Something Or Other, Gaz X Reader.

something or other, Gaz x Reader.

you and gaz have been going out for a couple of weeks. classical gentleman. knocked your standards up a few pegs and then some. treats you gently and poetic with comfort. makes you laugh.

and all of these things make you nervous to bed him.

hands tremble a bit as you fiddle with his dress shirt buttons, doing your best to focus on the gentle grip that pulses over your hipbone. mind on overdrive when he shoves his hands up your dress.

loosing the ability to worry in your first orgasm.

he flips you over across the counter, face cooling on the granite. a breath as he hikes up your dress, and you both realize something rather quickly-

you forgot to mention the tattoo.

approaching a decade old. a stick and poke from your late teens. sits right above your ass. you go to say something when you feel his thumb press against it.

“what do we have here…”

doesn’t take his eyes off it when he fucks you from behind. makes sure to kiss it after licking your cunt clean from his spend.

he’s a fan.

anatomy of us (final) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, final part (14.6k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), allusions to poly!141, this part contains minor physical assault against reader (not by simon) 18+

PART 1 ⏤ PART 2 ⏤ PART 3

You make a deal with the devil.

Simon was right, as much as you don’t want to admit it. You cannot fight your omega. She is stupid, and she is careless, but she controls some of the parts of you that you have never been able to reach. She can kill you with it. You’ve heard of these kinds of things, the places omegas can take you—a spiral so far into yourself, that the only protection your brain has for itself is to turn off.

Brain-dead. No signal. In an effort to conserve life, it turns itself off, but it doesn’t think about the fact that there will be no one there to turn itself back on. In the fight to save itself, it self-destructs, and there is nothing to do but cut the cord.

She can do that to you, if she really wanted to. Feral enough, she can tie a noose around your neck and pull it, and you will have no choice but to fall into yourself. You cannot fight her, but you cannot love her either; so you make a deal.

If she sweetens her scent to Simon’s pack, you will let Simon in. You won’t fight the ticking timer in your head. You’ll let yourself relax. You’ll give her the control to let herself indulge, since you never have before, and all she has to do is make sure every one of those alphas are at your heel. She needs to be good—she can’t half-ass this kind of thing. You need a leash around each of their necks, and you need it to cut off their oxygen when you pull on it. If someone gets loose, you’ll find a way to suffocate her for good. You swear it, promise it, tell her you’re going to drown her even if it drowns you, too—

I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

Eager little thing, she is. Sweet as honey, but deadly like poison. She’s a carnivorous plant, and ever since you stopped taking your meds, her roots have grown into you—attaching to your veins, tainting your blood, weaving itself into your brain stem like a cancerous cell. You won’t let her take it all. If she gives you a little, you’ll give, too, and that is how the balance can be kept.

You’ll make a man-eater out of her. You think she’ll prefer the taste, and perhaps it will dull the sharpness of her teeth when they sink back into you again.

She lets go of you for now. When you feel her teeth pull back from behind your eyes, you’re gasping for breath, and there is a great weight hanging over your back. You’re dragging someone along with you, leaving behind a trail of blood and hard bootprints, and you can feel the adrenaline that’s been keeping you going slowly start to melt away. You have a pounding headache. There’s something in your mouth that tastes rotten. There’s something that you’re carrying that you’re going to drop any moment as your muscles give out on you.

You smell him before anything else. The stench of him hits your nose so hard that you flinch. You cough, spit dripping from your mouth, and you breathe a mouthful of his pain and his anger. It stings, his scent, but your omega recognizes him enough that you find it in yourself to keep your feet going as you hold him up with a heavy arm around your shoulders.

“Kitty.”

“It’s…I-I got it, Simon. Just hold onto me. We’re almost there.”

Your eyes water with relief when you see Johnny’s terrible hair and Gaz’s dark eyes. Their faces fall in tandem, and you cry with exhaustion when Gaz slings Simon’s other arm around him and grunts as he takes the excruciating weight off of you. You fall, your knees giving out, but just before you hit the ground, Johnny’s got his big arms around your waist, and he’s pulling you back onto your feet. You dig your nails into his forearms, finding your footing, and you lean back against him as you watch Gaz get Simon onto his back so he look at the blood that still wets his mask.

You don’t really remember making it back to the plane. Every time you blinked, the setting was new. Your nose buried in Johnny’s neck—shhh, it’s alright, bonnie, he’s right here, we’re here. Your hands finding Simon’s, squeezing, not stopping to cry until he squeezed back. The whir of a helicopter. The gravel beneath your feet, kicking up with all the boots, dust in your nose. A ramp closing behind you, and then the constant whir of the jet engine. Johnny drags you to sit, and you can still taste blood in your mouth.

Who’s the man-eater?

When you open your mouth and reach in, you pick out something stringy from between your teeth. With a tremble to your bottom lip, you realize it’s flesh. Viscera and muscle, blood and skin, flooded into the crooks of your mouth and notched between your molars, against your gums. Your vision goes blurry, and you realize it’s just more tears when they fall warm and salty down your face. You taste old pennies as it carries blood from between your lips as they come down your cheeks, and you lean forward to spit, splattering wet saliva and dark pink onto the floor of the plane. You cough, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but then your hands shake when you realize they are covered in blood. You look down and see much of the same—your shirt, your jacket, your tact vest, the entire front of your body has splatters of dark red.

“Oh—God—”

You feel sick. It’s all coming up, all of it, you ate something foul, and now you need to be rid of it—

“None o’tha’ now.”

You sob, jerking your head to the voice in front of you. Knelt down, Captain Price is bending to meet your eyes. Your hands tremble, and you shake your head, but he just kisses his teeth and reaches into his vest to retrieve a rag. He unravels it, reaching for your hand, and you give it to him easily as he draws you closer so he can wipe at your face. He uses a canteen to get it wet, and when he wipes your face again, the rag is soaked in red.

You’ve killed before, in some sense, but never in this way. Everything you have ever done in the service has always been tactical and removed—firing a weapon from hundreds of yards away, clicking a button and watching some screen as you blew a building to dust. Even a phone call, you think you made once, and although you weren’t pulling any triggers, the location you gave them would end up on some list somewhere. You never felt good about it, but you didn’t see the aftermath, not up close. You kept your hands physically clean, and in that way, you told yourself that it was acceptable. That you were good.

Forgivable.

It is the first time you see yourself as animal. Sharp teeth, a static mind, driven by aggression and the feeling of a threat. Someone stepped into your space, challenged your territory, and now that your omega has her teeth in you, you couldn’t stop her.

You killed a man.

But he tried to kill mine.

“I did that—” You hiss, and the agony on your face is palpable. It’s in your scent, and it clouds the small plane. You can see the scrunch of John’s face when it hits him head-on, and he shakes his head when you keep talking. Rambling. Babbling about I killed him, I killed him, what did I do—?

“Look at me, Kit,” John says. He says it with his chest, and your omega freezes when she hears the only thing she really understands. You blink, bottom lip still wobbling, but you quiet. When you meet John’s eyes, all you can read is his frustration. He looks tired. He looks doubtful. He looks worried. “What did you do?”

“I killed him.”

“That’s right,” John murmurs. “And if you hadn’t, he would’ve killed you.”

His explanation is clinical and matter-of-fact. You aren’t speaking to a man, not a normal one—you’re speaking to Captain John Price, who has enough confirmed kills to make any immediate superior nervous. The only reason John Price is not a rank higher is because that means sitting at a desk, and that just wouldn’t do for a man like this. Not for one this hungry. Not for one with eyes like that and hands that fidget the way they do. There is no way this man understands you; what you have done is what he does before breakfast. Licks his fingers afterwards even, just to savor the way it tastes.

You shake your head, “I mauled him. L-Like an animal, I—”

“You survived,” John explains. He tilts his head to the side, and he sucks you right in. “What the fuck did you think this was, Kit, hmm? Think we don’t get our hands dirty? Think the shit we do is easy, tha’ it? No—look at me.” Your eyes are wild. There’s something terrible going on in your head, and you can’t shake it. Something awful is happening to you. The you that you know is trying to understand how easy it was to do such a horrible thing. The other part of you, the one you’ve been ignoring your whole life, will sleep just fine knowing her mate is alive and well. John snarls a little, and your trembling hands find his vest and hold onto it for stability. You try to ignore the fact that the broadness of his chest dwarfs your hands, but your omega notices.

Your hands curl there, latching on, and while your omega knows this isn’t your alpha, she sighs a little at the feeling of him anyways. Stability, authority, the way he takes control—he feeds her well. Even if you cannot do what’s necessary, she can, and John and his alpha know this feeling well. It’s why he’s still alive. It’s why he’s still here.

Justified murder. Sanctioned killers. The lesser evil. Joining their pack means you are one of them now—does that mean swallowing these half-truths, too?

“You did what you were trained to do. You were backed into a corner, and you used every last weapon you had. You saved yourself, and you saved Simon, and you did exactly what a soldier is supposed to do. Repeat after me—Look at me, Kit! Keep your fuckin’ eyes on me, and repeat after me—I did what I was trained to do.”

You dig your nails into the flesh under his shirt. It barely gives, and John doesn’t flinch. Your eyes on his are so intense. This is a man that has been in your place often, for longer. He wears his experience in his eyes and in the careful movements he makes in the field. There is no hesitance when John Price makes a decision. He’s fought too hard and seen too much to ever do anything with half his heart, half his mind. The lines on his face tell a story—he isn’t this old because he hides, he’s this old because he knows exactly what to do and when to do it. He wears his alpha like armor, and they work together, in parallel, to get each other home.

Your fingers shake a little less when you feel his thick hands resting on your thighs, tugging you just that much closer.

“Say it. That’s a fucking order,” John says again. His scent is warm. It softens your insides. His eyes will never give you the forgiveness you seek, but they will forgive you anyways, and maybe that’s all you really want. Maybe it’s all you really need.

Tell me what I’ve done isn’t wrong. Absolve me. Put your teeth to my neck and tell me that everything I’ve done was going to happen anyways.

“I…” Your voice falters. Your foreheads touch, just for a moment, and your breath comes out with barely even a stutter. “I-I did what…I did what I was trained t-to do.”

“Again.”

“I did…I did what I was trained to do.”

When John stands, your eyes follow. Your head tilts back, and you blink up at him with watery eyes, and there is no mistaking the hand that comes up to cup the side of your face. You look just like the feral thing you fear you are. The cracks of your lips are still dark with blood. It’s still stained along your skin, a thick kind of war paint that you wear apprehensively, but John knows what he sees.

It’s been a long time since he’s had an omega this close. They are distractions. Giving Simon an omega meant needing to accept her into their pack. A pack of four alphas is unusual. No betas, no omegas, just four dog-like alphas that followed each other anywhere. They had an unspoken, silent agreement to keep their pack this way. Betas waste time, and omegas complicate things. They are self-sufficient, John is sure of this fact. They have never needed anyone but each other.

The moment you set foot on base, John felt it—the balance tipping. Simon had seemed indifferent to Kate’s proposition. He had never voiced his desire to claim an omega or to have a mate; his life had been a reflection of how wrong even the most natural of relationships could go, and he was not eager to try it his own way. As soon as you arrived and were tucked into your room, the change in Simon was immediate. You were here, and you would be his mate, and while Simon had never been privy to what it meant to really court an omega, his instincts took over.

John knows why. Nothing in Simon’s life had ever really been his. His entire family was dead, and even his life was not his own—he followed orders. He lived because they allowed him to, and he would die when they told him to die. The simplicity worked for him, and John never questioned that. Having nothing to lose made Simon fearless and smart. He trusted Simon to do what was necessary, and even when Simon knew he was the sacrificial lamb, he never said anything—all that came through on the radio was a curt copy tha’.

Kate gave him something, something soft and pretty, with a bite. Kate mentioned something about her being special, but John is having trouble remembering why. Something about this is the one I can’t have, but it’s white noise in his mind now. He used to think it was about control—if Kate could take you away and give you back, it might give her leverage over Simon, but he knows that’s just a fleeting idea.

No alpha in their pack would let them take you away. Not now. Not anymore. John wasn’t sure before; he had half a mind to tell Simon that this new dynamic wasn’t working, but then he heard your voice breaking over the radio, and then he saw you hauling Simon’s giant body covered in someone else’s blood with nothing but instinct driving you forward. The look in your eyes—he knows what that is, he recognized it as soon as he saw it. Someone tried to take Simon from you, and you did not let that happen. Visceral, that kind of killing. Tormenting. Immutable. It will be with you forever, but so will Simon now.

