Lax_Blackstone

Pan/Genderfluid 21 year old Multifandom lover

[nikoamiko]

yes, yes - the "archivist" character I posted a few times was meant to be my pngtuber All Along, and appeared on stream yesterday. this sketch I never posted more or less finalized the design, and the in-stream version is directly based on it.

[mwah-monstergirl]

Massively over-designing cutie marks

[crab-milk]

symphony

[polkadotmotmot]

Serving in multiple ways!

[demigoddessqueens]

she’s such an icon!!!

[prguitarman]

Happy birthday Usagi 🌙✨🎂

[aealzx]

I polished up these other drawings =v= (and redid Sonic's pose, I didn't like the other one X'D )

[plumppies]

Angel

  Michael Jackson

Pairing: Michael Jackson x black fem!reader (Married couple)

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Some bending of reality but this is a fic so...what do ya expect. Angst at the beginning, mention of drug use and rehab, eventual fluff. Not proofread.

Drea's Note: I miss Michael so much. This fic is really for him but I'm sharing it here because I want everyone to read it too. It's definitely my most emotional work along with this one. I wish things went this way for him. He deserves so much better. We love you, Michael. Rest is peace, angel.

Light filtered through the cheap BNB curtains in the morning, landing right on your closed eyes. The sun had risen, which meant you had to wake too. The air in the room was stale, thick with tension as you thought through your plans for the day. Dread. That’s what it was. You felt dread. Not at your responsibility per se, but for what you’d be walking into in a few hours.

You love him. You really do love him, but he…had his issues. You hadn’t anticipated how bad his issues were, love, blinding you from it all. Michael was a private man, too private for your liking sometimes. He kept himself at a distance, barely spoke about his past and hardly told you a thing about what he was up to. Yet, you fell in love anyway. He was good to you—great, really. He planned dates, sent you flowers every week and did not shy away from spoiling you with extravagant jewellery and vacations; Bali, Cambodia, Jamaica, France, Morocco…your hard drive was filled with private photos of you both from every journey.

He was a dream, your dream, and he loved you just as much. You didn’t know him as much as he knew you, but you loved him. That’s the point, right? That you loved him? You had to. How could you not? It’s impossible not to fall for a man like him. Music and fame aside, he was gentle, kind, compassionate, and oh-so caring. No man before him had bothered to know you the way he did. He knew you to a tee. Understood you. You never had to question how he felt about you. Ever.

Michael was clear from the start, straight to the point, and blunt about his feelings for you. Perhaps that is why you blurted out an enthusiastic ‘yes’ as fast as you did when he got on one knee and asked you to marry him. As much as chunks of his life were a mystery to you, you still said yes.

The wedding was small and intimate. Only a few members of his and your family attended, preferring privacy over anything flashy. The year was 2003. Things were not in Michael’s favour. Media scrutiny was at an all-time high. You knew it, he did too, but you pushed forward and focused on the moment. You were Mrs Jackson now. A Jackson. A wife. You had priorities different from just paying bills and working long shifts at your firm. You had a responsibility for the Jackson surname. You married into modern royalty. The media caught wind of it quite quickly, and when they did, they wanted your thoughts on the family. You declined it, of course, but that itch to tell them to leave you the fuck alone never subsided.

You moved in with him shortly after the wedding, boxes upon boxes of clothes, shoes and jewels filled the living room as movers brought in your belongings. He stood by the entrance, smiling like a lovesick schoolboy as you squealed in excitement about it all. He helped you unpack, colour coordinated your coats and shoes in the walk-in closet and even bought new linens for your new shared bed.

Things were great for about a year; mornings together in bed, tangled in the sheets after a night of lovemaking, private concerts he’d hold for you when he felt confident enough for it, and finally, days where he’d delve into his life before you came along. You’d wanted that for so long, wanted to know Michael more, to understand him the way he understood you. And there it was, you finally did. He finally let you in on the nitty-gritty of it all.

But everything changed after that.

With the new information came new habits from him. His speech grew drowsy and slurred, and even the way he walked through the house was ragged and slouched. The cause was clear from the start. He was on drugs. Morphine, Ketamine, the whole shebang. Fuck. Then the trail came along and god, you went through it. Double fuck.

Cameras were shoved in your face from the moment you step out of your home gates, all the way to the courthouse. Reporters poked you with microphones, prying into your private life with no remorse. The public, which stood against Michael, called you an enabler, stating you were just as terrible as he was. Media outlets bombarded your firm, eventually forcing your senior associates to put you on indefinite leave.

“We care about your safety. We believe leave will be best for you to support your husband during these times.” Your boss had said with a professional expression schooled on his face. You knew it was bullshit. They only did that to look good in the public’s eyes. Corporate spaces never cared about their employees, and you weren’t an exception, even as a junior associate.

As much as the trail had drained you both, Michael’s behaviour had improved. He was sober again, walked and talked like he did before all the drugs. Of course, he wasn’t as happy and upbeat as before, but you were glad he quit using.

A huge weight was lifted off your shoulders when the verdict came out.

“MICHAEL JACKSON AQUITTED OF ALL CHARGES”

Christmas had come early. You breathed properly again, air filling your lungs with overwhelming joy and relief. Michael however? He was drained of life, eyes sunken and cheeks hollow from all the stress he had endured during all of it. You tried your hardest to lift his mood, baked his favourite pumpkin pie and even made fresh orange juice in the mornings; proper housewife activities since you were still on leave.

None of it worked, however. He slept all day and spent all night downstairs staring mindlessly at cartoons. You believed it wouldn’t last long…but you were wrong. Unbeknownst to you, those nights he spent downstairs were not in his own company. He had company—a doctor.

Michael relapsed again. It was worse this time around. He kept to himself, high and dazed. You’d find him groaning and muttering mindlessly in the early mornings, eyes rolled back as he mumbled about god knows what. Soon enough, he was fully addicted to it, taking doses every few hours throughout the day. Pills you couldn’t even pronounce sat littered on Michael’s bedside table, pills you know that doctor was providing for him. Fuck that doctor and fuck his entire bloodline.

You had had enough of it. You hated him at that point, hated who he had become. He wasn’t the man you fell in love with—far from it. You put your foot down one day. It was mid-November 2005, late afternoon.

“I’m taking you to rehab.” You proclaimed, arms crossed, and lips pursed together in restrained anger.

“No…don’t need it.” Michael slurred stubbornly, tilting his head to stare at Tom and Jerry on the TV.

“I’m not asking, Mike. Get up.” You responded. Everything was already set up. You already packed a bag for him and the rehab facility—a fancy getaway in the hills—was expecting him.

“No.” He muttered.

You took a deep breath and stepped outside, then came back with Michael’s brothers, Marlon and Jackie.

“Get up, or they drag you out.” You commanded. Michael looked at his brothers, still high out of his mind, then he got up, dragging his feet as he walked to the car.

Michael spent 5 months in rehab. Counsellors initially said he’d only need three months of it, but deep down, you knew he’d be there longer. From what the receptionists told you, Michael was uncooperative for two months. He sat quietly during group sessions, refusing to do any activities with other recovering addicts and even refused to open up to his psychologist. Withdrawals were hell. His body shook violently while he sweated and vomited for a week straight. Nurses gave him mild pain meds to help him through it, but that barely subsided the agony he went through. When he opened up, he spoke here and there, slowly but surely letting the program work its magic through him.

The process was tedious. You missed him dearly. He wrote to you almost every week—recommended by the facility—and you wrote back. The house was quiet, void of love, but you held your head high among strangers. They pried into your life, asked where he was, but you kept quiet. You protected him. You deep-cleaned your home, flushing every pill down the toilet and burning every bottle in a bonfire.

Janet stayed with you for a month or so. You were close in age, so friendship came easily. She hugged you while you cried and poured you both a glass of wine during long conversations in the wee hours of the night. A true sister while your husband was away.

The day came when you picked Michael up from the facility. You drove alone in silence, eyes fixed on the road ahead as Los Angeles palm trees turned into coast redwoods. The sun hit its peak, marking the afternoon. You had your hair done in a fluffy afro, picked out to perfection—Jackson 5 style. Michael always loved it that way, round and puffed up like a dandelion.

“Hi.” You ran to him, wrapping your arms around him with great emotion. He looked refreshed and healthy. His cheeks were full again, his belly soft too.

“Hi, baby…” Mike spoke sheepishly, and a full grin flashed for you as he squeezed you. He placed his bag in the trunk and hopped into the passenger’s side.

The car ride was smooth. You drove unhurriedly, taking in the view with Michael beside you. He looked pensive, brows furrowed in deep thought, while his hands rubbed his legs.

“What’s on your mind?” You stole glances from him, prioritising safety on the road.

Michael’s eyes shot up at the sound of your voice, “Just thinkin’.”

“About…” You push.

“I want’a retire.” He blurted.

“What?” You asked, surprised, but he nodded with determination.

“I’m goin’ to retire this year. I’m done.” His words were final, no argument to be had. He was done.

Lights, cameras, glitz and glam filled the arena. Celebrities dressed to the nines as they smiled and went on an international show for the masses. The World Music Awards 2006. Another show for artists to be praised and doted on by fans and other public figures. This award show, in particular, was highly anticipated. Word had spread about Michael Jackson making his first TV appearance after his court victories. To say spectators were excited was an understatement.

You sat in the far back, hidden from camera view; though they hadn’t paid much attention to you anyway—a lack of fame had its perks. The show began, and you watched elegantly, dressed in a red backless dress with red bottoms and a pearl necklace. Artists gave speeches, performed and received awards for their craft throughout their careers. You smiled whenever the cameras panned in your direction, waving professionally for the people.

Beyoncé stepped on stage, gorgeous as always. Her smile radiated through the arena as she announced the next award. When she called for Michael Jackson, a snippet of Billie Jean played through high-grade speakers. The audience cheered and looked for any sign of him, but he never came.

You stood from your seat, confidently making your way to the grand stage. Cheers from the crowd turned into a faint murmur above the background music. Beyoncé looked confused, too, but she kept a warm smile as you hugged her and took the award.

“Good evening, everyone. I know you all expected Michael to be here, but he unfortunately could not make it.” You started with a warm smile.

The room went quiet as they listened, intrigued by the turn of events.

“Michael Jackson, my husband, has given all his life to the arts. He pioneered genres and globalised sounds through his journey in the industry. Without him, many black artists would not have the platforms they have today. He fought for his place as the King of Pop, and he fought for fair treatment of black artists in the industry.”

An audience member cheered ‘Preach, Sister!’ and the crowd clapped.

“Michael Jackson inspired many musicians and touched many hearts through his philanthropy. Michael Jackson carried himself with gentleness and open arms for more than 40 years of his life.” Your voice cracked as you cleared your throat.

“I know you all wanted him here tonight. I know his fans wanted a glimpse of his bright smile and warm voice, but Michael has chosen not to attend.”

Your hands shake around the award**.** Beyoncé notices but stays a few steps behind you.

“Michael Jackson has chosen to retire.” The words are shaky on your tongue.

Gasps filled the room as you left the stage and the building with your husband’s award. People called for you when you walked past them, disbelief engraved on their faces.

The media fallout was worse. Article after article of your statement flooded Facebook and every newspaper in the country. YouTube videos of you holding your husband’s award have gathered so many views. Fans contacted you through every social media outlet you had. You were forced to turn your phone off, or it would have burned a hole in your hands.

Michael’s label lost it. They demanded answers, sent mail and even sent men to the house for ‘wellness checks’. Typical behaviour from a company that relied heavily on one person for mass gain. Fuck them too.

For the first 4 months, fans thought your statement was a lie, a jab at the industry, but time went on, and Michael hadn’t made any professional appearance. A few fans were lucky to get photos with him at a mall or a zoo, but he had practically disappeared from the limelight. Facebook became an archive of photos that fans captured of Michael ‘in the wild’. He was an enigma now, a myth only a few would come to see again.

Behind the scenes, Michael had gained back all the Masters to his music. He controlled his catalogue and signed you as co-owner. His label contract expired, leaving nothing for those vultures. They could burn in hell for all you cared.

You moved. California and America had been unkind to you both, so you moved. Cape Town was your new home. Michael always spoke about wanting to live there forever, so you did. You moved to a beach house near Camps Bay. Your new home was cosy and filled with undying love. Summers were wonderful by the beach; sunscreen lathered all over his body as he learned to surf while you snapped photos of his carefree smile in the water. Winters invited cuddles and lazy mornings, kissing long enough to taste like each other. You adopted a cat, then one more—Coco and Mikey.

“You’re so conceited.” You shook your head as he told you his kitten’s name.

“So what?” He quipped, “He’s my cat. I can name him.”

“Whatever, Michael.” You snorted and snuggled into the warm velvet blanket a sweet Xhosa lady had gifted you.

“Exactly,” he placed the kitten in its enclosure and joined you under the blanket, kissing your cheek with a loud smooch sound. He hummed, content with his life. Happy, at ease, and with the love of his life.

He was free. Michael Jackson was finally free.

