interaction. that you imagined the fact his voice slipped into something almost gentle.
upstairs simon lights a cigarette, grits his jaw, tries to dampen the fire burning in his chest when he thinks about your voice breaking, and how he'd do anything to take it away.
he doesn't know you. not really. but he recognises a creature lost in their own darkness when he sees one.
maybe the kindest thing he can do is put you out of your misery.
Kyle "fuck I don't want to accidentally offend a bug hybrid..." garrick who is so careful to he respectful when he meets you. He knows how poorly bug hybrids are treated, especially a beetle like you. He seems cool and charming externally but internally he's calculating how long to look at your mandibles before it becomes rude.
Vs
Simon "fuck yessss yes a beetle fuck yeah–" riley who has no sense of social conventions when he's trying to flirt. Meaning, he has no problems cornering you against a wall and huffing "can i lick the underside of your elytra when we fuck?"
...gaz promptly steps on his foot for it, but shocking that was what got you in their bed...
There is no drug on earth that can replicate the absolute euphoria of hitting a writing flow state at 2:00 AM. You aren’t even typing anymore. You are a vessel. You are a channel for the gods. The characters are speaking directly into your brain and you’re just the stenographer trying to keep up. You feel like you could fight a bear. You feel like you invented the alphabet
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