Just like that, you are accepted. Even John won’t turn you away. Couldn’t. It’s not possible. Fate has fuck-all to do with this kind of pairing.

There is a popular belief that mates are not chosen carefully—when you see them, when you smell them, it is known. The hierarchy of society that is chosen by the presentation of your own self, decided by nothing but your DNA, is divinely driven when it comes to how you pair. Your mate was already decided for you at birth, and you will discover them in your own time, because fate will have it so.

That is a lie. John won’t believe it. Simon certainly will never call this that. Kate propped a door open, and Simon simply decided that yes, he gets to have his cake and eat it, too. The waiting game is over. The chosen misery of not having an omega to knot ends. Simon knows when an opportunity presents itself, and he knows exactly when to take it. It’s pulsing under John’s fingers—a strong pulse you have, the gland just under your ear beating hot and thick under his thumb like it taunts him.

What if he leaned over and sunk his teeth there? What then?

She will never be warm enough. Her food will never be good enough. She’ll always sound distressed. The water in the showers will always be too cold. There are too many lights. She will never have enough pillows, enough blankets, they will forever torture her in a space too small, she’ll never be truly happy. They will always look for the void, for the empty spots, and they will forever try to occupy them. Fill them. Make you happy.

John understands. Maybe even from the moment he met you.

The smell of you. The sight of your doe eyes, your soft skin, the clear distress you were in—fuck, he had forgotten why omegas were kept so far apart on bases like this. Just one whiff, and John fought hard not to break right through his grip on the doorway. Enough to tempt a man; to stuff her away in some box, tuck her somewhere dark, keep her safe, sound, fed, warm, fat, happy, pleasured. A good man would be rightfully tempted by it, even with the claim over you, even with Simon’s scent sticky against your skin.

John’s alpha is not immune to that innate desire. He might not be your mate, but the cry for help is all the same, and so is the itch that his alpha wants to scratch. There is an omega in need—we have to help her.

Looking at you now, he couldn’t stop himself. Those big, wet eyes of yours, the sound of your cries. Your omega is smart. She curls your tears and your whimpers in just a way that makes every alpha in your vicinity stiffen. They all can hear it. They all can hear the clawing of her blunt nails. They all can smell the need to be comforted. Your omega is a magnet, and she’s strong; stronger than John is used to, and he thinks it’s because you don’t know how to control her.

When Simon shuts the door on his room later that evening, John isn’t the only one lingering. He sees their shadows, his sergeants, watching the door until that lock clicks. They all meet eyes, but they say nothing to each other. Perhaps it’s just another unspoken rule.

Not yet. Patience is rewarded.

Simon refused medical, naturally. He slumps onto the floor, back against the wall, and you won’t sit on the bed in your clothes, so you sit down next to him. Your knees wobble a little, and you have to hold onto the wall to sit to keep yourself from falling over as you slide down against it. You lean your head back against the wall, blinking up at the ceiling. There’s a fluorescent light that flickers, making you flinch, and then it goes eerily silent in the room. You feel nothing; it’s blissfully still, only the sounds of barely-there breathing, but then it hits you like a crashing wave. When you start to cry, Simon moves, shaking his head. He huffs, low sounds of disapproval as he shifts next to you.

“I can’t listen to you. Cryin’ like tha’.”

You don’t think he means that. From your peripheral, you can see the way his gloved hands curl into tight fists against his thighs. It’s taking everything inside of him not to reach for you. The need to touch you is something that must be burning under that thick skin of his. You hope it fucking hurts. You hope your omega is making it itch and sting so badly—you hope the discomfort makes him dig his nails so hard into his palms that it makes him bleed even more.

“I hate you.” It comes out of you too fast. You say it without thinking, but it comes out shaky and quiet. You feel defeated. You were someone else only hours ago; you were prepared to do anything for him, and all he can say is that he doesn’t want to hear you cry?

“Didn’t ask for you to do tha’. To do those things. I had it.”

You turn your head to look at him. Your guilt turns to anger. Your face drops into a tearful scowl, and your bottom lip trembles with it.

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The fucking audacity of this two-faced asshole of an alpha—

“No, I need to h-hear you say that again. I need to hear you say you fucking had it. I need to hear you say that you had it after getting shot in the fucking head!” You cry. You lean towards him, glaring up at him. He refuses to look at you, just keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Look at me if you’re going to lie to me.”

He doesn’t. He just breathes deep, angry purrs that you don’t believe. You sit up on your knees, facing him.

“Coward,” you spit. “Is that what you’re gonna put in your report? That you had it, and an insubordinate rookie put your life in danger? I can’t wait to see it, Lieutenant, I cannot wait to see what kind of bullshit story you come up with. You make me so fucking sick. I can’t believe I even saved your life, cause what good does it do me?”

Simon finally turns to look down at you. Even sitting, he’s still much bigger, much taller, and he narrows his eyes. Deadly. Hateful. You are caught in a line, but you are prepared for it.

“Careful,” he warns. You gather up some saliva and spit onto the floor next to you. You wipe your wet mouth after, running your tongue over your teeth. Simon eyes the blood that still stains your mouth. Instead of horrifying him, there’s a rumble that happens deep within his chest that he cannot control.

“Don’t test me, Simon,” you throw right back at him. “He’s only dead because he doesn’t get the satisfaction of killing you. If anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna be me.”

A flame that becomes a torch. That’s what you and Simon are. You do not complement each other, you set each other ablaze. That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Your faces crash together in a hard, nasty mess. His mask is first, shoved up over his nose, and then his mouth is on yours. You scramble to get undressed, fumbling to get your tact vest off as Simon’s hands paw at your cargos. You hear fabric tear, but you don’t register it. All you can think about is getting naked enough to get close enough to him so you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat against your skin.

He’s eating you; as close as he can get, anyway. His teeth anchor into your throat, scraping the delicate flesh, and then his tongue is wetting the blood that’s still on your skin and sucking it into his mouth. The taste of torn-apart alpha wasn’t apparent to you, but it must be to him—the way he’s snarling, biting, slobbering as he makes you his dinner plate.

“My pretty omega,” Simon growls. It comes from deep within him, a drawl that makes your pupils dilate. Whenever his alpha shows his face, it’s never for long, but it makes your entire body shake. You don’t really remember taking all your clothes off, but Simon’s gloved hands are on your tits, and he’s thumbing at your nipples, licking over his teeth, snapping his jaws as if he wants to bite you again. “Mine. Mine to fuck, mine to protect, mine to play with.”

“Fuck you.”

“Your heat…I can taste it,” he continues. It’s in your sweat, in your scent, he can feel it boiling under your skin, begging to come out. The way your eyes shift in and out of something, it’s the cloudy haze of it hanging over your head. “Is that how you got your leverage over ‘im? Did he get a whiff of you and forget who he was?”

“No,” you pant, slipping your hand down his pants. You cup the underside of his cock, and he hisses, putting his hand over yours and pressing you harder against him. He squeezes, and your fingers wrap around him, tugging gently. He’s pulsing hot under your touch, and you move to shove his pants lower as your knees fall open. “I saw his gland. It was so…” You falter, whining. “I didn’t think. I just did.”

“My omega,” he sighs, shaking his head. Simon grips the side of your head by your hair, and he shakes your head as he forces you to look at him. Dark eyes. Blonde lashes. A face so terrible and so beautiful and so horrifyingly yours. “You must be mine, you know tha’.”

The quickness to violence. Your unapologetic nature. Because I will do anything for him, because nothing is too much, because death is inevitable if someone gets in my way—

You do. You know it. It’s as true as your nature, as true as the voice in your head, as evident as the bones under your skin and the hair on your head and the beating heart under your ribs that feels like it’s about to break right through. Simon will put his teeth on your gland, and he’s going to bite there, and he’s going to steal everything you are and tuck it inside. You have this disgusting image of the puffed skin around his scars opening up and attaching you to him, bleeding you of any life you still have until you are nothing more than a shriveled, dry cavity.

I won’t let that happen. He might have you, but I have him, too.

When you kiss, you dig your nails into his scalp. You feel him in your guts when he slips inside, pussy opening up and squeezing right back down to keep him in. You whimper, drool spilling out of your mouth, and Simon is there to lick it right back up as he hikes your hips up and grinds into you. It’s not the worst place you’ve ever fucked, but the hard ground under your head won’t feel nice in the morning. He must know, somehow, because one of his big hands cups the back of your head, pillowing his harsh thrusts as he gives it to you good. He’s there, right there, right against your sweet spot, and you drag your nails down his back as he finds it so easily. Simon knows you—he knows you so well. His alpha knows your body, knows how to make you speechless and stupid, and you hate him and love him all the same. The emotions are so hot in your throat, wanting to come right up. You want to scream at him, you want to tear the flesh right off of his face, but you will always stop yourself with delicate hands. You will always want to save him. You can beat him and curse at him and cry all you like, but when there is a bullet that goes flying, you know you will throw yourself in front of him.

There is little safety in this world for you. You will always be nothing more than your body to others, but here, underneath him, clinging to him as he fucks you right into that plane of existance between pleasure and pain, you are you. You are more yourself than you have ever been. Half of yourself doesn’t belong to you, and yet he’s brushing your hair back and kissing you hot, and he’s saying your name, and you feel more like yourself than maybe you ever will be.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

Do you love him because you love him? Do you love him because she loves him? Do you love him because there is nowhere else to go? Because he is your only means of survival? Because if you don’t love him, you might fall into yourself like a dying star and let her finish you off?

Maybe that’s why you hate him so much. You hate him because not loving him is impossible. You hate him because you want him to prove how horrible of an alpha he really is, and yet his hand is taking the brunt of the pain, and he kisses like he’s sorry, and the scent of him relaxes you like nothing ever has before. You’re safe here with him. You always will be. It makes you so fucking sick.

“Please,” he groans. He whispers it against your cheek. His cock feels so good, hips grinding against your clit, and he’s so warm. “Let me ‘ave it. Give it t’me, omega.”

“Beg me for it.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Bite me.”

You cry when he sinks his teeth into your jaw. It stings, in a good way. It nearly comes out, when you come for him. You nearly say it. You would mean it, if you did, but it takes everything in you to keep it down, to swallow it back inside, to keep it mashed under your tongue and sour between your teeth.

Your back bows when he comes. He always comes so much. You love the way it feels. You love how it can’t stay inside, too full, dribbling between your thighs. You love the sound it makes when Simon keeps moving—nasty, messy, lewd, a slick, slick, slick that makes you dizzy all over again. You could come again just listening to it, you could come again just hearing his choked breaths in your ear. He smells so good. You put your face into the crook of his neck and take a deep breath, and you whimper as it curls into the tendrils of your brain. Intoxicating—like you’re high. Right from the source, Simon smells delicious. You think love makes him smell better. You think love makes your omega even more feral, more than she already is, and the heat that stays in your chest tells you all you need to know.

You’re at the edge of that cliff. You’re about to fall over.

“S-Simon—”

Your voice pulls his eyes back to yours. He uses his hands, brushing your hair out of the way so he can look at you better. You cough, still a little delirious from your orgasm, but you’re coherent enough to communicate with him. You don’t need to say anything, you know that. Simon will look at you, and he will know.

“I have you,” he says. You knew he would say that, and yet you weren’t comforted until he did say it. “It’s happening, innit?”

I’m here, so close, I’m coming—

You just nod. He sits up, picking you up off the floor. All the blood in your head rushes down, and you hold on around his neck as he hoists you up around his hips. You press your face to his, cheek to cheek, and he carries you to the bathroom. When he turns the shower on, he sits you onto the toilet, and you watch him strip from there. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him, all of him.

He’s a canvas of war. Your breath stops in your throat as he turns to shuck his trousers off all the way and steps out of them. He’s covered in marks. Fleshy, pink spots that must be from third degree burns litter his left leg. They make a map of rivers along it, spreading out to his ankle. His other leg must have been slashed to bits. There’s long lines of it all, deep flesh wounds that run along the length of his thigh and his calf. Someone made a knife sharpener out of his skin, and there are dips where the flesh could not be replaced. Your eyes scan over his torso. Simon is the picture of strength. He’s big and beefy, with a solid stomach, and he just looks heavy, but even that isn’t enough to fill out the mess of his skin. Gunshots, knife wounds, cigarette burns scattered along his arms. Simon’s body wears his history like a bright neon sign. He doesn’t cover up because he’s ashamed of it—he covers himself because he doesn’t want people to ask.