@pyt03 @lov3lylxvender @nobleumbrashrine @zerosugarcherrydrpepper @angeleface @fanficreader33 @beberock375 @michaeljacksonsleftnipple @xxhoneymo0n @kordulka @iiovey0u @michaeljacksonsbae @mikesbian @tellybearyyy @kneelarmhstrung @mikejacksbabymommaaaaa @nunusmoll @istayuptoolateonthisapp15 @funkaoverwar @khxna @uconnwbbloversworld1 @plan3tch1ld @theyluvchanel @18lkpeters @0-n-1-x @tojiswifeforlife @butt3rfleye @lover-of-games-horror-music17 @cloverjeanmj @star-gurl4life @michaelkisskissgirl @zero820 @justglennreading @peachypeanut @1andonlytashae @thebabykashmere @ghostlycrestcurse @delictezz @heyitsconysstuff @calicina @itsawolfthingbella @fruitysoulorg @ilikyo @likewf @sebbysbaby @blacclotusss @whimsicalangel07 @cunty000 @froggyreadsss @mjsbiggestlover @iimsopretty @unknwnbrii

[writingdose]

this and also the only difference between fanfic writers and writers who sell their own original works as careers is that fanfics aren’t monetized. that’s all.

being a “professional” writer doesn’t mean your works are inherently better than fanfics. I’ve read so many fics that are more professionally written than some published books.

whether or not a piece of writing is monetized has nothing to do with its quality.

[writingdose]

genuine writers getting wrongly accused of using ai because of witch hunt and proper grammar/structure in their works must be what being a woman in the 1600s who is wrongly accused of being a witch because she can read and is intelligent feels like

[ohangeleyes]

alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:

1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..

2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.

at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.

i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️

and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.

[twentytomidnight]

great fics and good authors YOU should give a gander

a/n: someone sent me an ask for good fics and good authors. So I did what I always do: I went overboard. Please give these wonderful folks a read!

DC Heroes:

Never Too Much by @kryptidfiles (Clark Kent/Reader)

Jae spoke right to my soul with this fic about Clark going to meet your Asian-coded family; there’s something so very heartwarming and absolutely lovely about this fic that I can’t help but melt every time I read it.

Sexual Pleasures by @verytyphoonfun (Clark Kent/Reader) (18+)

Elle is really making me feel the fuck out of this nerd!!! Clark is so well-written the smut STEAMS!

Orange Blossoms by @fanfictionwarrior-chills (Bruce Wayne/Reader)

My good friend FanfictionWarrior has been an OG for me for real and it’s my honor to recommend their work, “Orange Blossoms” oozes a slow, creeping burn and such lovely, lovely writing by an incredible person.

A Crown Fit For a Princess @bloomcissa (Diana Prince/Reader)

There’s something that’s so very lovely about the way Cissa describes the love, affection and romantic tension that rolls off the page here between reader and Diana. Spellbinding and delightful!!!!!

don't you know that you're toxic by @infinictus (Superboy Prime/Reader)

Anx singlehandedly inspired me to start writing SMAUs because of the absolute toxicity that just rolls off the page with this fic. Wonderful, wonderful SMAU that I read uhhhhh wayyyyy too many times.

When I'm On Stage Sometimes I Lie by @gglouise23 (Jason Todd/Reader)

A beautifully angsty and heartwrenching Jason fic with longing that seeps through every single sentence. Love it!

Nudes by @lushberrys (Jason Todd/Reader)

Lizzy is most excellent persuader at making me want to get Jason Todd on all fours, spread wide and this is absolutely a fic that you should read as of yesterday.

Drawing Blood From Stone by @filmcamerasanddice (Platonic!Jason Todd/Reader)

In this platonic fic with Jason and reader, Reg does a lovely job of communicating such emotion in undercurrent and developed over the course of their writing.

Tipsy by @kqinoraswrites (Jason Todd/F!Reader)

Bee makes a fic that feels so well-written and real that I can’t help but once again wonder when Jason Todd is gonna leap off the pages and help out my drunk, tipsy self :)

Making Out With Stephanie Brown by @kooriandr (Stephanie Brown/Reader)

Len does such good work with keeping you in the action of a story and in the physicality, the tension, the heat of a scene; this one is no different from any of her other great works.

Everything is Romantic by @anne-chloe (Stalker!Tim Drake/Reader)

This fic by Chloe had me absolutely on the edge of my seat and desperate to read more more more! Please give her fantastic writing a look!

Zatanna Zatara Has A Crush On You by @cherryvvave (Zatanna Zatara/Reader)

Cherry is such a talent with building up tension and does a magnificent job of potraying two people dancing the dance of being in love, wonderful wonderful work :)

Conceited by @skeeets (Michael Jon Carter (Booster Gold)/Reader)

Kim always delivers with every single story she makes, and this amazingly angsty fic that had me going through the twists and turns until we made it to the happy ending…..SHEESH…….

Supernatural Transaction by @devisedplan (John Constantine/Reader)

John is in wickedly devilish form and the conversation in this one just sizzles with delicious banter. Absolutely wonderful fic!

Kitchen Sink Theorem by @batwngs (Roy Harper/Reader) (18+)

Z always leaves me spellbound with her descriptive detail and the slow burn of intense emotions that always lie behind the surface, and this FWB!Roy Harper fic is no different. Fantastic work!!

Ramen and Love by @luviery (Roy Harper/Reader)

Luvie is very good at building a soft, romantic and tender moment, and this fic demonstrates her writing abilities so very well :)

Red Flags and Long Nights by @colonelfish (Roy Harper/Reader)

My boy ColonelFish always delivers and this Roy/m!Reader fic is just a chef’s kiss of why I’m folding for yet another ginger hehe

In Sickness, Health and Stealth by @lechelovestoyap (Outlaw!Roy Harper/Reader)

Leche is such a talented writer and every time she writes for Outlaw!Roy Harper I can’t help but swoon a little bit……hmmm……need me some him…….

Cuteness Aggression by @pixelbfs (Connor Hawke/Reader)

There’s not enough Connor Hawke love on this site and Neil delivers it so well with just an absolutely fluffy and heartwarming fic here, please give it a looksee hehe :)

The Look of Love by @froggibus (Guy Gardner/Reader)

Froggi did a fantastic, amazing job with this fic for Guy and I am always so grateful that Guy Nation can be fed by such fantastic authors :)

Learning to Skate by @queen-of-gotham (Guy Gardner/Reader)

Gotham delivers for Guy! And the whole crowd cheered! This is such a wonderful fic and I love being fed by such talented writers :)

GLC's Hottest Engineer by @gothamcitypublicworks (John Stewart/Reader)

Sheev carries the noble torch of writing for that wonderful man John Stewart and this is an exemplar fic of their amazing writing talent. :)

Her Love Is In Your Head by @iridescentlightshow (Kyle Rayner/F!Reader)

For some reason, Cee decided to break my heart by asking me to beta for this story and absolutely destroying me emotionally when I read this. Please read this amazingly angsty and heartbreaking story so you can go bombard her with belligerent love hehe

Best Friend's Sister by @spectorgram (Wally West/Reader, Roy Harper/Reader, Connor Kent/Reader)

Nove makes a delightfully silly, sweet and romantic fic in this multi-character doozy that had me smiling the whole time :)

DC Villains:

A Complete Mess by @finniestoncrane (Arkhamverse!Edward Ngyma/Reader) (18+)

Finnie loves writing a fantastically filthy story and this fic with Arkhamverse!Edward Nygma just delivers so stunningly and sinfully well.

Whole Day Off by @acapelladitty (Johnathan Crane/Reader) (18+)

I read this whole series that Ditty wrote about Johnathan Crane a few weeks when I should have been sleeping and it is SO fucking good and steamy and decadent, just sososogood

Alliance by @bat1nsignia (Talia Al Ghul/Reader) (18+)

Insignia always delivers with the most steamy, sexy scenes and this one is no different. OOZING tension and fantastic smut as she always delivers with.

Leaving Lipstick Stains by @luvmailing (Gotham Rogues/Reader)

Val is sosososososo good with scratching the itch I have for villains who have that special someone in their life……I adore this fic

I Need An Evil Boyfriend by @haljordansnumberonefan (Eobard Thawne/Reader) (18+)

Aehtlama makes me want to give Eobard a chance but this guy is on thin ice………..please read all of her fics now I COMMAND you!!!!!

Marvel Heroes:

Wildflowers by @novatheory (Logan Howlett/Reader)

Nova makes an absolutely delightful, lovely, and well-detailed fluff fic with Logan and reader. There’s something so heartwrenching and lovely about this fic I can’t help but be lost in the sensory imagery.

An Alternative For Your Girlfriend by @gr0und-zer00 (Rogue/Reader)

Zero never misses and this fantastic fic with the femme fatale Rogue is fluffy and fabulous; I am finally unflappable by foisting this flippantly fun fic for funsies.

All's Fair In Sleep and Violence by @lilacst4rs (Remy LeBeau/Reader)

Remy LeBeau shines so wonderfully in Lily’s funny, fluffy fic and I couldn’t help but smile as I read this many times over :)

Cinematic Timing by @wordbunch (Kurt Wagner/Reader)

Ana always delivers on a good slow burn and this one between Kurt and reader is done so wonderfully well!

Kurt Wagner Who is Not Abashed, Not Even One Bit... by @sagebrush-and-sadness (Kurt Wagner/Reader) (18+)

Veta bleeds detail in the best way possible, every time she posts a Kurt fic I’m running to crawl into it as soon as I can. This is the first of hers that had me absolutely mesmerized reading it.

A Blonde Man! No! by @kitkatscabinet (Clint Barton/Reader) (18+)

Kat does a wonderful job writing for the very underrated Clint Barton in this fic that made cringe, laugh, and smile all in one go. :)

Marvel Villains:

Open Wide by @calzone-d (Bob Reynolds/Reader) (18+)

Cal wrote a whopper of a smut fic with this one and I was once again guilty of finding myself falling for yet another comic book character with this wonderful romp of a story. :)

By The Water's Edge by @cherienymphe (Namor/Reader) (18+)

CHERIE DON’T MISS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Cherie is always on the pulse of what people who love dark fic need and this story with Namor always sits in the back of my consciousness :)

Resident Evil:

Dry Spell by @theebladestar (Leon Kennedy/Reader) (18+)

Writers like BladeStar make me realize absolutely how much I’ve been missing out on by not considering Mr. Kennedy……this is an excellent smut fic that I have reread an embarrassing amount of times hehehhe

Beatific by @inkievoid (Chris Redfield/Reader)

Inkie has such a fantastic way with words and this fluffy piece of Chris Redfield and reader trying to enjoy a moment of peace and quiet is just so beautifully written.

Burning the Midnight Oil by @gilverrwrites (Albert Wesker/Reader) (18+)

I’ve always had a thing for Wesker and my god does Val really scratch that itch with this delicious smutfic, give the goat a look :)

Anguine by @doqt33th (Victor Gideon/Reader) (18+)

When Dope first wrote this Victor Gideon fic, it absolutely rewrote my brain chemistry and every so often I go back to read it and try to chase that dopamine rush I got the first time I read it.

The Pitt:

Little Notes of Love by @ficdelusioncore (Jack Abbot/Reader)

Have I watched The Pitt? No. But is Anais selling me on it with all of these amazing fics about Mr. Abbot that she writes? Also……..yes. PLEASE give this fic a read!

Transformers:

Breaking Bread by @ss-shitstorm (Megatron/Reader) (18+)

Shitstorm has not posted this story on tumblr, but I would be doing an incredible disservice if I did not mention this fic with Megatron/Reader. I have never been so enthralled and absolutely in love with a transformers fic. DAMN

All of MouseyCometz Works by @mouseycometz (Transformers/Reader)

MouseyCometz has made so many different TF/Reader fics that I have deliciously, shamefully indulged and you would be denying yourself a privilege if you didn’t read any of their wonderful repertoire!

The Price of Flesh:

Be Careful, I Bite by @rotrabbitrot (Mason Heiral/Reader) (18+)

I had the privilege of reading Neo’s story ahead of time and this is a wonderful fic for a wicked man; I love his take on Mason’s character and the detail that seeps through every sentence. :)

Supernatural:

Satiated and Subdued by @biglychee Dean Winchester/Reader

My boy BigLychee always delivers with fics and they make em HOT!!!!! Lychee loves making a subby man with puppy eyes and boy does this Dean Winchester fic deliver……..hehhehehe

Invincible:

Nosy by @splodencible (Rex Splode/Reader) (18+)

I can’t believe Maddie is gonna make me watch this series solely because of these steamy fics she makes………please read this one if you haven’t already……..

Team Fortress 2:

Spy Forcemasc by @eatfeet69 (Spy/Reader) (18+)

Nate NEVER MISSES!!!!! I love his writing and this fic between Trans!M!Reader is sososo fucking good, the tension between reader and Spy creeps and then scorches…….I love it so much

Hellboy:

Fluff With Hellboy by @weeniesausage Hellboy/Black!FtM!Reader

WeenieSausage always brings through amazing FtM!Reader fics and this one had me gripped (as all of his do) as I was reading it. LOVED IT!!!

Outer Banks:

Body Favors by @futuremrscameron Rafe Cameron/F!Black!Reader

Now I don’t know a thing about Rafe Cameron……..but I fear that Courtney’s delicious SMAU is going to make me start watching Outer Banks for real………..PLEASE GIVE HER STUFF A LOOKSEE HEHE

that's it! I'm tired and gotta lay down after working on this...........hope you all enjoy perusing the archives of these wonderful, amazing writers :)

[descendantofthesparrow]

Emergency commissions open!!

I'm VERY broke as fuck and have a couple bills to pay over the next week and i, currently, do not have the money to pay that with so! Emergency commissions open till 6/10!

All Sketches; head shot/hips up/full body; base price set at $15 + $10 for added flats, plus $5 per extra character on single canvas!

Rules; no refined lineart! you wont recive messy sketch work but i will not be doing refined lineart after the final sketch is cleaned up! no full rendering! just flat colors(i will still do minor shading on the skin)! payment is due after the first approved sketch, through either Paypal, Cashapp, or Venmo!

Please share if you don't want a commission/cant afford it! Thank you!

[descendantofthesparrow]

Extended to 6/24!!!

[sorceress-of-stories]

human!gladiator! Adrian/Alucard x f!slave! Reader

Summary: At the base of the looming giant of Mount Vesuvius, the city of Pompeii bustles to life, unaware of the calamity that awaits. You were a slave in the esteemed House of Batiatus, preparing for the arrival of the grand games to celebrate the Augustalia Festival. But as fate takes its course and the slumbering giant awakens, will you live to see another day or forever be immortalized in the ashen casts of the fallen?

Trigger Warnings: depictions and descriptions of ancient roman slavery in all its forms, explicit language, blood/gore/violence, mentions & descriptions of physical assault, sexual assault, reader witnesses sexual assult, explicit sexual content and themes, virginity/concept of virginity loss, f!masturbation, m!masturbation, f!oral receiving, m!oral receiving, vaginal sex, and more. Viewer discretion advised - MDNI

⪼Part 3 || masterlist⪻

trigger warning: this chapter contains decriptions of sexual assault and witnessed sexual assault. Viewer descretion advised

August 30th, 79 C.E.

THE LAND OF POMPEII WAS ENVELOPED in the thick, suffocating embrace of Sol Invictus's might, and all under its searing glory ailed from sweat-drenched skin and parched, burning throats. In the turquoise heavens not a single cloud crawled across the sky, nor was there a whispering caress of wind.

You stood with Aurelia upon the balcony overlooking the ludus training grounds, the grating sound of the gladiators below practicing their drills echoing off the stone walls of the villa. Your Domina's attention was solely on the glittering, expertly crafted necklaces inlaid with countless jewels and precious stones that were perched upon satin cushions, held aloft by ten slaves lined in a row just before the balcony threshold. They had arrived with a margaritarius, one Fabius Helvius, the premier jeweler and goldsmith in all of Pompeii.

She endeavored to find adornment suitable and prestigious enough for the upcoming banquet and celebrations for the Ludi Romani, the most ancient and important festival celebrated throughout entire the Republic. It was a multi-day celebration to honor Jupiter, filled with nonlethal gladiatorial games, theatrical performances, chariot racing, and grand feasting. It was to begin within the fortnight, and preparations had been well underway within the villa.

You had been commanded to act as a visual representation of what the adornments might have looked like worn, forced to stand before her lounging form upon the klinai newly situated in front of the balcony banister. On either side of her stood two other slaves bearing large fans made of peacock feathers, the large golden handles clutched tightly in their sweating hands as they raised it up and down in attempt to keep her cool.

She appraised each piece upon your neck while the margaritarius droned on about the minute details of the necklaces, detailing the exhaustive crafting process and location of origin of each jewel and stone. You did your very best to listen to his words, but try as you might, it was a futile effort. Your attention kept flittering through the banister, the angle of your bowed head allowing you a perfect view of a familiar crown of gold.

It had been nearly a week since you and the Wolf - Adrian - had spoken, and despite forcing your mind to conjure logical thought, you could not rid yourself of the desire nor wish to speak with him again. That night within the slave baths had been but a taste of a kind of freedom you never dare dreamt of existing. The kind of freedom that allowed the seed of trust to bloom, where one could speak freely with another soul, to share a moment of easeful tranquility. It pained and terrified you to admit you craved it just as much as you did breath.

Yet the gods would not grant you your wish for the opportunity to do so. You had not been able to leave your Domina's side as the House of Batiatus prepared for the upcoming festival. Your days were spent at market with Aurelia, your evenings at her beck and call as she attended countless dinner parities and social affairs. Even in the infinitesimal moments you and Adrian shared space, he never made effort to acknowledge your presence, a striking difference to your fleeting, shared glances from before. Unlike the countless times you would briefly meet his stare, for the entire duration you had been perched upon the balcony and the innumerable times your gaze found his striking figure, his eyes never met your own.

"No, no, no!" Aurelia huffed in exasperation, forcing your gaze to rip away from the golden-haired gladiator, focusing onto the stone beneath your feet. "None of these strings of commoner goods spark my interest. I am a daughter of Batitatus, you insolent swine! Not a peasant so easily impressed. Show me the stock you'd present to the Empress herself!"

Fabius choked a startled cough before inclining his chin. "Of course, Mistress."

With a snap of his fingers another slave who stood behind him stepped forward, an ornate gold and marble box held carefully within his hands. The margaritarius carefully opened the box, his wrinkled olive-toned hands pilfering the twinkling contents before producing a breathtaking gold chain glimmering with sapphires.

"The stones were mined in Ceylon." he informed her with a small, tight smile as he held up the chain for viewing. "Imported at great cost. They are believed to have been favored by the ancient Etruscans."

Aurelia made an appreciative sound before she inclined her head for you to try on the necklace. Wordlessly you took off the one made of moonstone that had been the object of her ire and replaced it with the sapphires. The perfectly cut stones and golden chains were cool against your skin, and as you shifted back to your original position in front of your mistress, they gleamed like the deepest seas.

"Well, well," Aurelia tilted her head, appraising the necklace against your neck before she frowned. In an instant she stood before you, tugging down the linen straps of your house garment, exposing your breasts. Her amber eyes widened the most imperceptible amount, following the swoop of the golden chains and blue stones that hung just above the swell of your exposed chest.

You froze as sharp, gnawing tendrils of rage and embarrassment coursed through you, burning down into the marrow of your bones. With every ounce of strength you refrained from covering your nakedness with your hands, your fingers instead twitching at your sides.

"Spin, amicae," she commanded with a small twirl of her pointer finger, making to lounge upon the klinai once more, "I wish to see how the stones gleam from every angle."

You swallowed down the large lump forming in your throat and slowly turned in a small circle, bitter dread rising on your tongue as you caught a few leering glances of the gladiators below. When your eyes landed on Adrian, a voice in the back of your mind shouted for his gaze to meet your own, seeking a mere moment of safe familiarity as you drowned in the dark depths of humiliation. Once again your prayers went unanswered.

"Price?" she questioned the jeweler with a sharp rise of her dark brow.

"Two hundred denarii."

"Two hundred?" she scoffed with a roll of her eyes. "I will offer you one hundred."

The corner of Fabius's mouth twitched. "One hundred and seventy-five."

"One hundred and fifty," Aurelia's eyes narrowed, her voice laced with sickly sweet poison, "and I will refrain from spreading word you dishonor the House of Batiatus."

The merchant's wrinkled face paled. "One hundred and fifty it is then. I-"

"It is such an exquisite piece, sister, but surely not the best within his stock. And we only deserve the best. Do you not think it wise to see another before committing to such exorbitant price?"

Your heart stuttered in your chest the moment Felix's voice sounded out as he crossed the threshold of the balcony behind you. You willed your raging heart to settle, the sounds of his footsteps drawing closer and closer until he was only half a pace away, close enough you could taste the lavender and thyme oil that clung to his dark curls, feel the heat radiating off his body.

He had taken every opportunity he could to touch you or intrude your personal space since that night at the Belmont Villa. Though it appeared he truly did not recall the events that took place in the kitchens, whatever desire he felt had swelled and festered so deeply that not even wine and opium-induced delirium could erase it. It was as if he could sense whenever you would be alone, materializing in the moments you would least expect. In the kitchens late at night when Aurelia demanded refreshment, in the wine cellar when Dominus Antonius commanded you for refill. His touch was not direct as it had been the week prior, but the ghosting of his hands, lips, and fingertips were enough to cause bloody talons of fear and dread to rip into your heart.

"Brother." Aurelia's smile fell, regarding him. "I thought you were at market with father."

"I changed my mind." he stepped even closer before he was standing in front of you, raising his hand so that his fingertips brushed over the polished royal-blue stones that rested above your exposed breasts. You dared not move nor breathe as you stared at the marble beneath your feet, focused your thoughts on anything but the feeling of his hand so close to your flesh.

"I must say Aurelia, sapphires do not suit you. Not with your complexion and all." Felix leaned in impossibly closer, his hands trailing up your neck until he unclasped the string of sapphires. He clutched the bauble and turned to face the margaritarius, but not before tracing his empty hand just above the swell of your breast.

Aurelia scoffed. "You sound like mother."

"It is a rarity she speaks with as much wisdom as I do." he mocked before snatching the ornate box of treasures from the slave's hold.

With surprising gentleness he rummaged through it until a small hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest. Within moments he was before you once again, bearing the new necklace carefully within his grasp. Felix leaned in close, your nose nearly brushing his shoulder as he fastened the heavy necklace around your neck. A gaudy, layered gold chain weighed down by brilliant blood-rubies sat upon your neck, cascading down to your nipples.

His hand found the tip of your chin, forcing you to peer up and meet his dark amber gaze. You willed your expression to remain as passive as possible, to quell the desire to shudder away from his touch. His broad chest brushed against yours, his breath fanning against your cheek.

"There we are," he took a step back in the same breath Aurelia stood. She made no comment as her gaze found your own before falling to the rubies, satisfaction flooding her face.

"The House of Batiatus has ever the discerning eye." the jeweler bowed. "Those blood rubies are quite the rarity indeed. Mined from the lands of Ratnadeepa, known as the Island of Gems."

"Yes." Felix crowded you once more, his hand trailing up the expanse of your exposed arms and toying with the rubies at your neck. "Quite the rarity indeed. Wouldn't you agree, little poet?"

Your body burned as rage and disgust consumed you whole. "Yes, Dominus."

"And the price for such a prize?" Aurelia questioned lazily, her eyes finding the margaritarius.

You willed your mind to focus on their exchange in futile attempt to ignore Felix's hovering, but it was for naught. He pressed impossibly closer, blocking all of your surroundings from view, his lips nearly skimming your ear. "How I long to see blood dripping from your thighs, staining my cock. Just as these rubies drip from your neck."

An involuntary shiver ran down the course of your spine, bile burning your throat. Your reaction elicited a dark, sinister chuckle to slip quietly from his lips, his hands now beginning to rise and make for the swell of your right breast. But before he could make dreaded contact, the loud crack of a whip tore through the air in the same breath countless shouts sounded from below.

Felix tore away from your side, he and Aurelia giddily rushing to the banister, searching for the cause of the commotion. You took the opportunity to pull your garment back over your breasts before your attentions were quickly pulled in the direction of the shouting, the sounds of fists colliding with flesh growing tenfold. You turned and made your way to look down below, your breath hitching in your throat as you took in the scene of chaos before you.

There, in the middle of a circle of amassing gladiators, was Adrian bashing his fist against the bloodied and bruised face of his apparent sparring partner. His brothers-in-arms shouted their bloodthirsty encouragement as the Wolf hit the warrior beneath him again and again and again. It only ceased when the doctore's whip wrapped itself around his bloodied fist, yanking him violently backwards onto the sands.

"Bloody animal that one!" Felix guffawed, turning away from the commotion and setting eyes upon Fabius's awaiting form. "Come, sister. Let us accompany the margaritarius to father's offices and give him deserved coin."

Aurelia's lips pulled into a smile, gazing once more at the layered ruby necklace upon your person. With a sigh she snapped her fingers. "Come along, then."

Wordlessly you did as you were bade, the ruby necklace heavy around your neck like the yoke upon an lamb herded to slaughter.

~

The following evening, Aurelia and Felix received an invitation from Quintus Aventus and his younger brother Brutus as the dined on supper in the triclinium. The invitation was for the opportunity to accompany them on their pleasure barge in preemptive celebration of the nearing festival. The barge would chart across the bay of Pompeii, viewing the grand sight of Mount Vesuvius and the striking cliffs of the coast. The children of Batiatus were beyond thrilled, immediately barking orders at you and your fellow slaves through mouthfuls of their supper to begin making necessary preparations.

"And you," Felix's eyes slid over your form as you filled Aurelia's cup for a third time, "you shall prepare the Wolf for our outing. Isn't that right, sister?"

Your Domina stilled, her goblet halfway to her lips, a frown at her face. "She is not yours to command, brother."

He leaned back in the klinai, sipping gingerly from his own cup, his eyes alight with cruel amusement. "Of course, sister. Yet I implore you to imagine the awe Quintus will revel in when we bring with us the Champion of Pompeii, the very man he tried to deny would emerge victorious."

Your fingers pressed into the bronze pitcher in your hands, returning to your place just behind Aurelia, ignoring with all your might of his heavy gaze upon you.

"Yes, well, it would be quite the surprise, would it not?" Aurelia hummed in hesitatnt acquiescance. "And Quintus so does love his surprises."

Felix chuckled, inclining his chin. "Indeed."