He doesn’t want people to know what used to be.

You stand up on wobbly legs, putting your hands on his lower stomach, pudgy to the touch but rigid against pressure. Your fingers wander, smoothing over the lines and taking in the landscape of his body. Simon stiffens just a little, but his breaths even when you lay your cheek against his bare chest. You shut your eyes, and the only sounds are the water from the shower and the beating of his heart. It pumps strong—Simon’s blood sounds thick, tar and honey.

Under the hot water, you watch as the water runs red. You watch it carefully until it runs clear, and then you look up at Simon. He’s already looking at you.

“I’m scared,” you tell him honestly. You are afraid. You try so hard not to be, and you know deep down that your omega’s true nature is to protect you, but you’re afraid. Trusting her means giving up control, real control. Even if it’s only for a period of time, it’s long enough that you are so fucking terrified. You don’t know what to expect. No one ever taught you what to expect, no one ever told you what would happen, what you would feel. You’ve been drowning your omega so long, you are afraid of what she will do once she comes out—kicking, screaming, clawing, burning, biting. You’ve been doubtful and spiteful all your life, and now you have to just hand yourself over?

It’s mother nature; and she is such a bitch.

“Do you trust me?” Simon asks lowly. You touch his face, and he bends to keep his eyes to yours. You see nothing but honesty in them, and that terrifies you even more.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“That’s not wot I asked. I need ta hear you say it.”

“Yes,” you sniffle. “Yes, Simon. I trust you.”

When Simon tucks you into bed, you fluff the pillows. You keep doing that, picking up pillows and shaking them, tucking them into new corners until it looks…right. You stop when you’ve got the blanket scrunched up in your arms, and you blink up at Simon who’s standing by the side of the bed.

You’re making a nest. A God-awful, terrible, messy shitload of a nest, but you’re making it. You put the blanket down gently, pushing it into the corner, and then you play with your fingers in your lap, twisting your hands over each other nervously as you look around the bed. The shadow comes over you before you feel him at your back. Heat like no other, and then you feel his fingers on your arm, tracing a line from your shoulder to your elbow.

“Wot is it?” He leans over your shoulder, and you feel his lips touch the side of your head. “Wot’s wrong?”

“I need more,” you say softly. “More things. Uh…” You look over your shoulder, and his lips brush over your cheek. “Some of your clothes, maybe?”

He drops them beside you. A couple shirts, a couple hoodies, and when you hold them up for him, you hold each other’s eyes as he scents them for you, rubbing the fabric against his wrists and along his neck before you find a spot for them in the pile. It’s haphazard and not at all neat, but it’s the first time you’ve done anything of the sort. It doesn’t feel perfect, but it feels like yours, and you will always remember the look in Simon’s eyes when you invited him into your nest.

It’s shockingly intimate. There’s something so warm, something so lovely, about tugging on his arm and pulling him into the space you’ve made. He climbs over you, sinking into the blankets, and you lay back with him into the warmth. You curl up into his side, closing your eyes, and when he hooks his forearm around the small of your waist, you go with him.

It is close. You can taste it. It will be easy with him here, with her.

I know what to do. It’s okay. When you wake up, you’ll be new again. I promise. I’ll make you new. I’ll make you better. I’ll have them, I swear it. It’s okay.

It’s okay.

Okay.

You dream in a haze. The visions spill like water, crashing and moving, but you never get to focus on them long enough to see what’s really happening. You feel dirt under your nails and between your fingers, can feel the rocks cutting up your feet as you try and climb a high mountain. When you come to the top, you feel your feet slip, but someone grabs onto your wrists at the last second and pulls you upwards.

When you blink awake, all you can feel is the heat. It licks up your spine and curdles there at your back. You’re drenched in sweat, and it’s hard to breathe. The world looks like your dreams, but you can blink into focus. When you do, Simon is there, leaning over you. You whine a little, and when you rub your thighs together, you nearly choke at the feeling of how damp they are, sweat and slick staining your skin and the mattress beneath you. You didn’t expect to feel coherent. You do feel out of your body, but not in a frightening way. Maybe it’s your omega, or maybe it’s Simon, but all you feel is this immense pressure in your chest, something telling you to find and seek.

Alpha. Alpha. Alpha.

“I’m ‘ere,” Simon murmurs. He passes a thumb over your forehead, pushing some of the sweat out of your eyes. Your throat is dry, and you croak a little as you smack your lips together and arch your back up into him. “Right ‘ere.”

“Hurts,” you whisper. It does. There’s a pain in your belly that aches, and when Simon presses a hand there, you whine, immediately sensitive. There’s something missing inside of you, and your omega is singing for it to be filled. “Simon, it hurts—”

“Gonna make it better,” he says against your lips. When he kisses you, it feels like drinking fresh spring water. His saliva hydrates you, the taste of him satiating some deep-seated hunger that you’ve never felt before. It isn’t enough, but it’s good, tastes good, and you grab at him from all angles, trying to bring him closer. “Fuck, my pretty omega…” He gets between your legs, prying them apart, and you moan when you see the strings of slick that follow the motion. He seats himself there and pushes you backwards. “Present for me, kitty. Show me.”

You’ve never heard the phrase, but your omega knows what to do. She draws your hand down and uses your fingers to spread your puffy folds apart, and Simon sighs through his nostrils, hard and heavy, when he sees you spread open for him. He bends down, nudging your hands away, and when he closes his mouth over your pussy, you cry with relief. He groans. You are so warm, and you are positively sopping. He swallows mouthfuls, and it is still not enough—he bends your knees and hugs your thighs and tries hard to taste more, but it’s difficult.

“Simon,” you whimper. “Simon—” You choke on a moan as he tightens his grip. His fingers dig into you, bruising and hard, and you cry big, salty tears as he slips his tongue inside of you and fucks you with it. Soft, snarling licks, a devouring that you know is nothing short of primal. Your omega is stepping through the door, and his alpha is clawing at its fence, and soon they will meet, and you can do nothing about it but hope that they don’t kill each other.

Never. I can do it. You’ll see. I’ll make it so good.

“Alpha.”

The word resets him. He finally removes himself from between your thighs, dog-like expression on his face as looks up at you. Tongue out, drooling, that dead, loving look in his eyes. You cup his cheeks, drawing him up, and when you kiss, you note how sweet it is. How sweet you are. Natural pheromones that your body emits, something so luscious that her alpha cannot refuse it. It really is brain-swelling. You start to feel the spiral, a buzzing in the back of your head that is starting to get louder and louder and louder. Once you come for the first time, it’s like tinnitus. She’s here. She’s in your head.

She is not going anywhere.

It’s my turn now. I’ll give you back after I get what I want.

It must be revenge that she wants. Revenge against you—for every time that you’ve taped her mouth shut, every time you’ve scruffed her by the nape of her neck and forced her to quiet down. Revenge against Simon—for acting like he could do anything but submit to you, for being a right asshole just to fall at your feet for a taste of your cunt. Revenge against everything—for being underestimated, for being ignored.

You don’t know how long it’s been. A few days must have passed by now, but time slips through your fingers like water. You close your eyes to sleep, and when you open them again, it’s to fuck your pretty alpha until you need to sleep all over again. You wake up in increments of lucidness, feeling Simon tip your head back and feed you small bites of something savory or a few sips of water. You lick into his mouth after, purring as you rub your nose against his jaw, and he always presses back tenderly. Smiling as he fixes his fingers under your jaw, murmuring something soft into your ear, slipping a few thick fingers inside of you to make you relax for him.

He’s underneath you right now. Your hands are wrapped tight against the headboard, and you’re straddling his face. His thick arms are hooked over your thighs, and you whine as you draw your hips back and forth against his tongue. He eats hot and heavy, his nose and mouth wet with slick as he alternates between flattening his tongue for you to ride and forcing you to sit still as he pushes his tongue inside of you and swirls it all sloppy.

You suck it out of his mouth after, like you always do. You sink down until you’re straddling his thick middle, your mouth against his as you kiss with gritted teeth, all giggly and wet. Simon is a good kisser; the mask shouldn’t fool anyone. You reach down as he does, feeling around until you cup the underside of his cock and guide it inside of you. His knot swells as soon as you sit on it, and Simon grips you under your thighs, spreading your legs a little more until his balls are nestled between them. You whine when his knot catches, already pulsing as your mouth drops open and your eyes roll back into your head.

Simon’s always been big—but the hormones he’s been producing in response to your heat only make him thicker, and his knot nearly splits you in two. You love it, and you chase it all the same.

He hasn’t claimed you yet. You don’t remember how many times you’ve taken his knot, or how many places you’ve fucked in this room, but he won’t do it. His teeth have just grazed the spot, teasing, but he never seals the bond. You cried about it a few times, in between rounds, but he just stuffed you full again to distract you. It doesn’t always shut you up, but then he’ll hook his forearm around your neck and nearly suffocate you as he comes deep, and you’re so delirious, you forget about it for awhile.

Your omega doesn’t though. Your gland protrudes, swelling, and she wants him so badly to claim you. Half of her job is to get him to do it—she’s supposed to take his knot and entice his claim, that’s what she’s made for, and she doesn’t want to come out of this empty-handed.

I’ll give you back after I get what I want.

She fixates on his mouth. She draws you to it, making you cup his face and lick over his teeth. She makes you shove his face into your neck, makes you smother him in your scent, but Simon, to no surprise, holds his composure. He’s too capable and too aware, even in his moments of staticky pleasure, to give into her all the way.

It’s a few days later when you start to feel less out of control. Your omega still tugs at the strings; slick still pools between your thighs, the heat of your body is still making you sweat, but Simon is in focus, and you are aware as he ruts into you. Your hands cup his cheeks, and you kiss tenderly as he grinds into you with shallow thrusts, low grunts from deep within his chest making you whimper.

“I-I love you so much, Simon.”

It’s instinctual. You couldn’t stop yourself. You’re crying, so overwhelmed with sticky pleasure and soft insides.

Simon knows it’s the same when he falters. His elbows give out, his mouth grazes your jaw, and before he can think twice, his teeth sink right into the skin under your ear.

Now that is fate—Simon had set his sights on you. There was never going to be any other ending.

You cry out. Your eyes widen, bugged out, and your pupils dilate. You dig your nails into his back, right up against his other scars, and you feel blood under your nails as he presses his hips to yours and comes, more than he has before. Your toes curl, your back arches off the bed, and you choke on squeaking gasps as he shakes his head a little, sinking his teeth in deeper, holding himself there.

Animal. Bear. Hook, line, sinker—there was something that once belonged to you, but now the seal has been broken, and the golden ichor inside bleeds, and Simon takes it into his mouth like its the essence of life. Maybe it is. There will be no one else. There will never be another omega. There will never be another person that tastes the way you do, that fucks the way you do, there will never be another cunt that opens up like yours and swallows his knot just like this.

Simon’s been at death’s door far too many times. It is only now that he thinks he’ll be afraid to see it again.

You go blind for a few moments. You see spots, glittering ones, and something trickles from the base of your spine all the way to the top of your head. It feels like you’re floating—as if your blood inflated, picking you up, taking you somewhere warm and safe.

A cocoon. A protective blanket. The space against Simon’s chest, the place you’ve made under his skin.

When he pulls back to look at you, your blood between his teeth, you feel your omega come right back. You thought it was over; you thought the days of dreamy fucking and scalding sweat and mindblowing orgasms was done.

Not even close.

You’re alone when you wake up. Your eyes blink, adjusting to the soft yellow light of Simon’s desk lamp. You can smell him—he’s nearby, you hear some noises, but he’s not in your line of sight, and that makes your insides clam up.

“Simon?”

Your voice comes out more broken and sadder than you wanted it to, but your emotions feel like they are all over the place. You feel happy and sad at the same time, elated and entirely too depressed. You feel overwhelmed and also too empty. Your body aches, and you feel like there’s something wrong with you, but also that nothing is wrong at all.

“S-Simon?”

You blink through warm tears, and then you feel a hand brushing your hair off your face. Simon bends down to meet your eyes. His mask is back on, but he’s without a shirt, and you swallow at the sight of the intense bruises, hickies, nail scratches, the bite marks. The relief you feel once you know he’s here deflates your insides so warmly. You hold onto his wrist, keeping him close, and there’s a rumble that happens under his chest that makes you whine to get him even closer.