With a flick of her wrist she bade you to step forward. "Inform the Champion that his presence is required on the morrow. Ensure that he shines brighter than Apollo."

You dipped your chin, your stomach tightening with a burning mixture of dread and anticipation. "Yes, Domina."

~

The stone underground of the ludus was cool and quiet, your footsteps barely making sound as you descended further and further below. The rocky corridor was illuminated by iron braziers alight with amber flame that danced upon the stone walls, eradicating any and all shadow. Two house guards stood outside the distant iron gate that led into the stone chamber and cells below. You felt the moment their eyes landed on you, a pulse of unease blooming in your chest.

"Halt." the eldest guard at the metal gate peered at you with muted suspicion before he recognized the bronze collar around your neck. "Apologies, amicae. What is it that Domina requires?"

You kept your expression neutral, pulling yourself to full height and meeting his emerald gaze. "Domina wishes for me to relay command to the Wolf."

"Very well," he gestured for the guard beside him to escort you through the maze of cells before finally stopping a few paces away from the last wooden and iron door. The guard rapped loudly four times before unlocking it and pulling it towards him, taking his place beside you. "White Wolf!"

As the door swung open, your eyes instantly found the warrior's naked form sprawled over his bed, his golden locks splayed around linen pillows. Your breath caught while your eyes roamed the expanse of his scarred and chiseled torso, trailing further down to the impressive cords of muscle of his thighs, before landing on the thick, large cock that was nestled between his legs. Heat rose to your face as you tore your eyes away, focusing on the stone flags beneath your feet.

"Domina and Dominus have been invited to attend a gathering with the House of Aventus." you began once you took a centering breath. "They demand your presence on the morrow upon Quintus's pleasure barge."

Adrian remained silent as he slowly sat up, the worn wooden frame groaning in protest. The sound of his movements prompted you to finally meet his impressive form as he stood.

He did not spare a single glance in your direction or that of the guard, turning instead to the crude stone shelf beside his bed housing a wooden pitcher and cup, revealing the sculpted figure of his backside.

"Pleasure barge?" the sound of pouring liquid filled the air before he finally turned towards you, sipping from the wooden vessel as he did so. When his eyes finally met your own, they were devoid of any ounce of familiarity you had been witnessed to before. Confusion curled around you like smoke, a tendril of hurt unfluring inside your heart.

"It is a day ship used for sailing around the bay," you answered, clasping your hands in front of you in attempt to center yourself under his hardened gaze.

"Is it?" he scoffed lowly.

Your brows furrowed at the sound of his clipped tone. "It is."

"And what am I commanded to do upon this pleasure boat?" he stepped towards you, causing the guard to inch closer as well. You did not move, but the movement of the guard caused Adrian's eyes to settle heavily upon him, stilling him in his tracks.

"I cannot say." your eyes roamed his handsome face, widening slightly as you noticed the newly formed, angry red cuts upon his lip and cheek. You surmised it was from the altercation earlier that day. "I know only that you are commanded to attend and I am to prepare you come morning."

Adrian's golden gaze slowly slid to you before he downed the remaining contents of his drink. "So be it. Is that all?"

Your lips parted as the painful lash of hurt tightened within your chest. Words failed to find you, but before the silence could stretch on for too long, you nodded.

The Wolf did not offer reply before he grabbed the iron bars of the door and pulled it shut with a loud slam. You stood, motionless, as countless thoughts raged inside of you while you attempted to keep your emotions from bubbling to the surface. You had just enough sense to turn on your heels, followed closely by the house guard as you weaved through the underground maze of cells and made way back towards the villa.

Had you done something to offend? Did he harbor anger towards you?

You barely held back the disbelieving scoff that threatened to escape you. How could you have? Neither of you had truly been in each other's presence for days on end. Perhaps he was filled with regret of sharing a piece of himself with you, nor held any remaining interest in the unlikely acquaintanceship that had begun to bloom between you. After all, he was the Champion of Pompeii, a mighty gladiator of Rome. You were simply an amicae, a glorified house slave. Perhaps he simply no longer deemed you worthy enough of his attention once he had bared upon you a piece of his soul.

Perhaps it was for the best, you thought bitterly. There was no place for true friendship to grow within the bowels of a ludus, lesser still in the viper's nest that was the House of Batiatus. You had been foolish to ever think and hope otherwise.

~

The following morning you woke just before dawn and tended to your usual chores before making your way to the slave baths. Another guard stood watch just outside the stone structure, his beady eyes staring at you with unsettling hunger as you drew closer and crossed the threshold. Your eyes at once found the Wolf sitting within the waters, his eyes still not meeting your own upon your arrival.

Neither of you spoke as you slathered his supple skin with aromatic oils, de-tangled and washed his hair before adorning his body in a striking crimson and black tunic. You combed through the thick golden locks with an ivory comb, the wavy strands cascading down the expanse of his broad chest and back.

"Ah, splendid!" Felix crooned as he appeared in the entrance of the baths, dressed in his own gorgeous tunic of sapphire and emerald, his hands heavy with golden rings. "Quintus will be quite taken with surprise!"

You immediately stepped away from the gladiator as Felix crossed the distance between you and stood before the Wolf, inspecting him.

A satisfied hum left his lips. He turned to face you, his hand once again finding your chin and forcing your gaze onto his own. "Quite the skilled amicae, is she not, Wolf? To turn a beast such as you into the living visage of Apollo himself?"

You forced your eyes downcast, focusing on the thick golden collar inlaid with glittering emeralds that hung upon his neck. The Wolf did not reply.

"My sister commands that you accompany us as well, little poet. Best make haste and dress. We leave upon the hour." he roughly released your chin. "Go."

"Yes, Dominus." you rasped, surging forward before he could attempt to grab you once more.

Within the hour, you had been bathed and dressed by Corrina whose touch was rough upon you as she worked, her pink lips etched into a permanent frown. Before long you were adorned in a rose-pink stola, a matching silk veil upon your head, a gleaming gold chain of rose-quarts around your neck.

Caius was sent to collect you from Aurelia's chambers, he dressed in a tunic of emerald and amethyst. When you reached the atrium you took your place behind your Domina, he behind his Dominus and the Wolf. The children of Batiatus carried on a mindless conversation about their desires to purchase their own barge as you all clambered into the gilded carriage and set down the winding road towards the bay.

The journey to the Aventus Villa's private port was short and unremarkable, yet the heightened heat of early morning promised a grueling afternoon. The scent of the sea wafted thickly in the air as you followed your masters down the winding stone steps that led to the ship's dock, your eyes immediately landing on the large ship bobbing in the brilliant aquamarine waters. Even from your distance it towered high above the tiny figures that waved upon the House of Batiatus's arrival, the gargantuan, teal sail undulating in the light breeze that caressed your cheek.

As you made footfall upon the dock and the Aventus brothers welcomed your betters, you took in the brightly painted blue and red hull and the expertly carved detailing of the ship's banisters. It was an impressive showing of the House of Aventus's ties to the Roman navy, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt envy took root in your masters. It paled in comparison, however, to the acidic envy upon Quintus's face when his gaze settled upon the Wolf.

Without further ceremony Brutus beckoned Felix and Aurelia aboard the barge, the sweet cry of an aulos meeting your ears along with the discordant sound of overlapping voices. Your heart stuttered in your chest the moment your feet kissed the fine wooden deck beneath your feet, feeling the shudder of the hull as it bent and bowed within the sparkling waters.

Inhaling a sharp breath tinged with the saltiness of the ocean, you drank in your colorful surroundings. A handful of the Aventus private guard stood to attention, their backs pressed against the banister of the ship, their eyes trained on the distant horizon of endless sea beyond. Nearly thirty highborn Pompeiians milled about in different pockets and groupings, some staring out into the glittering ocean, others sipping from golden goblets, lounging upon klinai. Near the bow of the ship a slave draped in what appeared to be a golden-threaded fisherman's net sat perched upon a wooden dais, an ivory aulos at his lips. Beside him stood two females, their breasts and cunts covered with curtains of shells that clacked together as they wreathed and writhed sensually in-tune with the music.

"Ah, Batiatus!"

Your gaze snapped in the direction of the familiar voice, at once landing on the striking figures of Senator Belmont, Sypha, and her amicae Greta. He was clad in his usual toga praetexta while Sypha wore an expertly threaded silver and violet stola. Greta, however, was clad in one of gold and emerald.

"Senator! What good fortune to see you here." Felix and Trevor kissed each other's cheeks in greeting, Aurelia and Sypha doing the same.

"How could we deny such a gods-blessed experience?" Senator Belmont chuckled, his eyes briefly flickering to where the golden-haired gladiator stood.

"I share the very same sentiments, Senator." Felix smirked. "Who am I to deny the call of such wondrous pleasures?"

Within the hour, the pleasure barge sailed from port and began to make the slow voyage around the bay, growing closer and closer to the distant peak of Mount Vesuvius. Felix and Aurelia joined their hosts within the circle of klinai at the prow of the ship, reserved only for those of highest standing. You stood behind her, Caius to your right, as the other guests inspected and fawned over the Wolf.

Though he stood across from you, Adrian still refused to meet your gaze. His golden eyes never left an unseen target just beside Caius. You ignored the heavy stone of disappointment that settled in your stomach, your own eyes focusing solely at the wooden boards beneath your feet.

"Tell me, Senator, how are you fairing within the Senate? Felix informed me you were newly appointed not only a year ago." Quintus began when their conversation had returned to the intricacies of Roman politics. "My great-grandfather was a Senator, you see. He loved his position more than anything in the world."

"I am honored to do my duty to the people of Rome," Trevor answered in earnest, taking an audible sip of wine, "but my soul will always be bound to and crave the thrill of the battlefield."

"Ah, you are military man yourself?" Brutus questioned, voice slurred with drink.

"Quite. I spent my youth and formative years training in the art of war, and once I was old enough to serve I became a soldier. It was only a recent desire of mine to turn my attentions towards politics within the Senate. I always considered myself a man of the blade, you see. Not one of sharpened mind honed for the art of politics."

Quintus chuckled. "My grandfather always said that men who face war should be the only ones dictating when soldiers are sent to die. You are a true Roman."

Senator Belmont raised his glass in appreciation. "Your great-grandfather is a wise man."

"Hear, hear."

"Dear Felix has also spoken of your love and devotion for the games," Quintus continued. "Have you any desires of sponsoring an event yourself? The Augustlia is little more than a moon away."

"What proper Roman would not favor the games?" Trevor answered with a chuckle. "Isn't that right, White Wolf?"

The question caused your eyes to peer up from their spot at your feet and fixate on the stoic-faced gladiator. The deck fell silent as all other eyes fell to Adrian, his expressionless face meeting the stare of the Senator evenly. "I am a gladiator."

"What an astute observation." the Senator mocked, eliciting amused laughs from your masters and their fellows. "Tell me, are you aware that in our mighty Republic, if a gladiator proves their skill in the arena, they can earn their freedom? Perhaps one day you shall earn your own. You may yet have the opportunity to call yourself a Roman."

The Wolf's eyes narrowed the most imperceptible amount. "The only true freedom for a gladiator is the liberation of death in the arena."

"Spoken like a true warrior." Trevor leaned forward in his seat, blue eyes sliding to Felix. "Tell me, where did you procure such a specimen, Batiatus?"

Felix froze for half a breath before drinking the remaining contents of his wine. With a lazy extension of his hand he bid Caius to fill it. The male slave instantly left your side to do as he was bade before returning promptly.

"I regret to inform you, Senator, that his place of origin is not known. My father purchased him and his kin at market some time ago. The slavers claimed they were from the outlying wilds of Germania, but did not know for certain. Those savages are always at war with themselves, you see. It is hard to differentiate one clan from the other."

"Oh? Is that so?" Trevor glanced sidelong at his wife before standing and crossing ten paces across the deck. He stilled as he came face to face with the Wolf. "Did it not occur to you to ask the savage himself?"

Felix's face contorted in annoyance. "Of course, Senator. Though the brute refused to speak the truth aloud. No matter how many lashings fell upon him."

Trevor made a noise at the back of his throat, eyes never leaving Adrian's. "Tell me, Wolf, what clan do you hail from?"

The gladiator did not reply.

"Answer him, slave!" Felix hissed, surging from his seat, his newly filled wine sloshing over the sides of his goblet.

Again they were met with silence. The son of Batiatus flicked his hand, commanding the guards that stood at the prow of the ship to make their way towards them. They halted in their tracks, however, when the Senator held up his hand, another chuckle falling from his lips.

"It is no matter." he turned his back towards the warrior. "After all, his origin holds no true meaning as a slave."

Another bout of laughter filled the air as Quintus's slaves began prepare smoking pipes of opium. The elite highborn passed the pipe around, ecstatic giggles escaping their lips.

For many hours you stood listening to the drone of their conversation, your eyes fixated on the nearing giant of Mount Vesuvius. Though the sun shone mercilessly from the heavens and your back was coated in sweat, the strengthening sea breeze offered welcomed respite. The reprieve was interrupted, however, as the growing thirst of the masters called for immediate attention. As the slaves of the House of Aventus were preoccupied with tending to the other guests of the ship and her impatience mounted, you were commanded by Aurelia to go below deck and fetch an amphorae of water. You all but peeled yourself from your spot upon the deck and with careful movements you descended the stairs that led below. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you disappeared beneath the deck, the hold considerably less stifling than above.

It was dark and quiet in the hull save for a single-lit candle mounted on an iron holder. Your eyes quickly adjusted to the low level of light, at once drinking in the countless wooden shelves filled to the brim of clay vessels. You crossed over to the nearest wall of amphorae, searching carefully for the seals labeled water. After many moments you found the correct rack directly across from the wooden stairs and made you way towards it. It took considerable effort to dislodge the clay vessel from its perch as you fought against the rocking of the ship. You finally found purchase and lifted it, only for it to be gently taken out of your grasp by strong and muscular arms. You stilled before turning, eyes at once landing on Adrian.

"Let me," he murmured, further pulling it from your reach when you attempted to grab it from his hold.

"Give it back." you tore your eyes away before reaching for the clay vessel once more. "Domina is expecting me."

The soft, gentle sound of your name rasped from his lips. You startled, wide eyes snapping to his face.

"I wish to share words," he carefully maneuvered the amphora so that it leaned against the wooden planks beside you. "I have but only a moment. They believe I am relieving myself."

Irritation flared in your chest as your mind recalled the night before, conjuring the thorny feeling of his blatant disregard.

"I do not." you stepped around him, attempting to bend and lift the vessel.

Before you could, Adrian grabbed your arm, the action causing you to freeze and look up at him with a growing glare.

"You are upset," his golden eyes scanned the entirety of your face."Has something happened?"

You could not help the incredulous scoff that escaped you, wreching your arm from his hold. "I should be asking the very same of you, considering your treatment towards me the other night. I have no desire to converse with those who deem me lesser than when the choice can remain my own."

He straightened, causing the rich black and crimson tunic he wore to strain across his frame. "I had no choice but to regard you in such a manner. I profess sincerest regret if I have hurt you."

"Profess regret to your gods. It is of no interest to me." your frown deepened as you made to maneuver around him. You were able to take all but half step forward before he blocked your path again.

"If any soul were to learn of our…friendship… it could lead to catastrophic end. It is one matter to share a drink in celebration of victory in the arena, but another entirely for amicable moments to be witnessed by all. The guards whisper among themselves which slaves find interest in one another, exchange wagers on who will sire whelps. To be the Champion of Pompeii fuels the fires of these rumors. There are those that would see you harmed if it promised injury to me."

You stared at him for half a breath, your heart constricting as sobering understanding flooded over you. "I see."

He spoke true, of course. How many times throughout your life spent within the villa and ludus had you witnessed friend turn on supposed friend, family betray family for a mere moment of praise and elevation? Those who lived shackled and chained under the crushing might of Rome were promised so long as they proved absolute loyalty to their masters, they would be rewarded, even at the expense of their loved ones. After all, it was commonly touted by your betters that a well-bred and broken-in slave only ever wished to one day have a slave to call their own, instead of ever dreaming of liberation. And you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, there were those within the House of Batiatus who would trade knowledge of your budding friendship with the Wolf if it meant securing their own means and rise.

Adrian took a single step towards you, golden eyes swirling with something you could not name. "I have thought about our time in the baths every breath of my waking hours and have prayed to my gods to grant me another moment in your presence. It pains me greatly to pull myself away from your radiance, to not gaze upon your divinity. But it is not safe to act outside of secrecy."

You blinked up at him from beneath your lashes, your body leaning forward of its own accord. With wide eyes you drank in the sculpted marble of his face, relished in the warmth of his sincerity enveloping you. Your hand slowly rose up, your fingers ghosting an inch from the split flesh of his lip before dropping to your side. "Is that why you are hurt? Was someone trying to harm you?"

The golden-haired warrior breathed heavily through his nostrils. "Not I."

Confusion consumed your being. "Your meaning?"

"I witnessed what the daughter of Batiatus did," he snarled softly, "as well as her bastard brother. I saw his hands upon you."

You swallowed thickly, eyebrows furrowing. "How could you? You never met my eye."

He scoffed, a scowl carving itself on his face. "Yet I saw all. So I drew their attention away."

Your breath caught in your throat, lips parting slightly as buzzing surprise coursed through your veins.

Slowly Adrian inched closer, carefully brushing his right hand against your left, the warmth of his palm searing into your own. "Blood and pain are of no consequence to me so long as it means you remain unharmed."

A painful lump began to form in your throat, and with much effort you swallowed it away. "I had feared you no longer-"

"Domina is asking after you and inquires about your continued absence." Caius's melodic voice sliced their your own, the suddenness of it causing you to startle away from the Wolf.

You whirled to face the direction of the wooden stairs, eyes landing on his stern expression. "Forgive me, it was a difficult effort to reach the shelves." you dared not glance in Adrian's direction as you bent to pick up the amphora. Without wasting another breath you climbed the wooden stairs and ascended onto the deck, brushing passed the male slave as you did so.

~

The sun had reached its zenith over Neptune's domain upon your return to the surface. Once you had refilled their cups of water, your betters demanded more wine before their conversation shifted to the distant politics of Rome once more. You stood next to the banister, breathing in the scent of the ocean breeze as the barge sailed along the glittering coast of the bay, the wailing of the aulos echoing across the surface of the waters and boucing off the towering rocky cliffs you sailed by.

Caius's lapis eyes never left your form from his place across the deck, his face schooled into neutrality. But despite his stoic expression, you could see the dark blue depths swirling with a tempest that would rival that of Neptune's might. With a slight tilt of his chin he motioned to the wooden table of food and drink, indicating for you to join him without rousing suspicion. Your stomach knotted with unease as you slowly wove around your masters before standing an arm's length away from him.

"I urge deeper caution." Caius whispered at your side, his words further hidden by a bark of drunken laughter from Quintus at something Felix had said.

You peered sidelong at him, shifting gently on your feet. "I know not what you mean."

He cursed under his breath and shook his head, the movement causing his hair to glisten like onyx. "I overheard the words spoken between you. If it had been any other, who knows what would have happened? You both claimed secrecy is the only way forward, yet share words in a place anyone could claim knowledge of."

You turned your head to face him, the rose-quarts necklace around your neck twinkling as you did so. "Caius-"

"Your secret is safe with me." he dipped his chin in assurance. "But if you continue openly on this path for any to discover, it is only a matter of time before someone less trustworthy shall hear what I did, see what I did."

"Yes," you rasped. "I understand."

Caius nodded gently before Felix summoned him for a refill of wine. You shared one last glance at one another before you took a centering breath, smoothed down the front of your stola, and made to cross over to tend to your Domina.

September, 79 C.E.

A SUFFOCATING, EXHAUSTIVE HEAT ravaged the city of Pompeii in the final days before the start of the Ludi Romani. Spurred by their discomfort and lack of motivation to brave the searing sun despite demanding the procurement of countless, useless things, Domina Aurelia and Felix had made the decision to maintain refuge in the cool confines of the villa. In their stead, you and Caius were commanded to go to market and suffer through the grueling heat.

Your scalp burned beneath the golden rays of sun as you stood awaiting your fellow attendant in the carriageway, the flowing creme stola that adorned your body clinging to you like second skin. Countless beads of sweat slowly rolled down your neck, spine, and in-between your breasts, your skin feeling scorched to the touch. You had been waiting for nearly ten minutes for Caius's arrival, and as the heat became more and more unbearable, so too did your mounting agitation. Distantly you heard the large iron doors of the villa entrance open and close, followed immediately by the sound of nearing footsteps.

As they grew closer you turned, a small huff of irritation escaping you. "By the gods, what has kept y-"

Your words died on your tongue the moment you faced the new arrivals. Caius stood beside the towering form of the Wolf, whose striking figure was clad in fine leather armor and black linen hood, an expertly crafted sword attached to his hip. The top of his head was shielded from view by the hood, though you could see that his golden locks were braided away from his face, the tail resting over his left shoulder. With considerable effort you tore your eyes away and met the dark blue gaze of the amici.

"Apologies for our delay." Caius dipped his chin, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "Dominus Antonius has commanded the Wolf to accompany us to market. A measure of extra security for the arrival of the festival."

A tingling lash of anticipation and coursed through you. It was a rare occurrence for you to be given an escort, rarer still for it to be a gladiator of his station. Though given the circumstances of looming holy days, you could see the logic behind his decision. "I see."

"Shall we?" Caius extended his hand towards the awaiting carriage. You simply nodded in reply.

The journey into the city square was filled with a charged, taut silence. Adrian and Caius had claimed the two empty spaces across from you, and despite your best efforts to keep your eyes trained out the window, they would not abide. They kept gravitating to the golden-haired warrior who had caught your gaze more times than not. Each and every time you had to fight against a smile that threatened to form. The gods had done you a single mercy, however, as Caius's sapphire eyes never strayed from the passing sea of red-roofed tiles of the nearing city and thus was not witness to your display.

As the carriage came to a halt, Caius exited first before offering you a hand. You took it, carefully gathering the skirts of your stola before stepping out onto the cobbled streets. All at once you were bombarded by the raucous cacophony of the bustling streets that nearly seemed to burst at the seams. Hundreds of people from all walks of life shuffled to and fro, be it from lowly house slaves to those of noble blood, whirring by you as they went about their busy lives. Vendors shouted clever catchphrases detailing their wares, the mixing scents of herbs, spices, cooking food, and perfumed oils enveloping the senses. For as far as the eye could see, countless wooden tables, carpets, and stalls lined the streets and stone buildings, beckoning all who pass to gaze upon the wondrous wares.

"I think it best to visit Ilythia's Elixirs first," you began, turning your attention back to the attendant beside you. "Domina desires to wear pressed rose oil from Arabia for the banquet. She favors Ilythia's stock above all."

Caius nodded in agreement. "To the perfumery then."

You followed his lead, taking your place behind him, Adrian at your back. The warrior kept an appropriate distance away, but you were constantly aware of the weight of his presence prickling the hairs at the nape of your neck.

For nearly an hour you, Caius, and the Wolf bobbed along the crowded streets of the main avenues, procuring every little thing your masters desired. Every item purchased was immediately delivered to the villa by the countless slaves that labored in every store, thwarting any possibility of theft that may have occurred by keeping them on your persons. By the time the sun had reached its peak, you had reached the end of the merchant streets and had finally arrived within the Forum.

A handful of vendor stalls were spread intermittently throughout the large open space, the majority clustered outside the temple of Apollo on the eastern side of the Forum. Countless people milled about, though you quickly realized that their attentions were not beholden to the wares before them, but were instead fixated solely on the two naked, filthy, and beaten forms of a man and woman flanked by four Roman soldiers. Beside them stood a red-faced, balding, and portly man clad in a toga praetexta, the hem of his garment stained with blood. Thorny, gnawing dread knotted your stomach and before you could stop yourself, you began to walk towards the direction of the spectacle.

"These fugitivi stand guilty of treason!" the man snarled, a his beady eyes burning with malice as he gazed upon the swelling crowd. "And as decreed for such crimes by Roman law, I, Aedile Solonius Marcus, do hereby sentence them to death!"

Hushed voices began to circulate through the crowd as the two slaves were unshackled, broken sobs and groans falling from their lips. You stilled nearly ten paces away, your eyes at once landing on the two large wooden structures that lay upon the ground that they were being dragged towards. The young man began to cry violently, begging for mercy.

"The slaves of Romulus Secundus were witnessed stealing scraps from their master's kitchen," Aedile Solonius continued, ignoring the broken cries that echoed off the walls of the Forum. "They were heard speaking in hushed whispers of their intent to escape into the wilds in effort to join the rebel horde! To stoke the lecherous flames of rebellion in their foolish attempt to topple the might of Rome!"

The male slave's begging grew louder and louder as the four Roman soldiers forced the two slaves onto the wooden crosses, binding their feet, necks, and arms tightly with rope to secure them tightly to the posts.

"The sting of the whip and the weight of irons no longer offer meaningful deterrent Now is time for exacting judgment to sway any other who would follow in such regard."

You heard the moment the first iron nail was hammered, ears ringing when blood-curdling screams tore from the captives' throats and drowned out the concussive sounds of iron striking iron.

There had only been one other occurrence in your life where you had witnessed such barbarity of its like. It has been after the Great Quake seventeen years ago, when the most desperate of the populous in the aftermath of the destruction had begun mass theft from the markets. The chaos led to the beginning forms of a riot before the Legion had promptly suffocated the flames of rebellion. Nearly thirty men, women, and children had been crucified for their so-called crimes, left to rot in the open Forum, the sun boring mercilessly down on their marred bodies while crows feasted upon their decaying flesh.

Bile burned at the back of your throat as the memory conjured in your mind, the horrific shrieking increasing evermore. Your hands began to shake when the large wooden crosses were fully erected, revealing the mutilated bodies of the slaves. Broken, choked sounds bubbled from their throats as thick, crimson rivers of blood flooded down their palms, arms, and legs, dripping into sickening puddles beneath their hovering forms.

Suddenly you became aware of the ghosting of fingertips against your own, the touch nearly making you startle.

"Divert your gaze," Adrian whispered lowly from behind you. "There is no need to subject yourself to their torment any longer."

You turned slowly, eyes meeting his own, his face nearly shielded from view by the black hood upon his head. You hardly noticed Caius's own grim expression as he stook his place beside the Wolf, his eyes trained on the cruelty behind you.