“Good morning, kitty,” Simon murmurs. He must be smiling under the mask; you see his eyes squint a little, and you hear it in his voice. “Feelin’ olright?”

You sputter and shake your head. “No.”

Simon snorts, thumbing at your cheek. You chase the feeling, following his thumb, not satisfied until he cups your cheek with his big hand.

“Tha’s olright. Y’r just hungry.”

The bath Simon leaves you in melts your bones in the best way. You sink into the hot water, humming, watching from the open door as Simon changes the sheets and cleans up the leftover food wrappers and empty beverages lying around. You remember Simon feeding you between rounds, letting you lick his fingers, suck on them—

You clench your thighs together, gripping the edge of the tub.

“Simon…” You call for him. He drops the trash he’s holding, running a hand down his bare chest as he comes into the bathroom. He kneels down beside the tub, tilting his head to the side, and you guide his hand into the water and between your thighs easily. He chuckles lowly, tipping your head back, and you sigh with relief when his fingers slip inside of you.

“You are insatiable,” Simon hisses. “Fucking for nine days ain’t enough for you, kitty?”

“N-Nine days?” You gasp, grinding against the heel of his palm. You cling to his thick bicep, the water sloshing as you squeeze your thighs around his hand. Your nipples touch the cool tub, and you hiss at the sensation, leaning up to press your face to his. He grunts as he pumps his fingers, kissing his teeth as he leans his forehead against yours a little harder.

“Nine fuckin’ days,” Simon echoes. “Nine days of fucking my best girl.”

“Mmm—” You giggle, but it’s cut off as you gasp when he adds another finger.

“Nine days of you,” Simon clicks his tongue. He sounds starved. He sounds intense. He sounds determined, and you feel it in the curl of his fingers and the way his thumb swirls over your clit. He knows just how to make you shake. “It’ll never be enough, kitty.”

“N-Never.”

“Ahh—fuck—” Simon groans when he feels you tighten up and come. You’re so sensitive, it only took a minute or so, but he slips his fingers out and keeps stroking your clit with a thick thumb to keep you whimpering. You blink up at him, and Simon feels a deep satisfaction in his chest. He knows that look in your eyes, he knows it now.

You want to go again.

Simon has never been an affectionate person. You think it’s a sound assumption for how he behaved before you met him, but it was certainly not true anymore. When you were near him, he tended to stand close to you or guide you with a hand a few inches away from your back, but Simon kept to himself. He was not romantic. He took care of you—he made sure your meals were good, ensured the water for your shower was warm, but he didn’t hold your hand. He didn’t hug you or touch you beyond what was necessary.

Things are different now. Things have changed.

He’s warm behind you as you walk. His hand is fixed on your waist, occasionally hooking a finger around your belt loop and pulling you back when you walk too far ahead. You giggle when he yanks you back, stumbling in your boots before he rights you with a firm, gloved palm against your belly.

Touchy. Possessive.

The boys are all seated and enjoying their lunch when Simon opens the doors for you. You make your way towards the table, taking a seat, and the entire group goes quiet as Simon walks past to go into the kitchen. You adjust your hair, resting your chin in your hand, and you smile knowingly at John when he meets your eyes. He sizes you up; it’s been a few days since he’s seen you, and you already look different. Looser. Warmer. Thicker.

“Ye hungry, bonnie?” Johnny finally asks. You turn your head to look at him. You really look at him this time—you notice his eyes, bright and blue, and you take in the sight of him after morning training. His cheeks are a little flushed from the workout, his arms are bulging as he sips from a paper cup of coffee, and he’s smiling like he knows a secret about you that no one else is privy to. His hair has grown out since you last saw him; the mohawk takes up the curls of his natural hair, and you reach over absentmindedly and twirl your finger around the curl that falls over his forehead.

He holds his breath with your hand so close. Your scent is strong, sweet as he turns his head just a little to take a deeper breath from where your wrist lays. You follow the swirl of his hair before letting it go, smiling wider. Johnny is terrible at hiding what he’s feeling; his eyes obviously glance around your face, lingering a little too long on your lips, until they brighten a little at the sight of the mark that peeks out from your shirt.

“Mmm…” You lick over your top row of teeth. The action is too wet to be anything but enticing. “I’m starved, Johnny.”

His knee gives out and bangs against the table at your response. You giggle, and Simon places down a tray of food in front of you just as John grumbles under his breath as he picks up his cup of water that’s spilled over the edge of the table.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon mutters, taking a seat next to you. You take the fork from his hand and look down at your plate. Pasta. Garlic bread. An ungodly amount of parmesan cheese on the side. Your stomach growls looking down at the food, and Simon seems to hear it. He scoots just that much closer, and it’s nothing but instinct that draws him close. His mask brushes against your shoulder and the side of your head, and his fingers trace the scabbing outline of his teeth just peeking out from the high collar of your shirt.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz hisses, leaning back in his seat. You blink away the fog in your brain, feeling your face heat. “You both reek of it.”

“Of what, Sergeant?” Simon bites, and John is the one to curl his fist around his cup and crush it with a scowl.

“Don’t play stupid, Simon,” John murmurs. “You both need another hosing down.”

“Anyone wanna join me?” You purr, and Simon curls his fingers around your hair and yanks your head back with a huff.

“Oh, you’d like tha’, wouldn’t you, kitty?”

“You have no idea, baby—”

“Bleedin’ Christ!” Johnny groans. He’s gone before you turn your head to look at him, and you smile to yourself, amused, but Simon tugs you back to him, pressing his nose to the side of your head.

“What are you doing?” He whispers in your ear. You twirl your fork before pushing his hand off, taking a bite of your food. You chew and swallow before taking a few more pieces of pasta and holding it up to his masked mouth.

“Nothing. You want a bite, Simon?” You ask. You meet his dark eyes, raising a brow as you hold up the fork a little more. He narrows his eyes a little before hiking the mask up, and you feed him with a little laugh. You wipe his mouth gently before tugging his mask back down. “You know, I’d really like some iced tea, Simon. Do you think they might have some in the back?”

Simon’s eyes twitch a little. He looks over your face for a moment longer before standing, and you bite your lip as you stare a little too long at him in those cargos before he disappears into the back again. Your omega warms you, all down your spine. It tickles—her fingers curl around your bones, licking at your insides, purring—bite him, bite him, bite him—

“Real subtle, Kit,” Gaz comments. You take another bite of your food, leaning forward a little. You point the fork at him, tilting your head to the side.

“You know, I remember having this conversation with you not that long ago,” you tell him. “Something about how much you stink even this far away. You got something in your pants, Gaz, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Piss off,” Gaz snaps, and you smile. You know you’re getting under his skin when you smell ash in the air, something bitter and eye-watering.

“Is that a kink of yours, honey? Real subtle.”

“Knock it off, you two,” John sighs, shaking his head. He leans back, running a thick hand over his beard, and you go back to eating. “Gaz, you’re gonna be late. Get a move on.”

The air feels a little tense when it’s just you and John. You move your food around on your plate, frowning a little, and John shifts where he sits.

“How…” He clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”

You look up a little at him. He’s staring at you curiously, arms crossed over his chest. You shrug lightly. It’s humorous seeing him behave so awkwardly.

“I’m okay,” you tell him. “Sore. Really tired.”

“You been to medical?”

“No.”

“Consider it an order,” John nods at you, looking at the collar of your shirt. “Those things can be nasty if you neglect it.”

You put your fork down, and when you and John look at each other, you have to swallow your omega back down your throat. She’s salivating—look at him, he likes us, he’s worried—

“Oh, yeah?” You smile a little, coy, demure. “You know a lot about that, Captain?” The use of his rank makes his jaw clench, and you wet your lips with your tongue. “Claiming omegas?”

If the air was tense before, it’s scorching now. John is white-knuckling his own arms, and his entire body is stiff. You blink, not looking away. You hold him there, and his nose twitches at the way you pin him against some invisible board. You’re already acting so differently—so confidently. There is nothing to fight for anymore. Your omega won her prize, and now she can reap her rewards.

Your omega is greedy.

Four is just so much better than one, isn’t it?

“You seem lonely,” you say softly. He sniffs a little, laughing dryly, and your boot moves just enough to touch toes with his. “Are you lonely, John?”

Are you lonely, John? Do you need me, John? Do you see me when you close your eyes, John?

You barely contain your jump when an ice-cold glass is slammed down on the table in front of you. You blink up at Simon, who’s standing there beside you breathing hard. He sniffs, looking between you and John, but you’re quick to pick up the glass of iced tea and nearly drink the entire thing in one sip.

If Simon notices John following the drop of tea that traces along your jaw and down your neck, he doesn’t say anything.

Your omega purrs, and you nearly do, too. When Simon grips your wrist, you follow him out, but not before catching John’s eyes right before you turn the corner. He watches you the entire way, until you disappear behind a wall.

You think you smell anger on Simon. It makes you cringe a little when you get a deep breath of it, but when he presses you up against the door back in his room, you realize it isn’t anger. You smile up at him, hands behind your back, and Simon fists your hair and kisses you hot. Nope, not anger.

Fuck, he’s horny.

It’ll never be a level-playing field. From the moment you first presented, you didn’t think there’d ever be a real future for yourself. The social order that exists has always been well-maintained and aggressively understood. You exist all the way at the bottom; your kind is meant to get on their knees, be weepy and soft, and submit. You’ve always been told that is the easy life—you aren’t like betas who have to find their way, and you aren’t like alphas who have to continuously prove themselves. All you have to be is be quiet and obedient and gentle, and everything you want will come to you.

Even wants for omegas are understood. You aren’t supposed to want anything other than a cozy nest, a locking knot, or fat babies. You aren’t supposed to want anything at all other than the alpha that claims you and whatever they decide is right for you.

Your family abandoned you. Your caretakers lost you. Kate gave you away. Simon is the only one that has never asked you what you want, not because he doesn’t care, but because it’s not what matters. All he asks is what you need—everything else will follow as it’s supposed to.

He’s staring at your mark again. He does it often; he gets lost in his thoughts, and his eyes fixate on the faint bite mark that’s there behind your jaw now. It’s since healed nicely—all that is left behind is a faint indentation that would match Simon if he hinged his jaw open and bared his teeth. He has a strange obsession with it; not only does he stare, but he likes to touch it, too. He likes putting his gloved hand on the back of your neck and stroking it with his thumb, warm circles that make your entire body relax for him.

Simon’s not so bad. Things could be worse. Simon’s purebred, that’s for certain, but that also means his relationship with your omega is a bond unbreakable. All she does is flutter her lashes, and Simon’s alpha is on a leash, pulled taut, choking him of air. She likes that the most; she likes when he stumbles, when he falters, when his alpha is huffing and puffing because he can’t contain himself when she wags a treat in front of him.

You let her have it. It’s the least you could do.

Simon’s pack is no better. Sometimes, you think your omega feels guilty, but you push it down just like you’re used to. They deserve none of your pity. Entitled shits, they all are, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you are in their pack, you would never give such fragile egos the time of day; but they are in Simon’s pack, which means they’re in yours, which means you at least try to play nice.

Sometimes, though, it’s real funny watching Simon’s sergeants covering their crotches and waddling out of a room.

You can’t figure out John. He’s difficult to pin down. He has a special bond with Gaz and Simon, but every time you think you and your omega have figured out his wants and needs, he surprises you or oddly turns you down. While you already have an alpha that satisfies you entirely, it still stings, the rejection. Your omega whines. She is a part of their pack now, and the cold shoulder from even just one makes her upset—it does not help that John takes the place as head of this pack, either. She wants his approval, and she begs you to get it.

“Does John like me?”

Simon pauses at his desk. His pistol is disassembled in front of him, parts laid out carefully in a pattern only he might understand so he doesn’t lose any of the pieces. There’s gun oil and a rag to accompany him, and he’s methodically running that rag over the barrel when he stops. You turn your head from your place on the bed to look at him.

Simon shrugs. “Dunno,” he says finally, continuing with the rag. “Would think so.”

“I don’t think so,” you say softly. “Not like Johnny does. Or Gaz.”

“Tha’s cause they wanna fuck you, kitty,” Simon snorts, and you draw your knees up a little, squeezing your legs together. You think about Johnny’s wagging tongue or Gaz’s wet lips too long, and you’ll drag Simon over, even knowing his gear is filthy.

“John doesn’t?”

“John is…” Simon shrugs again, sighing deeply. “Him and omegas. It’s…complicated. Wot do ya care, anyway? Three alphas not enough for you?”