You dared not speak as you forced yourself into motion, Caius jumping in step beside you as you made way for the main avenues once more. The violent thrashing of your heart, the whirling of your mind, along with the stifling heat all soon became too much to bear. Your breathing became haggard, sweat beginning to collect at your brow. Caius's eyes widened when he gazed upon your stricken face before ushering you towards a large stone fountain outside of a busy tavern.

"Sit and rest here for a moment, lest exhaustion overtake you." he offered as you ambled up to the stone bench carved within the fountain's edge.

You wordlessly did as he bade, forcing deep inhales and exhales in attempt to center your breath.

"Are you unwell?" he inquired, dark blue eyes scanning the sheen of sweat that coated your face.

"It is only the heat." you muttered dismissively, futilely wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. "I just need a moment."

The handsome black-haired slave regarded you until his eyes found the stoic face of the gladiator. "I have yet more provisions Dominus has commanded of me to procure. Why do you not remain here, Wolf, and see that she is tended to? I shall go on ahead and finish our errand."

A lash of guilt curled around your heart. "That is not necessary-"

"I will see it done." Adrian replied, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

Caius inclined his chin. "I shall return within the half-hour."

Before you could continue to suggest otherwise, Caius turned on his heel and walked away, promptly disappearing into the crowd. Adrian shifted on his feet, taking a seat beside you.

"The amici appears unsettled by my presence." he observed evenly, his deep voice barely audible over the buzzing of the busy streets and the muffled sound of a lyre drifting from inside the tavern.

You inhaled another deep breath, your eyes fixating on the towering statues of Venus that stood guard outside the public baths across the street.

"He overheard our shared words on the barge," you confessed quietly, "he knows of our…friendship."

Adrian stilled, body morphing into stone.

You turned your head to face him. "We needn't fear. He swore discretion."

"So you say."

You shifted uneasily, the fabric of your stola clinging to your clammy skin uncomfortably. Though your unsettled nerves from bearing witness to the cruelty in the Forum had began to ebb away, the heat of the scorching sun had not. In a last effort to cool yourself, you began to fan your burning face with your hand. Suddenly Adrian stood, disappearing into the tavern before reappearing moments later with a goblet of chilled water and a handful of bread. Wordlessly he extended them to you.

You glanced uneasily at the offerings. "Where did you acquire coin for this?"

"My winnings from the arena." he extended his arm further, a silent command for you to take it. You did so, eyebrow raised before you brought the cup to your lips. The cold water was shocking to your parched throat, but you welcomed its chilling bite.

A soft sigh left your lips as your body instantly began to cool after another deep sip. "Gratitude."

He inclined his head in welcome before a long, taut silence flowed between you. You both took in your buzzing surroundings, the bustle of life so at odds with the horrors witnessed only moments before.

"Is it always as so?" he asked, finally sitting beside you once again, the leather of his armor catching the shining sun overhead in your peripheral.

"Your meaning?" you took a bite of bread then washed it down with more refreshment.

"This wretched city. The smell of shit and piss in the air, too many people crushed against each other in the streets, the constant noise. The murder of the innocent. It is grotesque."

"It has always been so. It is the Roman way." you replied sullenly.

He was silent for another long moment. "In my homeland, the markets do not have the foul smell that plagues every Roman city. Nor do they host the murdering of innocents. Though there are some who capture lives and sell them to Roman and Greek slavers, most do not. In my clan, we do not condemn those fighting for freedom. We ally ourselves with them and destroy those who uphold the opposite. Much like the gladiator leading the army for liberation."

You stilled, eyes widening. "You are familiar with the one they call Spartacus?"

Adrian's eyes narrowed the slightest amount, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "As are you it seems."

"In name only." you denied with a shake of your head. "Whispered in my ear by another trapped in bondage. How do you know of him?"

"Nearly the very same." he replied easily, reaching for the goblet of water in your hands. His fingers briefly closed around your own before pulling the cup from your grasp, the light touch sending pleasant tingles through your being. "Gladiators take nearly as much joy in gossip as they do fighting in the arena."

"He is infamous among you?" you watched him take a single sip of water as a bead of sweat rolled down his neck, his long blond tendrils clinging to the damp skin.

"His infamy is growing, yes." he amended, gently pressing the goblet back into your hands, his fingers once again brushing over the delicate skin. "I heard hushed whispers from my fellow brothers-in-arms that he and his rebel army have liberated thousands of lives."

"Where did they hear such a thing?"

"The guards of course. They too have no other hobbies besides divulging secrets when their minds are foggy with drink and they are desperate to evade boredom while tending to their duties. Evermore, countless of Batiatus's guard have seen Roman legionnaires here in Pompeii, dispatched to track down the rebel horde."

"I see." you took small sip before extending the thick slice of bread towards him.

The Wolf peered down at it before ripping a piece off at the corner and placed it in his mouth. "Does their cause burn inside your heart?"

Your neck nearly snapped as you faced him. "What?"

A small smirk curled his pink lips. "You have heard those words before, then?"

You swallowed thickly before taking another sip of water. "I have, though they hold no meaning to me."

"Wise amicae," he purred, "but you speak untrue. You know it as much as I do."

You forced the cup to your lips again before downing the remaining contents and standing, your voice lightly wavering with unease. "I know not what you speak of, and if I did, I would say the words you speak are dangerous. That you should not repeat them or those of their ilk again."

Adrian never took his eyes off you as he stood as well, speaking low enough so that his next words were hardly audible even by you. "And I would say that I bathe every night while the ludus sleeps, as is now my right as Champion. If you ever wished to continue to experience your birthright of speaking freely among a trusted confidant, you should find yourself walking the gardens when Pompeii slumbers and find refuge in the slave baths."

A frown slashed across your face. "That is foolish. You tempt fate by proposing such cursed proposal."

"I tempt fate every day I draw breath, amicae." he inched closer, molten eyes boring into your own. "While we should endeavor not to act amicably in front of prying eyes, that does not mean we cannot conduct ourselves the way we see fit in secret. After all, what is a life worth living if you do not take risks?"

You made to respond before the sound of Caius clearing his throat broke the spell between you. Without saying a word you pressed the empty goblet and leftover loaf into the gladiator's hands, turning to meet your fellow attendant.

"Did you procure everything you required?"

"Indeed," his dark blue eyes flickered between you and the golden-haired warrior, "all is well?"

"Indeed." you echoed with a sharp nod. "Come, let us return lest our continued absence conjures Domina's foul mood."

~

The evening of the opening banquet arrived promptly and without catastrophe, despite what Aurelia might have claimed in the hours leading up to the event. The villa was decorated without a single expense spared. Anyone and everyone of import within Pompeii would be in attendance, and your masters demanded utmost perfection. The night was to be full with nothing but the highborn gorging themselves on delectable foods, refreshment, and their fill of opium while entertained in every regard by the other house slaves.

You had been ordered by Dominus Antonius to perform a hymn dedicated to Mighty Jupiter after the showcasing of gladiators who demonstrated their considerable skills in unarmed combat, a way to rouse the other senses of the crowd. You were bathed and dressed for the occasion in Aurelia's chambers by Corrina whose brown eyes and pale face were darkened by heavy shadow, her touch heavy-handed and impatient.

"Are you unwell?" you finally inquired, biting back your desire to curse when her greasy palm nearly slapped the flesh of your chest, slathering aromatic oils upon your skin.

Her eyes briefly flashed to your own, the frown on her face deepening. "No."

You could not stop the quiet scoff that escaped you. "Your use of heavy hand says otherwise."

"You are not deserving of anything else," she seethed under her breath, "you are no Domina of mine."

"And yet when it is I who readies you, I make no such distinction." your own lips bowed into a deep frown.

An empty laugh escaped her. "So says the slave who dares believe herself special because she was granted the honor of amicae. Tell me why you are rewarded with duties of singing and dressing while I-"

Corrina's voiced died as she wretched her hands from your person. Your eyebrows furrowed at her inquiry, a coil of dread snaking in your stomach. "Who are we to question our Domina's desires?"

Her eyes snapped to your own, a snarl contorting her face.

You steeled yourself to full height, beginning to dress in the near sheer-white silk wrap that clung to every inch of your being and the intricately carved laurel collar. "I am not your enemy, Corrina. Whether I bare the title of amicae or not, we both share the same fate."

She did not respond. Instead her expression darkened evermore before reeling on her heels and walking away. You were left in stunned silence before Caius rapped on the large wooden doors the moment you had finished fully readying yourself.

"Dominus Antonius has instructed you to wait in his office until you are needed," he began, escorting you down the winding halls of the villa. He was dressed solely in a golden collar and white-silk lion cloth, every possible muscle that was upon him visible for viewing.

You did not have the chance to reply before you reached the threshold of Antonius's offices. Caius bowed, smiling softly until he turned his back and made way towards the atrium. Carefully you entered the room, your eyes taking in the vibrant frescoes of Jupiter upon the walls, the towering shelves filled with scrolls, sculpted marble faces of all the previous lanistas that came before him mounted on the wall opposite you. But what truly took your breath away was the divinely-beautiful form of Adrian standing with his back towards you, facing towards the open balcony that overlooked the ocean. You took a single step forward before he turned to face you, and all at once you were overcome.

His chest was bare, save for the sash of gold that wrapped around his broad chest and back before widening and covering the entirety of his groin, leaving his thick, muscled thighs and calves on full display. His own alabaster skin glimmered and gleamed with gold flecks, causing the molten of his eyes to shine brighter than Apollo himself. His hair was loose from his usual braid, the thick, blond waves falling down the length of his spine. Upon his neck was a thick plate of gold inlaid with perfectly smoothed obsidian stones. Your heart began to thrum faster in your chest as a curl of unabashed desire and awe bloomed throughout the entirety of your body.

The sound of a rasped, unknown word in Dacian shattered your thoughts and snapped you back into the present moment. You blinked, your muddled thoughts clearing.

Your face burned as you found his eyes again. "Forgive me. I was not expecting your presence."

Adrian dipped his chin, a coy smirk gracing his lips. "Dominus summoned me after the demonstration. I suspect to broach subject of the Augustalia. And as I have told you before, amicae, your gaze does not offend. It could never offend. In fact, I crave it wholly."

Your face burned hotter. "Is that so?"

His eyes darkened as they slowly traveled the entire expanse of your body, speaking once again in his mother language.

"I do not understand what you say," you never took your eyes from him, not even as his burning gaze found your own and made your lower belly tingle with arousal, "I do not have the honor of knowing your language."

"Do you truly wish to know?" he took another step forward, now close enough that you smelt the scent of frankincense and myrrh upon his skin.

"If I spoke in an unknown tongue while staring at you, wouldn't you want to know what it is I say?"

He chuckled, the deep sound vibrating in your chest as he drew ever closer. "I merely thanked my gods for blessing me with such divine fortune as to be blessed enough to be in the presence of a goddess."

You could not contain the smile that brightened your face. "Such poetic words for a gladiator."

"It is but one of many other talents I possess." he murmured, eyes falling to your lips as he took a single step forward. "My precision with a throwing spear. My prowess while hunting."

You gazed upon his own, your mind instantly conjuring thought of what they would feel like, taste like. "Oh?"

He made a sound that rumbled deep within his chest. "Of course, I cannot forget to mention the skill and dexterity of my fingers and tongue. I was always told I had wonderful mastery over the Dacian Draco."

A flare of heat went straight to your core, his innuendo unlost by you.

"I shall have to trust your word on the matter." you replied, the words breathier than you wished. "I am unfamiliar with such an instrument."

Adrian's eyes gleamed with amusement. "I suppose you shall."

A beat of silence settled between you, your gazes never leaving the other. It wasn't until you heard the sound of approaching footsteps did you look away, moving to nearest wall and fixating your eyes downcast. Not half a breath after Antonius crossed the threshold, followed closely by his own attendant.

"Ah, amicae." his amber eyes briefly glanced in your direction. "The time is upon us for your performance. See to your immediate arrival within the atrium at once and speak words of comfort to my wife at my absence. I have important matters to discuss with the Wolf."

You dared not look either of them in the eye before bowing. "Yes, Dominus."

~

Raucous applause filled the air as your perfect, final note rang out across the atrium. Every pair of eyes had been solely upon you throughout the entirety of your performance, your melodic voice as intoxicating as ambrosia. After receiving many heartfelt and lustful compliments, you returned to Aurelia's side once again, ignoring with all your might the continued leering glances of those around you.

She conversed with Felix as they sipped from their opulent goblets, speaking in hushed, cruel tones of those they deemed lesser than as they took a turn about the room before they joined the cluster of high born men and women whose minds were nearly gone with drink. They clucked among themselves, engorging on wine, food, and opium before their tongues were fully loosened. The conversation seemed to come to the end of its course until a drunken noble mentioned the dreary crucifixion you had borne witness to in the markets in the previous days.

"Savage scum, all of them!" the unfortunately familiar form of the balding, bloated Aedile guffawed boisterously. "Two perfectly good house slaves embracing uselessness and treachery. They claimed the rebel horde has set course for Pompeii! Imagine! Pathetic, savage scum believing they can stand before the might of Rome and emerge victorious. We will crucify and disembowel every single lecherous slave until this rebellion is crushed beneath the weight of the Republic!"