Three. The thought makes your omega giddy. You have yet to have them, but just knowing you can makes her so lightheaded. Since meeting her, you’ve come to know her as selfish and entirely too greedy. She’s a fiend for Simon’s attention the most, but you know she aches for all of it. She wants all four of them to fuss over her, to follow her like dogs.

“Maybe for me,” you agree, but your voice longs. It carries weight to it, and that makes Simon pause. “But not for her.”

Simon drops his things, standing up from his chair, and you smile wide as he comes towards the bed and grips you by your jaw with a shake. You blink up at him with a shaky breath, and his eyes crinkle, like he’s smiling, too, under his mask. Your omega will never be afraid of him. She adores him, far too much for your liking.

“Well, then. Maybe I should let my sergeants have a taste, and then we’ll see what’s not enough for her, eh?”

Your omega sighs. She just loves getting what she wants.

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough.

One reprieve you do get now, however, is that your heats are predictable. Like clockwork, every ten weeks, you can plan for those seven to ten days of complete bliss underneath Simon. You can lock him away, pull him out of any obligation or any mission, and he’s in your nest, staring down at you, feeding you between intervals of intense sex to keep your omega happy and satiated. John just bites his tongue when you take his lieutenant away—even if he wanted Simon not to go, he would never command it. He couldn’t do that to you, not to their omega.

She gets whatever she wants. No questions asked.

The balance is certainly well and tipped. It is no longer a clean-cut ladder with John at its stead. Now, it’s a foot on the tightrope, with each alpha fighting to make sure it does not tip over. As long as you are happy, their footing holds. They feel it steady and still, and they breathe easy.

There is still something that has the ability to disturb the equilibrium your omega has maintained. You just never thought you’d see it again—or smell it.

Your omega knows what it is as soon as gets the scent—who it is. Familiar. Edgy. Dark chocolate and herbs, a scent that used to comfort you, and now one that makes you hot with disdain.

She looks older. Tired. Stressed. You see it on her face, and you smell it on her, too. She wants to take them away from you. Not one, not two, all of them—and she doesn’t want you with them when she does.

She waves her hand like she always does. She throws her orders around, expecting everyone to move as soon as she says to. She’s not prepared for the tension, and she’s not prepared for the reluctance she’s met with. Instead of four bloodthirsty dogs, she stares down at outright disobedience.

She’s disturbed a den—and she doesn’t understand what stands in her way.

You remember the first time you saw Kate Laswell. Freshly 18, nowhere to go, no family. The streets weren’t suitable for you; omegas are vulnerable on their own, and if you didn’t choose the pack you got swallowed up in, it would get chosen for you. The doors for the service were always open. That’s what they do, that’s what your country does—they break their people down to the bone, down to their knees, and then the only way to build themselves back up is to put shackles on their ankles and cuffs on their wrists. It is the circumstances your country thrives on. They build the walls that cage you, and then barely wrench the door open enough for you to breathe.

You will always be kept at the same level—you always beg them for more, and Kate is just one cog in the wheel that keeps the machine running. She saw your face, saw you for what you were. She promised you a life worth living, and then she pulled the rug out from underneath you. She put you in her pocket; she tucked you away for a rainy day. Her precious 141 was slipping away from her, and she played her cards.

You want her to hate the hand she is dealt.

You’re outside when she finds you. You’re sitting outside the mess hall, where the benches are plentiful, and you’re staring down at the pack of cigarettes you stole from one of Simon’s jackets. The lighter is in your other hand, but you can’t get yourself to try one.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker.”

You keep your eyes down on the cigarettes. You smooth a thumb over the label, licking over your teeth. Despite everything else, her voice hasn’t changed.

“I’m not,” you say softly. “Just…”

When you look up, you meet Kate’s eyes, and those have not changed either. They are still looking right through you, just as they always have. You used to think you loved her, at one point. She always would check on you. Visit your base herself, call if she couldn’t—ask how things were, if your CO had given you the accommodations she ordered him to. She made you feel like you were her favorite, as if she cared for you differently in some way. Surely, she did not check up on others the way she did you. She had other soldiers she must have kept her eye on, other places her guidance was needed, but surely, you were someone special to her.

You had been around plenty of alphas before her, but she was the only one that used to make you feel like you couldn’t rightly breathe. The first time you felt your omega bobbing her head to the surface of where you stuffed her, it was when Kate stood just this close to you. There was a time when you thought maybe Kate was reserving you. When the time was right, she might you ask the question you always thought she would—the terrifying world she tried to protect you from, she’d really do it, she’d take you away, take you with her.

Grass is always greener, you suppose.

You swallow hard when she takes the pack of cigarettes from you and brings one of them to her lips. She steps closer to you, jutting her chin out, and you raise a hand to flick the lighter on and burn the end of it until she puffs out a breath of smoke.

“Nasty habit,” you say softly, and Kate just laughs bitterly.

“Got nastier vices, kitty.”

Your eyes flick back up to hers, and you narrow them stiffly. Maybe she thinks she’s being cute, but all you see when you look up at her is someone alone. Someone reaching. Someone desperate. There’s an edge that Kate Laswell is known best for, but you don’t really see it anymore.

You tilt your head up a little, relaxing your face. You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“How’d your meeting go?” You ask. She takes a long drag from the cigarette, blowing it out just to the side. You reach over and put a hand to the collar of her shirt, straightening it out. “Hope you got what you needed. I imagine you don’t wanna be here long.”

“Interesting you asked,” she says lowly. “I, in fact, didn’t get what I needed. I’m not leaving until I get it.”

“That’s too bad,” you tut. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You always do, don’t you?”

You have to lean back a little when she steps closer. Kate has always been someone who was more or less affectionate with you. Soft touches, shoulder squeezes, comforting words. You don’t remember what you used to see in her. You can no longer recall an instance of ease, a time when she was kind. You can only remember her words of rejection and her dismissiveness of your fear. Every warm memory has been replaced with her abandonment of you and her autonomy over you. Building you up just to knock you right back down.

You used to want her to want you. You used to pray that she would wake up one day and realize you would be content to live out a quiet life somewhere secluded, even if your relationship would be nothing but platonic.

You were wrong about her, and she was wrong about you.

“I don’t know what you’ve said to them,” Kate murmurs. “But I need this. You wouldn’t understand, but this isn’t…I’m not dealing with trivial matters, Kit. This is life and death. International security, and I’ve never expected you to understand where I was coming from, never wanted you to—”

“They said no,” you whisper, laughing a little. “They said no to you, didn’t they?” You tip your head back even further, staring up at the night sky, and you laugh again as you close your eyes.

“John said no.”

When you open your eyes again, Kate is sitting down, leaning her head back against the brick wall of the building behind you. She takes another drag of the cigarette, her face scrunching as she breathes it in deep. She flicks the ashes off the end of it, looking down at her feet.

John said no.

“John said no,” you echo, crossing your arms over your chest. “And Simon?”

“I expected that,” Kate shrugs. “A given. You did good there, Kit.” When you sit next to her, you notice her knee spread a little wider, just barely touching your own.

“But you weren’t prepared for John,” you finish for her.

“If anything, I can always count on John to separate…” Kate scoffs, “wants and needs from what needs to get done.”

“From what you want to get done.” You turn to look at her. “Did you ever think that…maybe this wasn’t meant for them? That they wouldn’t do this forever?”

“That’s a dangerous way to think for men like that,” Kate snaps. “You don’t want them out of here, living a civilian life.”

“The only person this is dangerous for is you,” you throw back at her. “Who else is going to clean up your fucking messes if not them?”

“Watch yourself, Kit.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

You don’t realize you’ve said it until it’s been said. You nearly cover your mouth, horrified by what you couldn’t stop yourself from spitting at her. You can feel your omega’s fingers in your mouth. She’s feeling around your gums, drying out your tongue, cackling as she shows her newfound teeth. She never thinks any harm will ever come to her—the hollowness of your scent gland is proof of that. She’s been claimed but something foul, by something mean, and now she’s not afraid to do whatever it is she wants to do. You thought she’d given you back, but she’s still here, still causing trouble, and now Kate is forcing herself onto you. Her fingers are tight around your throat, and now you’re pressed up against crumbling brick, gasping as she crowds your space and attacks your nose with the bitter, poisonous concoction that her anger emits into the air around you.

“Don’t forget yourself,” she spits. Her lips nearly brush against yours, and you breathe in mouthfuls of her scent. It’s achingly heady, and it tastes like it’s filling your lungs with smoke. There’s something else there that you can taste, however—something warm, spicy, something a little less sour. Acid turns to sweetness, and you laugh between gasps of breath as you grip her wrist and dig your nails into her to try and get her to loosen her grip. When she finally lets you go, you take in a deep, shaky breath of fresh air. The tension never leaves her shoulders, but she steps back, away from you, and you smooth a hand down your own neck and brush yourself off.

You adjust the collar of your shirt, looking down at your feet.

“You owe me,” you say, throat scratchy. “I’ll do it. Whatever you’re here to ask me to do, I’ll do it. But you…owe me.”

You slam the doors behind you as you leave her there. Cigarette still burning on the floor, light flickering overhead—when you turn to glare at her from over your shoulder, she’s still staring after you.

You wonder if she looked at you this way when she left you the first time.

You remember when you used to be wary of Simon—when just the sight of him made the blood under your skin heat and bubble just under the surface. What you can’t remember is why; he’s standing between your legs right now, head bent forward, forehead brushing against yours occasionally as you gear him up. You pick up a few rifle magazines from beside you, trying to ignore how warm he is even under his gloves as you fill up every pocket of his vest. You pick up a pair of scissors and tuck it into another pocket, tugging to make sure everything is secure before you start to load the first aid kid that’s on his front.

You close your eyes when he juts his head forward just enough, his masked face pressing into the side of your neck. Your hand slides up, over his chest, just to cup the back of his neck and hold him close. His nose touches just under your jaw, and you make a small sound as his big hands grip you under the thighs and tug you forward. Your knees widen to accommodate him, and you scrunch your face at the feeling of his gear digging harshly into your middle.

“What is it, Simon?” You whisper, and he just huffs. You lean your head back a little, giving him more room, and you squeeze your legs around his hips when you feel his tongue from under his mask, wetting where your scent gland is. “Simon—”

“Smell nice,” he tells you. You laugh a little, and when he stands up to stare back down at you, you give him a nervous smile. “But I know how y’r feeling. Can’t hide tha’ from me.”

You don’t say anything. There isn’t anything you want to say. He’s right; you are nervous. The last time you followed Simon out in the field, he nearly died, and so did you. Sometimes you wake up thinking your saliva is someone else’s blood; and when he isn’t in bed when you wake up, you think you’ll see him again, sprawled onto his back, a bullet too close to his head.

You feel his fingers on your throat, blinking up at him, and when you meet those dark eyes, you feel your bottom lip shake. You’ve never been scared, but you feel so out of yourself when you join them. The 141 aren’t called in when the job is easy—they only do the things that no one else has been able to do. Your training is tested every single time you join them. You’re not like them; you cannot turn everything off. Simon is someone else on the other side. Johnny is fucking crazy. Gaz goes somewhere else in his head, and you don’t always recognize his voice. John—always level-headed, that one, but his gentleness with you is nothing short of an exception. These aren’t good men. They’re war criminals with badges.

“Ya don’t have ta come,” Simon says lowly. “I could ask Price, you—”

“No—!” You sit up straighter, your hand gripping his wrist to keep him close. You shake your head adamantly, squeezing his arm. “No, that’s…it would be worse.”

“Worse?”

“Who the fuck else is gonna watch your six?” You ask. “You suck at it.”

Simon laughs, from deep in his chest, and you press your lips against his from over his mask.

“Oi—kitty,” he murmurs, tilting your head back. He kisses you from under the mask, a soft peck through the fabric that leaves you with a light stomach. His attention is always too much and not enough. “Tha’s never gonna happen again, ya hear me?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t do my fuckin’ job tha’ day. Won’t be like tha’ anymore. I have you.” Simon kisses you again, pinching your chin, and you don’t let him move away. “My omega. Mine.”

“Wheels up in 15, lovebirds.”

Simon stops you from going too far when you hop down from the table. He tugs on your tact vest, making sure it’s tight enough, and then he picks up your helmet to fit it over your head. He picks up your sidearm next, releasing the magazine to make sure it’s full before hitting it back inside and loading the chamber. He bends to secure it in your thigh holster, and then he’s tugging on the straps of it, making sure it’s not loose around your leg. You can’t hold in your smile anymore when he stands and reaches under your chin to buckle your helmet.