Countless of the surrounding masters toasted the Aedile, their grating laughter causing your teeth to rattle.

"Tell me, dear Solonius," the even, deep voice of Senator Belmont echoed out, effectively silencing them all as he, Sypha, and Greta stepped in to join the circling crowd of highborn, "is it not true that Rome sent countless detachments to hunt the rebels?"

Aedile Solonius blinked, his crossing eyes barely focusing on Trevor's striking form.

"Y-Yes that's true, Senator." he stuttered, bowing his head in greeting.

"Is it not also truth that Spartacus and his army have managed to defeat each and every Roman legionnaire they crossed swords with?" the Senator pressed, taking a leisurely sip of wine.

"I-I would not know for certain-"

"And yet you claim victory based off the final words of a few attempted escaped slaves? You describe the rebel army as nothing more than what was it? Oh, yes. Pathetic, savage scum. Do you truly believe, Aedile, that pathetic, savage scum could emerge victorious again and again against the might of Rome?"

A taut silence descended upon the atrium as every pair of eyes were now trained on the portly man.

"Well no b-b-but-"

"Countless Roman soldiers have lost their lives because they made the deadly mistake of undermining the rebel army. The infamous Legatus Aurelius's head was severed by Spartacus's own blade during their battle at Campania because he failed to see them as true enemies. Their numbers have swelled to nearly five-thousand strong. Again, Aedile, could pathetic, savage scum accomplish such a feat?"

The Aedile shook his head, not daring to reply.

"You seem quite informed on the matter, Senator. I am in awe of your knowledge." Dominus Antonius laughed lightly, easing through the mounting tension of those around you.

"That is kind of you, dear Antonius. The citizens of Rome are my utmost priority." Trevor met your master's eyes. "I would be remiss not to learn of all the goings on that plague the Republic and fail to give them their due diligence."

"Speaking of a plague to the Republic, what is the Senate's plan for the taxation on opium?" Felix questioned as he inhaled from the shared pipe that housed that very plant. Whether with intent or not, Felix's slurred words cleared the remaining awkwardness that had overtaken the atrium as each and every high-born cackled at his supposed hilarity.

As the night stretched on, the palettes and tastes of those in attendance slowly became more and more debauched. It was no longer enough to satiate the growing appetites of the guests with flowing wine and the hints of nudity provided by the garments you and your fellow slaves wore. Their pawing hands and slurred voices heavy with desire soon gave way to a private showing led by Dominus Antonius and his wife Amelia in the triclinium. Countless bodies gathered around a stone slab that was newly positioned for the exact occasion. Antonius announced the arrival of a gladiator who you recognized as newer addition to the ludus before gesturing for another figure to come forward. Slowly the naked form of Carrina was revealed, her nipples painted gold, as were her eyelids and lips. She dared not gaze up to meet a single eye, not even as the crowding members of the audience voiced their crude appreciation.

"My dearest friends whose loins ache with the need for release," Antoius gazed around the crowd, amber eyes dark with malicious hunger, "allow the House of Batiatus offer you a unique pleasure to the senses. A virgin yet untouched taken for the first time by a virgin warrior whose cock weeps at the promise of his first taste of cunt."

Violent, icy waves of dread and anguish flooded over you, stealing your breath as you watched in horror as Corrina and the unknown gladiator were commanded to position themselves upon the stone slab. She lay with her back upon the hard surface, her face streaked with shimmering gold as tears rolled down her pale cheeks. The warrior crawled between her legs, a shuddered breath of twisted anticipation escaping him.

You warred with yourself to remain unmoving at Aurelia's side as nauseating, unadulterated rage and disgust threatened to overtake you. How many times had you been forced to watch other innocent lives be ruined and brutalized for the sake of Roman entertainment? How many times had you been forced to stand by and watch as your fellows were raped, murdered, scarred and marred because Roman law decreed it just? Decreed that the rich and powerful could do anything and everything they pleased.

A quiet, muffled sound drew your attention, your teary eyes rising from the marble floor to land on the dark brown of Corrina's. The warrior had forced her head to the side as he attempted to settle closer to her at Dominus Antonius's command. For a long, terrible moment you held her gaze, saw the agonized sorrow that swirled within their depths. Your mind begged you to look away, but your heart refused to let you. Not when a dark voice in the back of your mind reminded you that someday you would be offered up as a lamb was to slaughter, just as she was. Just as every life the Romans deemed lesser than had been. Your own anguish was nowhere near as important as her own in that moment, and you could not bring yourself to abandon her.

"I desire more wine," Aurelia's sickly sweet voiced announced from beside you, a breathy sigh escaping her as she watched the inhumane spectacle with grotesque desire. "Fetch me another goblet."

You nearly didn't hear her over the ringing of your ears as you stumbled backwards, clawing your way through the thick throng of demented onlookers who sighed and moaned in delight at the horrific sight before them.

It took many moments for you to weave through the crowd and free yourself from the clutches of the triclinium, your trembling legs nearly giving out beneath you. A haggard breath escaped you as you finally reached the atrium and feasting tables laden with copious amounts of food and drink. You blinked away the stinging tears that clouded your vision as your shaking hands reached for the bronze pitcher of wine. The usually light vessel was heavy as stone in your grasp and you were forced to set it down with a loud thud.

"Something troubles you, little poet?" Felix's voice sounded from behind you, mocking with false sincerity.

You froze before turning to face him, bowing your head. "No, Dominus."

"You wouldn't lie, would you?" he pressed closer, the hem of his tunic now within eyesight.

"No, Dominus."

A clammy hand pressed itself against your left shoulder before trailing up until it stilled under your chin.

Slowly, carefully, Felix raised your head so that you were forced to meet his eyes. "I must profess a desire of mine after seeing such wondrous display my father gifted us with. I long with all my heart for my cock to split you in half, just as that brute splits the house slave."

You painfully choked down the desire to break away from him, silenced every voice in your mind that screamed for you to strike him. Hurt him. Kill him.

"Would you like that, little poet? To have your cunt split open on my cock while I ruin you? To fuck you like my whore?"

You dared not move, breathe, or speak.

"Answer me, slave, or I will-"

"Pardon me, dearest Felix."

The soft, gentle voice snapped your Dominus out of his dark stupor as he did all but tore himself away from you. Clumsily he straightened his tunic, ran a hand through his dark curls, and met the eyes of the interloper. "Good evening, Mistress Sypha."

From your peripheral you saw a flash of silver-blue and copper hair taking place beside you before the warmth of her presence washed over you like a balm.

"Forgive my interruption, but I am afraid my…condition…has taken its toll and I have not been able to lay eyes on my amicae. " Sypha's delicate hands rose to the slight swelling of her belly. "May your sister's amicae tend to my needs instead? It will only be for a moment. You do not mind, do you?"

"No," he answered, the word clipped and overly controlled, "no not at all." his gaze fell back to you. "Escort Senator Belmont's wife to the gardens, amicae. I am sure the fresh air will do her justice. I will locate and inform your husband."

She inclined her chin, a small smile at her lips. "Gratitude."

You felt his eyes rake over you once again before he turned on his heels and stumbled away. For half a breath you did not move, your body still overtaken with overwhelm. It wasn't until the quiet sound of your name left Sypha's lips did you peer up at her, eyes wide.

"Apologies, Domina. This way."

Sypha did not speak as you led her through the darkened halls of the villa until you reached the gardens below. The sound of the banquet fell away to near silence as you walked down the path, the stones beneath your feet crunching as you did so. When you reached a stone bench that overlooked the sprawling grounds hidden from direct view of the villa, she finally spoke.

"Are you unharmed?"

Your face contorted as a wash of countless emotions flooded your face. "Yes, Domina."

A small frown etched across her beautiful face, but she remained silent. For a long, long moment you stared at one another before she sat on the bench before inviting you to do the same. Reluctantly you did so.

"No human being should be treated as so." she began quietly, the words nearly inaudible to you. "No soul should ever have to endure the cruelties the masters of Rome inflict."

You did not reply.

"There are no words strong or true enough to express my sorrow for what you and the other slaves must endure. I am so sorry."

The painful lump in your throat began to swell again, restricting your breath as you turned your head to face her. "You have no cause to apologize, Domina."

"Sypha." she amended once again. "I am no ones master."

Disbelief flared painfully in your stomsch, yet again you did not offer reply.

The Senator's wife shifted, the silver-blue silks of her stola catching the light of the waxing moon. "I wanted to offer heartfelt praise for your performance. You have a voice blessed by Apollo himself."

You bowed your head. "Gratitude."

"I truly mean it." her frown morphed into a kind, soft smile. "I have never heard such beautiful singing before. Do you enjoy it? Singing, I mean."

"Yes," you replied quietly, "very much so."

"I tried honing my skill once. Trevor claimed that I sounded like a dying ram."

"I believe I said the tune you were humming sounded like a dying ram. Not you yourself."

Your attention snapped towards the nearing form of the Senator who was followed closely by Greta. Her brown eyes met your own, her expression unreadable.

Immediately you surged to your feet and bowed. "Dominus."

"Trevor." the Senator corrected, blue eyes gleaming in the silver light of the moon. "When it is just us in present company, you may speak freely. Just as my wife asked you to do the same."

Your eyes widened evermore as uncertainty and panic began to toil inside of you. How was it that proper Roman high-born continued to dare make such unheard of requests? Did they take joy and satisfaction from your confusion and fear? Was it a way to test your loyalty to your betters? A plan to disarm you with false use of familiarity so that you would feel inclined and obligated to do their bidding? To divulge all of your deepest secrets?

"Tell me, amicae, you have heard rumors of the gladiator called Spartacus, yes? The mighty Champion of Capua?" the Senator took a step forward, cocking his head to the side as he studied your expression.

Another violent wave of dread crashed over you as you fought against urge to glance at the amicae at his side. "Yes. But he himself is unknown to me."

The Senator watched you for many moments, the sharp turquoise of his eyes crushing down into the very essence of your being. "And yet, I see the fire of his cause burning brightly inside of you."

A painful, disorienting chill of terror coursed through you, the blood in your veins turning to ice water. Did he know? Did he gain knowledge of the conversation between you and Greta? Had she told him, painted you as a rebel? Or perhaps by mysterious means only known by the gods he somehow learned of your conversation with Adrian at market?

A gentle chuckle fell from his lips as he stared at you for a moment longer before reaching his hand out towards his wife. Sypha gracefully took it and stood, but not before smiling gently at you.

"Gratitude for looking after my wife and unborn child." the Senator finally met your eyes again before meeting Sypha's own. "Come, dearest. I think it best if we retire to our villa for the evening. Gods know we have countless busy days of celebration ahead of us."

Senator Belmont and Sypha did not look at you again as they turned and began to walk through the gardens once more. Greta, however, maintained your stricken stare for half a breath before turning on her heels and following after them.

a/n: To the wonderful reader who sent in the anon ask about this fic last night, I want to thank you ☺️🫶🏼Last night I stayed up making all the edits I needed for the final draft that I was originally going to post this weekend, but I couldn't leave yall hanging hehe. I hope you all enjoyed. 🌿🙏✨️

[ivfhnyfubpx]

this scene is so fucking funny the english dub of this show is so good

[laughconfetti]

loud warning

[notajerusalemcricketd-deactivat]

[nunnatheinsanegerbil]

[chiptrillino-art]

I loveeeee how your art, especially how you incorporate traditional clothing into your designs. Can I ask where you usually find references for the clothing you draw and are there any sources you'd reccomend for someone interested in learning more about traditional clothing and textiles? Thank youuu!!

Hey! uhm.. i hope its okay to link some of my previous ask with similar question i replyed to in the past.

Link, link, link, link <-this one comes with a wonderful addition

my method didn't change and its not like there are specific link or sources that always include everything. not that it is what you ask anon. but a lot what i do is like... fact matching and checking. or watch tutorials on youtube by typing ing "how to get dressed as a buddhist monk in indonesia" and watch the video.

the steps are like: 1. wikipedia for base knowledge 2. find a museum who exihbits the item of clothing i am interested in or find a travel blog/forum/guide that shares the cluture. when it comes to indiginous people they do have their own websites more often (but some of my previous link's are now offline sorry. and tbh i never safe links i just... type in the search bar what i want and it spits out museums archives or travel blog information and such) 3. never underestimate the wast knowledge within reddit post when it comes to armor discussion. (please go the extra mailt o fact check just to be safe) 4. there are people on youtube that dedicate their freetime in educating and sharing their culture with the world link, link, link, link,

i want to emphasize... its not jut the item of clothing. but its the whole enviorment and history around it that should be looked at. because it all connects. which can make research sometimes a bit extensive. but its fun to me!

when it comes to atla characters redesign. good starting point is and will always remain @atlaculture. i owe them like... theoretically.... nearly everything i make so big thanks to them and all the time and effort they put in their blog!

hope this can help

[mirrormauve]

faultlines

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)

Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.

cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection

Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body. 

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.

He hated you for it. 

He went back the next day. 

And the day after that.

.

.

.

Anchor might be a better descriptor. 

Hook was too violent.

Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that. 

He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things. 

You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t. 

You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin. 

You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it. 

You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night. 

You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else. 

They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in. 