There’s no reason to be scared. Not around him, not underneath him, and certainly not under his command. Maybe you’d step in front of a bullet for him—maybe you’d throw yourself in front of whatever someone tossed his way, but he would do the same for you. You don’t doubt that. You don’t think there’s anything someone could do to you that he wouldn’t give back to them much worse.

Simon’s love isn’t typical. It’s not sweet, nor does it fit inside its confines. He isn’t violent at his core, but it’s a response ingrained in him. Possessive, sick, overbearing to a fault—he’s too much all the time, but maybe it’s because Simon’s never been allowed to ever love anything without terms.

Everything has always been decided for him. How long he got to play as a boy. How tight he could hug his mother. How high he could raise his voice, how big he was allowed to grow, how he must behave once he presented. He’s always been too much, and he’s always been told what to do, so to have this thing, this one thing that could belong to him—who the fuck are they or you or anyone else allowed to tell him how to feel? How could anyone tell him the pedestal he puts you on is too high? Too warm? Too comfortable?

He’s died twice before in his life, but it wasn’t enough to keep him buried. Now he’s here, and he’s with you, and it wasn’t a coincidence. Fate handed you over, but by sheer will, he will keep you, and you will stay here, rooted to this spot, to the space between love and hatred and what overwhelms you and what lives inside of you between the hollow of your ribs. There’s a heart that beats there, too fast, too hard, knocking against the bones, and whenever Simon is near, it aches. You are bonded for life. Even if you lose him, you’ll never want another, not in the same way. It’s only ever been Simon that’s ever told you that it’s okay to be what you are; you cannot change your anatomy, you have to understand it at its most basic level and learn the rhythm of every song it sings.

I am not your enemy. I am your best friend. I will do things for you that no one else can do, I can hear the things you can’t tell anyone else, I’m the thing between what you really are and what you’ve always wanted to be, I know you, I know you, I know you—

“You trust me?” Simon asks. The ramp of the jet lowers, clattering against the tarmac, and he fits his thumb under your chin to bring your eyes back to him.

“Yes.” You smile up at him, and his thumb falls to touch the imprint of his teeth that’s there, right under your shirt. Only when he feels the dip where his canines have marked you does he look into your eyes again. Dark. Honest. Content. “Yes, I trust you, Simon.”

Simon drops his head, and you flutter your lashes when his helmet hits yours.

“On me, then, kitty.”

Simon is the thing that hides in the dark. The dark figure at the wrong end of a gun. He is the silhouette that takes the shape of your own shadow, and he is the terrible monster that hides under your bed; and yet, here you are, falling into step with him. It is not your omega that carries your feet—it is yourself, you, the one you’re hyper-aware of, the side of yourself that you have known for too long and neglected because you were taught the very worst enemy was the one inside of your own head.

If she was so bad, you don’t know why Simon’s hand would feel so warm in yours. If she was so terrible, you don’t know what makes his eyes so difficult to look away from. If she was so horrible to you, you don’t know why Simon is standing over a man that pointed his gun at you and forcing a blade so deep into his throat that the tip dents against the concrete.

It’s not that bad. Simon’s name will forever live in you, in the shape of his teeth under your ear.

Simon looks at you when he wrenches his blade back out, blood against the sharp edge. He lifts it to his face, and your lips part when he wipes it against the mouth of his mask, painting the skull teeth red.

No, it isn’t so bad. She’s smiling. No, you are. You’re one and the same, and you know her the same way you know yourself. She’s home, tucked into the warm places you know you’ll keep her, and you—

Well.

You’re right where you’re supposed to be.

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spacecola7

1 week ago

So, what's your favourite scary movie? 👻

hereditary is such an obvious answer because it's basically perfect but. i also love train to busan. perfect zombie movie.

21 notes View Post

spacecola7

7 months ago

i love saying “i’m being normal about it” bc i’m actually a filthy fucking liar and i’ve never been normal about anything a single day in my life

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spacecola7

1 month ago

pricexghostxreader is just thee dynamic to me. ghost only trusting price to be any level of vulnerable around, needing price to 'vet' any pretty bird they think could help temper their combined fire with her softness. he has a hard time trusting good things, needs price to reassure him that the pretty soft thing waiting in their shared bed really does just want simon as much as she wants john.

price, who wants the traditional wife waiting at home with a baby on her hip, but isn't willing to give up his right hand, his best lieutenant, his good boy. simon is his long-term project, a soldier he saved from himself and molded into the perfect attack dog. his loyal pet. the bond they have goes deep, and price will not, under any circumstances, give up that heady sense of power he gets when simon just submits, all

both of them requiring an 'anchor' to the civilian world, a reminder of what they do the work for- because they know that when a soldier's whole life is absolutely nothing but the job, that's how you create weirdos like nikto and kreuger.

that's what sets john off hunting for their fat little wife, someone who can keep a home ready for them, who can keep one busy while the other's deployed separately. someone who will give them a soft, warm respite from the hard lives they've been leading.

the dynamic between price and simon is rigid, with price calling the shots always... but ghost isn't a lieutenant for nothing. he needs someone to train, to lead, to mold to his wants the same way price molded him. (and if he's honest with himself, he'll realize his wants and prices wants are damn near the same).

their soft little plaything may not be at the top of the pecking order, but she's so vitally important to keeping them grounded that she may as well be on top. they both need her tenderness and devotion in order to feel like they have worth beyond being killing machines, that what they do in the field has real meaning beyond fulfilling orders from on high.

and their sweet, soft girl who has no clue how vitally important she is, who assumes she's the needy one, living off their combined wages in a house whose deed doesn't have her name on it (yet). who loves and dotes on sir and daddy, who's desperately afraid one or both might not come home and she'll be left alone, forced to leave the house she's worked so hard to make a home for them.

ahhhhhhhhhhh fuck i love this dynamic

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spacecola7

2 weeks ago

When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.

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spacecola7

6 days ago

hey me thoughts about simon hitting on a stranger somewhere and it works except whenever she comes back out all disheveled and sticky soap thinks it's the perfect time to shoot his shot too (nothing sloppy about those seconds, honey) and ghost has to be like wait that's actually my wife

667 notes View Post

spacecola7

1 month ago

dark matter | ghost x f!reader

INSTALLMENT TWO — TIME ROT COLLECTION

type: one-shot, part of anthology series, can be read standalone (6.5k)

cw: dark!ghost, mature language and content, mature sexual language and content, mw3 spoilers, death, grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, dubcon, size kink, manhandling, breeding kink, cumplay, unprotected piv (18+)

You don't know how long it's been. Maybe days, or maybe it's been weeks, you aren't sure, but it's hard to move when there is nothing that waits for you.

All that's left is a box that sits on your kitchen table. It has his name scribbled across the top, and when you opened it up, just seeing the photos of him tucked into the sides was enough to nearly make you sick. You haven't opened it again since. You haven't touched it. When you touch the cardboard, it burns, it stings.

You don't know what you're supposed to do when the love of your life doesn't come home. You don't know what you're supposed to do when there's bills on the table, when half of the bed is empty, when everything that was supposed to happen died along with him.

You used to sit on this very couch and talk about everything you would do and everything you wanted. You used to lay there, your head in his lap, looking up into those baby blues and tell him about what a good husband he would make, how it was going to be so hot watching him fixing the leaky sink and hanging up the new shelves you bought, being the house husband he was always meant to be.

Someone that pretty deserved to be at home all day, baking bread and fixing a vintage car.

He promised you so much. He promised you love. He promised you laughter. He promised you a lifetime of something more.

But there never really was anything more. He never married you. He never proposed. He just fucked you full before every deployment, whispering into your hair as you drooled about how, "I'll see ye when I get back, bonnie, 'n I'll tell ye how much I luv ye."

But he didn't come back. So you really aren't sure now how much he loved you.

You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, fluffing a brush over your cheeks. The makeup helps, but you look dead, and your eyes are dull.

You don't want to go to work, but you can't pay your bills, and Johnny wasn't your husband, so the box in your kitchen stands as a loving gesture from his mother, and that is all he left behind. And when you went to the service and asked for something, for anything, they said it was out of their hands.

You are entitled to no compensation—because on paper, you are nothing to anyone, and you belong to no one. And though his mother kissed you shakily, with tears in her eyes, you couldn't bear to ask her for anything, because she hurts, too, and you are nothing to anyone, and you belong to no one.

So you work; you work, and you don't stop, and you sleep only a few hours before you get up and do it all over again, and even after a long day, you count the pennies in your purse, and it isn't enough. You let yourself get comfortable, you allowed yourself to succumb to a man, a man you loved, and what did it get you?

Fuck all. You have fuck all, and you let a man do it to you.

Fate and destiny are a cruel reality. Unforgiving—they don't care about the choices you make because they happen anyways, and it's hard to be angry when this is how it was always going to be. It doesn't make you hate any less, and it doesn't make the dust collecting on the box any less thick.

When you do gain the courage to touch it again, you have a week left to find a new flat. You don't know where you will go, but you're packing, and you rip the top of the box off as harshly as a band-aid. Your eyes focus on the knick-knacks that Johnny must've kept. A few different sized sketchbooks, the nubs of worn and used graphite and charcoal pencils, a crystal and beaded rosary that his mother gifted him when he first enlisted. You pick up the crinkled and well-loved papers that are stacked at the bottom, and your eyes blur with fresh tears at the ripped out sketches that sit in your hands.

It's you, in different angles. Asleep, staring out at something, smiling at him. He captures your face beautifully, and you can see where he's smudged the shading with a thick finger to cast shadows and light over you. He sketches in exquisite detail—he always has, but he has always had a certain style, a certain eye, that made lead look like real life.

It’s odd to see what you looked like through his eyes. Bright. Lovely. Soft. He draws with a breath of fresh air, and you can see where his finger has rubbed away all the harsh lines. When you see a few places where the graphite on his thumb has stamped his fingerprint onto the paper, you feel your throat close up. You want to feel those fingers on your face. You want him to brush the hair out of your eyes and look down at you. You want to feel that hand tracing your jawline, your nose, the lid of your eye—you want to feel the warmth that he always radiated, and you want to breathe in the scent of him until you forget the smell of anything else.

You pick up a loved and bound book, with thinner pages that you know can't be a sketchbook. You unwind the leather string on the front, flipping it open, and you swallow thickly when you realize what this is.

A journal. You never knew he kept one.

The first few pages are dated from when he first enlisted, a few years before he met you. He writes just as eloquently as he draws, and you settle into the couch behind you as you read about his enthusiasm joining, the purpose he finally has, the weight of the world lifting off of his shoulders as he thinks about all the things he will be able to do as he rises through the ranks. You let your fingers skim over the words, feeling how his pen has pierced the paper, and you try to imagine him—fresh shaven with less muscle, life in his eyes as he thought about serving his country. You smile a little, but it hurts after a few moments.

You flip a little further, your eyes skimming over times he cursed out his commanding officer, punched a private for sneaking into the women's barracks, the love he has for a detonator that began when he soldered his first pins. His personality shines, and it's like you can hear him talking to you all over again, and when he begins to talk about a love he doesn't know how to handle, you smile to yourself, because you think he's talking about you.

But when you look again, the dates are wrong. You hadn't met him yet, not at this point, and your smile fades when you realize he's talking about someone else.

He never says their name. He writes at length about them, someone who has captured his eye, someone he says he can't have. Someone unattainable, unavailable, and then there is his own reservations. You don't realize until his entries from a few months later that he's talking about a man.

never felt this way before. not about anyone. rosary i always look at is fucking mocking me, i think. i can hear mum, somewhere, telling me to find a good catholic bonnie, but this is real. i know it is, but i don't know what to do about it. not like anyone i've ever met. can't explain the bond. but i look at him, and i think he looks at me, and i just know. i know. it can't be just in my head, can it? i'm not mad. i'm not. but what am i supposed to do?

You flip the pages frantically. There's sketches of hands on one page, hands that hold a handgun, that squeeze a trigger. They're tame sketches, but you feel a little sick because you feel like you're looking at a part of his life that you're not supposed to be looking at. The intimacy of these sketches—just hands, and you feel like they should be censored to your eyes.

The sketches and the words, they morph as time goes on. Sketches of closed eyes. Of blonde lashes. A harsh brow, a scar cutting across a thin lip. There is no softness in these sketches. Johnny draws with an abrasive pencil. It cuts the shapes, jagged edges akin to glass.

i can't tell anyone. i want to tell the whole world. won't let me. want to scream it from the fucking roof that i love you, but you're such a stubborn bastard. so fucking stubborn.