Absolutely bloody foul. 

Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile. 

And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed. 

You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers. 

You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you. 

He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous. 

You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough. 

Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them. 

He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him. 

The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important. 

That used to be more important. 

Now his every thought was asterisked by you. 

Distracted. 

He didn’t do well with it. 

He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it. 

Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.  

He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly. 

After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk. 

Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest. 

It was enough to be where you had once been. 

That was as close as he cared to be. 

He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again. 

.

.

. 

He went by Ghost, you learned eventually. 

His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely. 

It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith. 

It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut. 

Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true. 

Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request. 

It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception. 

It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.

When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.” 

The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.” 

Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.” 

You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note. 

There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.

You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way. 

Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it. 

You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.

You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back. 

“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” 

This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands. 

The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.

“Have I passed?” 

His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?” 

“Your test?” 

“Think I’m testin’ you?” 

“You moved my desk.” 

He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it. 

It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.   

You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.” 

“Should.”

“Maybe.” 

“Especially in the field.” 

“I don’t do field work.” 

He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond. 

“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”  

He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office. 

Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company. 

All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone. 

Ghost was strange, slightly off putting. 

You liked him.

Maybe, you thought, he’d come back. 

.

.

.

Ghost visited regularly after that. 

Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work. 

His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. 

You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.

But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.  

Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind. 

The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.

You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.  

The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others. 

Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it. 

You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain. 

He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag. 

In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently. 

But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him. 

If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said. 

“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.

Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle. 

He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.  

“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.  

“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“

“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”

“Yep. Got something for you, too.” 

He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?” 

You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”

He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”

“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”

“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”

Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway. 

When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed. 

It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.

.

.

.

When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor. 

It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window. 

In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift. 

He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier. 

“It’s for you. I knitted it.” 

He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”

Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?” 

“Who else would have?” 

He grunted. “You knit?” 

“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”

His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. 

“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.

You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.” 

Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.” 

“What?” 

“Silly.” 

The way he grunted the word made you laugh. 

“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”

“Reckon you just did.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?” 

“Just two.” 

It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.” 

“And out of questions.”

You laughed again. 

He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.” 

“Where are you from?” 

The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?” 

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.” 

He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer. 

The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back. 

“Why do you come here?” You asked instead. 

This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.” 

“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.” 

He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.” 

You decided not to take offense at being called noise. 

You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch. 

“Hungry?” You asked.  

“Tryin’ to see my face?” 

You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.” 

The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.  

“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.

You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.” 

He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.” 

You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.” 

“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it. 

When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.  

“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.” 

Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?” 

You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”

His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all. 

“From somewhere warm?”

“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.” 

“Must be nice, that.” 

“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.” 

“One you enjoy.” 

“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.” 

He snorted again.

You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle. 

When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.” 

“Hm?”

“Where I’m from.”

His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead. 

“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“

You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”

“It’s your fucking accent.”

“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?” 

“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered. 

You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” 

“Suppose it does.” 

“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.” 

He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?” 

You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”

“They make it wrong too.” 

You groaned. “Not you too.” 

Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container. 

“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.” 

You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?” 

“I love tea.” 

It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.” 

He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called. 

Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.” 

He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.” 

“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.” 

Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone. 

.

.

.

It should be a good thing. 

You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other. 

But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.

The thought festered, burrowed. 

“Laswell.”

She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of  her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead. 

“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.” 

Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”

Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that. 

“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall. 

You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.

As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working. 

When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working. 

He walked you to your car around midnight. 

“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you. 

“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered. 

You just laughed. 

.

.

.

“Tea?” 

You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain. 

It would need remedied. 

But first, this. 

It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.  

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.” 

“What’re you still doing ‘ere?” 

“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?” 

Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.

“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”  

“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.” 

“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.” 

“Hilarious, you are.” 

You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?” 

He nodded. “C’mon then.”

You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.

Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain. 

The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.  

“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”

“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.” 

“I’ve been practicing.”

He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.

“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.” 

He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”

“Got a head start then.” 

You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it. 

If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody. 

The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged. 

Simon ignored it.  

When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw. 

“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off. 

He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?” 

“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it. 

“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?” 

Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.” 

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.” 

He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it. 

The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.

“To hide my face.” 

“Your identity, you mean.” 

“My identity,” he agreed.

“Why?” 

He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop? 

Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.” 

You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead. 

“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.” 

“Part of the job.” 

Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.” 

Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.” 

“I take offense to that.” 

You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.” 

“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.  

When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not. 

“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.” 

“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time. 

He huffed. “Better all the time.” 

“And I have you to thank.” 

Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check. 

Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his. 

“Thanks, Ghost.” 

“”S just tea.” 

You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation. 

“What’s tha’?” 

“I know how to make tea for you now.” 

“Like it?” 

“I love it.” 

You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.” 

He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.” 

You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well. 

“Noted.” 

Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so. 

.

.

.

Things settled into a pleasant rhythm. 

A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in. 

You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach. 

People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond. 

You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary. 

It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.

It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes. 

“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?” 

“Oh,” you said. “I—” 

It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest. 

You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.

Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door. 

“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.” 

“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?” 

Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.” 

“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” 

His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office. 

So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there. 

And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work. 

“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.” 

“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.” 

“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated. 

Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life. 

You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all. 

.

.

.

Monday. 

There was a knife in Simon’s pocket. 

Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot. 

The one in his pocket, though, was for you.

A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one. 

The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over. 

It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays. 

And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away. 

Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away. 

When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished. 

Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”  

Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't. 

“All right?” 

“Hm?”

“You’re quiet.” 

“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.

There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?” 

You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.” 

“Try again.” 

Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.

Simon waited, but you did not reemerge. 

He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—” 

“Nice weather.” 

“I can see that.” 

“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.” 

Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”

“C’mon, then.” 

You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?” 

He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm. 

“Lunch.” 

You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow. 

Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right. 

Just his luck. 

Didn’t matter though. 

He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled. 

The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain. 

“So, what are we doing?” 

“Walking.” 

“I can see that.” 

“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?” 

You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway. 

The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply. 

He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter. 

Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“What are we doing back here?” 

Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.

You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Secret’s safe with me.” 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”  

He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own. 

They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.

He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him. 

Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved. 

Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own. 

He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking. 

He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too. 

He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed. 

Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.

When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms. 

“What ‘appened?” He asked.

Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.” 

“Stalling.” 

“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.” 

Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?” 

“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.” 

“He’s a prick.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.” 

You looked very small, and alone at that moment. 

“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”

The chill spreads outward.  

It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life. 

He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this. 

You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again. 

And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands. 

You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves. 

“Have you found yours?” 

Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.” 

You nodded. “Me either.”

.

.

.

He walked you back to your office. 

You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find. 

Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs. 

Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair. 

You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way. 

Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk. 

Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch. 

A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges. 

He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.  

“A knife.” 

“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.” 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.” 

“Why?” 

“In case you need to.”

“Is this about me staying late?” 

“No.” He did not elaborate. 

“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—” 

“But you don’t carry a gun.” 

“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”  

He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.” 

You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed. 

.

.

.

If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well. 

You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began. 

You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.  

What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic. 

Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.

This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow. 

On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope. 

You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?” 

Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud. 

You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?” 

“Better to be prepared, yeah?” 

“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh. 

After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison. 

His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours? 

Rough, warm. Safe.  

It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing. 

Stupid, silly. 

If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask. 

“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate. 

“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”

“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.  

“Not a game, bird.” 

“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.” 

“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.” 

“Is that it?” 

You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.” 

It wasn’t easy. 

For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back. 

Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.

Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in. 

“On your feet.” 

Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good. 

It didn’t feel like you were doing good now. 

By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands. 

“You’re hurting me,” you gasped. 

He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion. 

But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way. 

“Shit.” 

.

.

.

The window was open and you were not in your office. 

Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently. 

He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.” 

Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds. 

When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.” 

“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.” 

“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.” 

Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”

“Forgot it.” 

Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it. 

“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

“It’s okay—“

“Wasn’t a suggestion.” 

“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.” 

He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity. 

“Gonna rain,” he commented. 

You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget. 

When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again. 

“I can see you won’t leave it alone.” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours. 

Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted. 

You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.” 

He grunted, followed you closely back inside. 

As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen. 

He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”

Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.

“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled. 

“Who’s this then?” 

You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.” 

“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”

“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.” 

Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?” 

“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice. 

But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?” 

Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.

“Very becoming, lass.” 

You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?” 

“Aye, all mine.”

“Ah, luck.” 

“Lucky indeed.”

Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.

 “Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat. 

“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.” 

“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.” 

“That’s for sure, bonnie.” 

“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?” 

Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”

“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.” 

Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—  

“It’s need to know,” he snapped. 

Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess. 

“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”

Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into. 

Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold. 

.

.

.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!” 

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

“Yer name?” 

Ghost leveled Soap with a stare. 

Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?” 

“Stay out of it, MacTavish.” 

Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.” 

He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”

“It won’t.”

Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“

“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.” 

“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”

Simon ignored him. 

But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.  

Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him. 

.

.

.

Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it. 

He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too. 

Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged. 

Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.

The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you. 

But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender. 

You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends. 

Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.

Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it. 

Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date. 

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.

You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see. 

Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?” 

A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.” 

“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?” 

“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.

Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.” 

“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—” 

“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”  

“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.” 

“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.” 

“You sweet on me or something, bon?”

You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match. 

The silence was suffocating. 

“All right?” 

You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little. 

He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?” 

You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—” 

“You’re apologizing for Soap?” 

Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”

“No.” 

“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.” 

He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.” 

“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—” 

He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”  

“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’ll make space.” 

He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him. 

“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.” 

“Aye, LT.” 

He chuckled. “Take care of that.” 

“Teach me how?” 

He nodded. 

“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.” 

“I know.” 

Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier. 

“‘Course you do.” 

.

.

.

Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain. 

His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain. 

The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to. 

He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.

You said he didn’t, after,  but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry. 

You’re hurting me.  

It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable. 

You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over. 

He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain. 

His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls. 

There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins. 

Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little. 

“Johnny.” 

Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—” 

“Does she feel it?”

“What—”

He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”

Soap glanced around, brows raised. “Ye don’t know?” 

“Say I don’t.” 

“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.” 

Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Deserves better.” 

Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.” 

Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father. 

Fucking perfect. 

.

.

.

Two months deployment.  

The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it. 

He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore. 

Maybe, he didn’t really want to.

Maybe, Johnny was right. 

He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with. 

Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle. 

Not as empty as they thought. 

Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward. 

Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise. 

When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her. 

The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang. 

Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes. 

“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked. 

“What?” 

“Soulmates.” 

Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes. 

“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—” 

Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again. 

It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence. 

“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side. 

It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you. 

All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers. 

Just to be sure. 

It took them a long time to get her to leave the body. 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months. 

September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag. 

You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of. 

You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together. 

Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day. 

But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—

Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.  

You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.” 

“That disappointed to see me?” 

No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.” 

He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.” 

You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.” 

“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.” 

His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong. 

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?” 

He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained. 

He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand. 

“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”

Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question. 

“Scars.” 

You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales. 

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. 

Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them. 

“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”

He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”  

You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”  

He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.” 

His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.” 

“What?” 

“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?” 

Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly. 

“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.” 

“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—” 

But Simon was determined, his mind set. 

“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.” 

“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?” 

Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed. 

“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall. 

You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you. 

He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—” 

“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be. 

The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly. 

You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck. 

“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.” 

You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught. 

You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they. 

It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet. 

You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.

You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold. 

You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like. 

“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind. 

You opened your eyes.  

“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand. 

He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.  

You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap. 

But if he was yours—

If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him. 

He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear. 

You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“You don’t understand,” he rasped.  

“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.” 

The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.

“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”

He finally returned his gaze to yours. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.” 

He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.  

“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.” 

Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.  

You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.” 

His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.” 

Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.

“It’s not fair to you.” 

“What isn’t?” 

“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?” 

You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?” 

He made a pained sound. “Don’t.” 

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’re supposed to need things from me.”  

He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—” 

“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.” 

You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.” 

“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat. 

“Can.” 

Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours. 

You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.” 

“How long?” 

“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.” 

“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—” 

“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.” 

You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?” 

“No.” 

“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—” 

He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin. 

You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul. 

You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you. 

In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss. 

When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.” 

“Just turning on the lamp.” 

He released you.

As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair. 

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”

When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa. 

Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly. 

“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?” 

“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth. 

He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.” 

Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped. 

“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers. 

“You don’t want me.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours. 

“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.” 

“Obviously it’s not, bird.” 

Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”

“Simon,” he corrected.  

“Simon,” you echoed. 

He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.” 

You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—” 

“No.”

You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.” 

His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.

It didn’t feel close enough. 

You wished it were all different. 

That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted. 

“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?” 

He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded. 

“Go on, then.” 

Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head. 

You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling. 

Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic. 

Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—” 

You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together. 

“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Good.” 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Can do anything you like to me, bird.” 

You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.” 

He made a content noise of agreement. 

You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?” 

“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.” 

His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little. 

Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.” 

“What—” 

He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.  

“No more pain?” 

“None.” 

“Good.” 

You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.

“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”  

His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins. 

It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips. 

“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly. 

He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples. 

Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.

“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.

The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.  

if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!

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