The sketches suddenly become warped. Angry, spiked, and you can see the emotion from how hard he presses the pencil into the page. More hands, and you can’t help but notice how he draws them simply functioning. Hand over wrist. Holding a utensil. Picking nails. These hands tell a story, and you can see the bumps and bruises and the wounds that litter the surface of them—these hands are anything but delicate. They have wrought. They have dug until their fingernails bled. They have been stuck through barbwire, maimed to the point of texture and roughness and the blurring of scar tissue.

don't fucking believe you. it isn't just me.

You're blind for a few moments from the intensity of your tears. You wipe them furiously, you need to know more, you need to know. The dates skip, and you pause on the day that you met.

so bonnie. so beautiful.

Softer sketches. The delicate lashes that are your own, the gentle curve of your pouty lips. You recognize yourself, but only barely, because he draws you like you are out of focus. He draws you as if you are too far away, just out of reach.

she's everything i've ever wanted. so why can't i let it go?

Your bottom lip trembles when sketches of a butterfly overlap skulls. The motifs never disappear, not completely, and it's only obvious what his true feelings are when you smooth a finger down the sketch of a butterfly escaping its cocoon that hangs from the mouth of a discarded skull head.

haunt my fucking dreams. go away. go away. go away. the ring is right there, so why can't i give it to her?

You close it abruptly. It falls to the floor, the cover of it thudding as you cover your face with your hands. Was he thinking of someone else all this time? Every morning, every kiss, every time he looked into your eyes and told you that he loved you—was all of this meant for someone else? Someone he wanted but couldn't have? Someone that just didn't love him back?

You scream. You toss the coffee table. You shatter the flowers that have died, you pick up the box of his things, and you throw it. You watch the papers fly, the books fall, you hear the rattle of his dead memories meet the floor of the home he left behind, and you scream at all of it just to stop, please, stop, stop, stop—

You're not even sure if it's really Johnny you're angry at. Maybe yourself, because you've never really been good enough to be loved by anyone. No one has ever loved you and you only—you've only ever been additional, on the condition of loving another, never enough to be the one and only, and maybe that's your real problem. Maybe the real problem is that you want to die because you always give everything you have, and no one has ever wanted it enough to give you the same.

Maybe you just want too much. Maybe your dreams are too big, maybe it's just that no one wants what you are handing over. Packaged pretty, all shiny and new, but if no one wants it, you shelve that kind of love, and that's where it rots.

Maybe this kind of love died with Johnny. Not the beginning of something, but the reality of it, and now all you can do is accept the things you cannot change and tame the heart inside of you that isn't good enough to be for anyone else.

When you pick up his things off the floor the next morning, you find a scribbled address on the back of a torn sketch. So, you do the kind thing, and you gather his things back into the box, close the lid on what never really was, and you carry it with you out the door.

The door is unmarked. The paint on it is peeling, but you know this must be the place because there's a pair of dark boots caked with mud sitting out by the bottom step. You raise your hand to knock, and you tap it with your knuckles timidly, adjusting your hold on the box in your arms.

A few minutes pass by, but no one answers. You knock again, louder and firmer this time, and it finally swings open. From the dark flat emerges a large man, sticking his head out from behind the chain latched and glaring down at you. You think he's about to close it on you, but then his eyes flicker down, and you know he must read the name scribbled in big letters on the box that you hold.

It’s enough to make him pause. It’s enough to make him stay, rooted to that spot, even if you can tell all he wants to do is sink back into whatever void he came out of.

"Hi," you whisper, and you have no control over how broken the word comes out. "I...I just thought you should have this."

Because he never really loved me. Not really. Not the way he loved you.

The door shuts, and you hear the chain unlatch, and then he opens it wider. He emerges in the doorway, taking up the entirety of the width of it, and he snarls down at you from behind the mask he wears.

He opens his mouth to spit something at you, but then you hold it out to him with shaky hands, and he can see the tears that are coming down your face. You can't control them, he can tell that much, and he reaches out to take the box from you. You look at his hands, and you recognize them immediately. Uncanny, the resemblance, and you recognize the scar that cuts across the knuckles on his left hand. You know if you push his mask down, you could trace with closed eyes the scar he must wear that starts at his nose and ends at his chin.

He doesn’t know it, but you know what he looks like. You know what he is. If he took off that mask, you would see a face you know, even if Johnny never drew the entirety of it at once. Always bits and pieces of him, but you’d know them if you saw them put altogether. You have the puzzle pieces of him in the back of your mind, and you know you could put them back together if you really tried.

He would not be able to do the same for you. The pieces of you are scattered, and you know they are lost, and that there is no getting them back. Johnny took them to grave; you would never ask for them back, anyways.

You don't ask who he is. He doesn't ask you who you are; but when your eyes meet, there is some kind of understanding. Some kind of knowing. You almost don't want to leave—you know he mustn't be kind, not from what you’ve read of him and the way he looks, but Johnny loved him, and you want to cling onto anything that still breathes that might connect you to him. You hate him, but you love him, and Johnny loved this thing, so maybe...maybe—

The door slams shut in your face, and you catch yourself with the step railing as you crumple to sit there, on his dirty step, crying into your hands. You don't know how long you sit there, but it is dark when you drag yourself home.

It is much too dark outside for you to see the shadow that you pick up along the way—and you’re too in your head to realize it never leaves.

When you come home from work, your knees are weak when you see the letter that’s taped to the front of your door.

EVICTION NOTICE.

They give you until the weekend, a courtesy they tell you they don’t normally give to anyone. You aren’t allowed to stay, even if you come up with the money, and you’re in tears as you pack up your flat. The last place you shared with Johnny, and it’ll be gone soon. You don’t know what you’ll do with your things. You don’t know where you will go.

Johnny never married you. You don’t have any family. You’ll have to stuff your car full of as much as it can hold, and you’ll need to toss the rest. You’ll have to—

The knock at your door startles you. You get up off the floor, where you were trying to stuff all your dishes into a small bag. You pull the curtain back on the window beside the door, and your eyes widen when you see a giant man standing at your door. He feels your eyes on him, and he turns his head towards the window, tilting his head to the side menacingly when he looks at you.

You wipe your face, trying to dry the tears on your cheeks. You open the door shakily, poking your head out.

“Hi,” you say. You wish your voice was steady, but it cracks. “Can…C-Can I help you?”

The mask he’s wearing today is different. There’s a skull mouth painted on it, and his hood is flipped up over his head. He seems taller with his boots on, and he takes up nearly the entire width of your doorway. He’s got so much bulk on him—if you reached across and touched him, you know your hand would hit nothing but a solid wall. No give, just pure muscle and fat. His eyes are still dark, and he still looks like the most unapproachable man in the entire world. He clicks his tongue under the mask, and you swallow when he snarls a bit.

He fishes something out of his jacket. You recognize it—Johnny’s journal. He holds it out to you, expectant, and you open the door wider to take it from him. You feel tears come all over again at the sight of it, and you hold the leather to your chest, hugging it. Johnny never married you, but he would’ve taken care of you right now. If he would’ve known you were here, about to live in your car, he would not have hesitated moving you in with him. Getting you into his bed. Shielding you from the world that was much too scary, much too unforgiving. Johnny would know what to do.

Johnny’s dead.

Just as you are about to close the door, a thick boot stops it. You flinch a bit, looking up, and then a big hand presses against your door and pushes it open until it hits the wall. The man cranes his neck to look around you, and he narrows his eyes at the heap of your belongings huddled in the living room of your flat.

You sniffle, shaking your head.

“I’m just…moving.”

You step aside when he moves. He ducks his head just slightly to get through, and you watch as he walks around, taking stock of what’s in front of him. He seems to find what he’s looking for when he sees the notice on your kitchen counter. He snatches it up and and turns it around to face you, and you just stand there, frozen.

“I told you. Moving.”

His house is soulless. White walls. Beige carpet. Grey tiles. There’s one couch, one coffee table, and one TV mounted to the wall. There’s only dishes in the kitchen enough for one person, and he only has one bedroom. It’s the same lifeless place in there, too. His mattress is on the floor, but he has the decency to put a mattress cover and sheet over it. There’s one nightstand, with just a few cables where he must charge his phone, and one lamp. There are no decorations. There is no other furniture. His house is functional, not valuable.

He puts your bag in the bedroom. That settles that.

You cry that first night. You sleep early, curling up under his one measly sheet, and you cry. You cry because you’re sad. You cry because you’re lonely. You cry because you feel like you owe this man now, this stranger who hasn’t told you his name, and you have no idea how you will pay him back. You cry because you miss Johnny, and he never even loved you.

You jump when the bedroom door opens. He walks in, kicking the door shut, and you watch as he strips himself of his jeans and hoodie, tossing them onto the floor. You sit up on your elbows, meeting his eyes, but he doesn’t take off his mask. Instead, he comes towards the bed, plopping down on the mattress next to you, and you pull the sheet up to your chin. You hadn’t anticipated sharing a bed with him, but you’re also too afraid to complain.

“I can sleep…on the floor if—”

A big hand covers your mouth. You’re silenced, startled that he would touch you this way, and you start to cry again when he presses until you are laying on your back again, moving his hand back until it rests behind his head.

“Please—” You hiccup. “Please don’t hurt me.”

He hums at that. Satisfied. Pleased at your reaction. He could pluck your strings right now, and you’d play music. He falls asleep with that thought.

You try to give him money. He never takes it. You try to buy groceries. You find the notes you spent stuffed back into your wallet later. You try to pick up a broom to clean up, and he locks the supply closet after that. The only way you find out his name is when you find his dog tags in the bathroom drawer, because he still hasn’t spoken a single word to you.

Simon “Ghost” Riley. That’s who Johnny really loved.

You don’t know why the sex started—you don’t know why you let him in, not exactly. Simon had been gone, one of his usual spurts of absence that he occasionally had, but he came home earlier than you expected. Simon likes to shower as soon as he comes home, but you are already in there, under the hot water, leaning against the tile as you empty your head of any thoughts. Simon doesn’t knock, and he pulls back the shower curtain even though he sees your silhouette. There are no words exchanged as he comes in, getting under the hot water, and there are no words exchanged when he takes off his mask for the very first time, and he hoists you up against the wall and fucks you into it.

You know this, too. Your hands trace his back, and you can feel every scar you know will be there, and you can taste the same things Johnny said you would taste when you lick over his jaw. Tobacco. Citrus. Animal.

It almost feels like cheating, but you’re too empty inside to be sad about it. It really feels like lying, even though Johnny’s too gone to hear your excuses. At the same time, it feels like getting something back. Not in its entirety, but something close, something that doesn’t feel the same, but feels so good anyways.

You cry again when you realize you like it better. You cry more when you realize that you’re starting to lose your dreams of Johnny in favor of Simon. You see in the dark instead of in blue. At first, you used to mumble Johnny’s name into the pillow. You used to bury your face into it, muffle the sounds as Simon fucked you from behind, two big hands pushing your ass apart as he pulled you back over and over onto his cock. Now your head is turned to the side, and you’re crying Simon’s name, and he’s fucking you harder, getting down onto his elbows, pressing you into the mattress and using your throat as leverage so he can arch your back and get your ass shaking with how firm he pushes his hips against you.

You’re so delicate, but he can’t be nice. He can’t be gentle. He needs to see teeth marks on your thighs and on your back. He needs to taste your blood and your cum and your spit. At first, he thinks he was doing it because he was lonely, too, but now he just wants to eat and eat and eat.

Eat Johnny’s pretty girl. Fuck Johnny’s pretty girl. Keep Johnny’s pretty girl, because how dare he keep this one a secret, and how dare he try and hide her from him? Johnny wrote a lot of things in that journal, but he didn’t talk about Simon’s insatiable appetite, and he didn’t talk about Simon’s rules. He blamed the entire world for his seemingly unrequited love, but the reality was that Johnny was selfish.

Johnny didn’t want to share. He wanted it all for himself, so it’s no wonder he died for it. When your world isn’t in balance, it compensates. Johnny ended up on the wrong side of the scale.

That’s the fucking truth.

Simon’s got you on your knees again. He likes you this way, ass up, face down, on display. On your back, he stacks enough under your back that you’re nearly upside down, pussy in his mouth as he bends you in half and eats it like that. Now, he’s squeezing your hips, pressing down between your shoulder blades, thick tongue inside of you as he teases your ass with his thumb. Johnny used to love that, but you’re such a jumpy girl.

He’s going to fix that.

Johnny is so predictable. Letting you run around, spoiled, never telling you the way it should be. Johnny made you think you were a pretty princess. He probably intertwined your fingers and fucked you in missionary like a good Catholic boy, but soft, delicate things like you don’t need to be reminded of what they are. They need to be so cockdrunk and dizzy that they don’t know anything else but this place right here, in his bed. Simon knows that’s what you really need—to not know the world outside of this bedroom.

Love is useless. Love can be lost. Love comes and goes, it’s subject to change. Time bends it, rusts it like iron, and Simon doesn’t need something else that will slip through his fingers, no. He needs something that is latched onto him forever. He needs to take one of your ribs and absorb it. He needs to taste you on his tongue and between his teeth always. He needs your blood to be his blood, and he needs your eyes to be his eyes.

Marriage is not finality. Love is not permanent. No—it isn’t enough. He couldn’t keep Johnny, and maybe he can’t keep you, but there is something he can give you that will keep you with him. Even if you left, you would stay somehow, some part of you, and he can see it in some distant place.

Once Simon sees something, it’s as good as true. It might as well be real. Simon is something himself of a manifestation, and he realizes now that maybe he never really saw Johnny because it was you hiding in what he couldn’t see.

Everything is in focus now. He knows what he has to do. Johnny was too stupid to see it—to preoccupied with how beautiful you are between the legs, too mindless when he was cock-deep inside of you to understand what he had in his hands. They don’t make things like you. One of a kind. Once in a lifetime. Something that will never be again if you let go, if you look away.

Simon knows all too much about what it means to leave a scar. He understands permanence. It’s why he’s still alive. It’s why he’s got you here, right here, underneath him, wet-faced and sobbing and clenching so tight around him. Your nails are fixtures in his back, holding him here, and he knows that you understand, too. If he asked you, you would think about the answer, but your body knows. It knows who Simon is and what he wants. He’s certain it does because even if he wanted to, your cunt has him tight, barely enough give for him to pull out and push right back in. It doesn’t want him to leave, and he’s glad for it.

You cry so sweet. Blubbers and gentle tears. You want this; it’s evident in the way you claw at him and pull him back in every time he pulls out just enough. When you pull just that hard, he drops onto his elbows, caging you in, and you sob into his mouth as he grinds his pelvis into yours. The wet smack of his thighs has stopped, but the pressure against your clit has you whining so nice. Fuck, you are beautiful, and you look so sad. From the first moment you showed up at his door, you were all big eyes and sadness. You drag around an air of heaviness that hasn’t left, and Simon is so sick of it—Johnny wasn’t man enough to eat you whole, won’t you just fucking let it go?

Maybe Simon did love him, too. Maybe he did love him back. No, he must’ve—that feeling in his chest still hasn’t left. Simon made a thousand excuses. A man like him, simply unloveable. A soldier like him, just too busy and too dedicated to have anything for himself outside of duty. A victim, what a rotten word, but that is what he is; no one can want him, not really. He saw it, in the back of his mind, peeling back layers of himself just for someone to make a face. After everything, after breaking his nails crawling out of an early grave, rejection just might be the thing that finally killed him. Not a bullet, but the sheer pain from the cut of giving a nasty piece of himself over and not even getting everything back.

Johnny was careless. Loving two things at once, pulled in opposite directions. Too distracted by what he couldn’t have that he forgot about how good he really had it—what a fucking dog. Greedy. Naïve. Fucking delusional. Johnny gave up this to chase something that could never be real. It was pathetic. It was stupid.

It was mine.

“Look at me.”

You do. Your eyes, hazy and wet, meet his, and your hands are shaking as you cup his face and sob because yes, yes, yes, please—I need it, it hurts s-so good.

It does hurt. It burns. It steals. It takes. It swallows, like a brush fire against dry land, licking and eating and tearing apart whatever it can reach. Your moans enrage it, and your cunt feeds it, whatever the thing is inside of his chest that is begging to come out.

This isn’t love. This isn’t romance. This is necessity—survival. Without him, you will come apart, and without you, Simon will starve. He used to take bites out of Johnny. Just enough to make the screaming inside of him quiet a little, just enough to be distracted; but he hasn’t eaten in months, and whatever you’re made of is too good to let go of.

This time, he’ll make it permanent. He’ll make it forever. Where you end, where he begins, where his hands have sunk into you, where his teeth are stuck; he’s going to fix himself to this place, and then he’s going to make himself forget how to leave.

You’re buzzing. You’re somewhere else. You feel like you’re floating above yourself, but at the same time, you’re right here. Simon’s so big; he told you he would be, but it’s another thing entirely to have this man inside of you and hitting your squishy cervix. He’s nasty about it, too—he likes putting a big hand on your stomach and pressing; he likes to feel himself inside of you and laugh at how you cry, and he likes the sound it makes when you’ve come, and your thighs are wet, and his skin smacks against yours with a toe-curling squelch.

“‘s mine,” he says, and you whine, and you nod. You don’t know if he’s asking you a question, but you figure he isn’t. Simon isn’t the kind to ask. He just takes what he wants. He always has. When you come back from the dead, consequences don’t apply to you any longer. You’ve cheated reality, and now you get to reap your rewards.

“Yeah.”

Yeah. Yes. Of course. Yes. Yes, Simon, whatever you want, Simon, anything for you, Simon, yes, yes, yes, yes—!

It will take time. As Simon puts his thumb to your clit to hear you sing, he thinks about how it won’t take much of it. You’re already so docile. You’re already in his bed, eating his food, crying with his cock inside of you and your thoughts filled with nothing but white noise and his name.

Simon won’t be like the man before him. Johnny drew you as a butterfly—something in need, but something that would eventually fly away. Fuck that. If there is a light in you, Simon will snuff it out. If he has to keep you from discovering your wings, he will just cut them off. If it’s the blood inside of you that keeps you warm, he will let it drain from the wounds left behind by his teeth because I will keep you warm, I will make it better, no one else, just me—

His index and middle finger in your mouth silence you. You choke on whatever you are saying in favor of sucking on his wet fingers, your eyes crossing a little as he bites down on your ear and pants there. It’s rare to hear him; Simon tends to swallow any noises he makes in favor of concentrating on hitting that same spot inside of you, but you can hear him now. It’s low and rumbly, so much so that you can feel his chest vibrating against yours. A groan—fuck, he sounds so good. To know your pussy feels so good, it’s making him falter is enough to have you just at the cusp of something white-hot and blinding.

You come when he comes. Simon’s other hand has an iron-grip on the side of your thigh, hiking it up around his hips as he comes hot and heavy inside of you. You shake underneath him, sucking hard on his fingers as he presses his pelvis to yours. You can feel it dripping between your thighs, and the heat of it makes you come, too, a sob coming out of you as you spit his fingers out in favor of closing your mouth over his.

He tastes like you. You suck on his tongue softly, lapping it up, and he uses his wet hand to hold your jaw at an angle so he can spit into your mouth and kiss you again. You grip his dog tags hard, tugging him back to you when he tries to look down at where he’s inside of you. He suffocates you when he lays over you, but you don’t care. You need him skin-to-skin. You need his mouth on yours, his cock still this deep, sharing breath and spit and heat. If you lose it, you’ll lose something else, something more, and you can’t lose it again.

His weight crushes you, and you don’t register the significance of one of his hands underneath you and between your shoulder blades. He feels for something that you can’t see, and he kisses you again when he’s satisfied with what he finds. The lack of something. The killing of it. The knowing that you’ve gotten what it is you’ve been searching for all this time.

He holds you like that always. He keeps your eyes on his when he comes inside of you—always wants to look at you when that first spurt of cum fills you entirely. He likes the way your lashes flutter when he brands you. He likes the way you lose the ability to speak. He likes the way your entire body goes rigid and pliant all at once, seizing up and then melting underneath him until it takes no effort to turn you over onto your stomach and do it all over again.

He notices the change before you do. The tender breasts, the warmth of your lower belly. You are wet always now, eager to be bent over wherever you are because the ache between your thighs is tenfold now.

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long while, and you’re smiling, hips hiked up on the couch, your dress crumpled around your middle as his cum drips down the back of your thighs. Simon licks his lips as he sits back on his heels, thumbing over your puckering hole.

You lay underneath him in your cocoon. Death at your doorstep, and you let him right in. You draw it around you tight, tucked into this blanket of security and warmth and factitious love that you think will hold this time. Simon’s hand draws around your throat, but you easily fall into him. When he squeezes, crushing what you’ve built back up, you sigh with relief, letting yourself fall into his chest and stay there.

When you close your eyes, it feels like something familiar. Like a place you’ve been before. When you open them, it’s gone. Simon is there, staring at your curiously. Your shadow that never leaves. The thing that remains. Time passes, but you know this will stay, you know it won’t go away. When he bends you over again, his hand slides low, cupping your belly, and your mouth twitches—the ghost of another smile. You put your hand over his there and press, feeling the scars you know by memory alone.

You will give him new scars; and these ones will be only for you.

682 notes View Post

spacecola7

3 months ago

Stitches (Part One)

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Three of Snowblind

Rating: Mature Wordcount: 6.1k Tags: Slow Burn, Heavy Angst, Trauma, Found Family, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics, Major Character Injury, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Unreliable Narrator, Self Esteem Issues, Referenced Familial abuse, Hospitalization, Self Sabotage Warnings: Explicit Injury mention, Forced sedation A/N: The needed, heavy, heavy chapter for Fix. Please head the warnings and read carefully, and practice self care if you need to

The first time you need heli-evac, it's in Venezuela.

Tracking down a cartel supplier to AQ forces, Laswell tells you. International arms dealers. The mission is off the books, quiet. Clean house, harvest intel. Price and Gaz could have cleared it easily, but for some reason Laswell mandated the full task force. Something about the intel not adding up, too many loose ends. You know better than to question her, all of you do.

Unfortunately for you, Laswell's prophecy comes true.

You see the rug on the floor shift a moment too late. The trapdoor flies open out of the corner of your eyes as you spin, and there's yelling in Spanish just a split second before the bullet rips through your side. You fall backwards just in time to avoid the next hail of fire, and the motion throws off the aim of the attack long enough for you to squeeze off a round, the cartel member's figure jerking grotesquely as your aim rings true.

There's voices then, as your head falls back against the floor, cursing blindly at the pain. You'd been shot before, but this, the bullet inside you feeling for all the world like it was trying to twist inside you further, deeper, makes your voice crack hard and dry in your throat. There's iron in your lungs, breathed in with every staggered inhale, lancets of agony etched across your torso and spine. Something inside you feels wet and warm and abstractly wrong.

You press a hand to the center of the pain, and when it comes away red there's a cognizant dissonance to it, a small 'oh' that manages to filter through your thoughts as the stain blossoms scarlet against your side. It's the sight that manages to make the world begin to spin, hazy and unfocused even as there's shouts and it's Gaz's face that flickers into view, trembling like the hazy after effect of a poorly animated CGI movie.

He's talking, but with the blood rushing in your ears you barely hear him, blinking and trying to clear the strange filter that obscures the pure look of fear in his eyes.

"Stay with me, Fix. Gonna get you out of here."

You nod, and it's all you can really manage, heart pounding relentlessly, pain bubbling up your throat in a choked, pleading cry that has Gaz's face grow ashen with concern.

It's Price, then, who shoves the sergeant aside, and even in your dissociative, blank-minded state you see the tremble of his hands as he fumbles for the med pack strapped to your kit.

Oh. You think a bit groggily, blinking as you remember. I'm the medic.

That's probably bad.

There's no time to process it further, because suddenly Price is pressing down on your side and you yell, try and flail away from the pain. Gaz has to hold you down, face pinching with something that tears further at you, an emotion that feels far too concerned for what you're feeling. There's a distant part of your mind that runs through the possibilities, of the bullet lodged up against your diaphragm, through your spleen, or possibly even your lungs. You can breathe, you can kick your legs, but the dizzying rate of the spinning world around you does not bode well for your near and distant future.

"...x...h-ey...Fix! Keep your eyes on me, mate."

You try to, from behind the veil of tears that clouds your vision as the hurt coats the underside of your tongue in an open, confused whimper. Price is yelling something you can't quite make out, and there's a tone to his voice you've never heard before. It cracks and makes you blink, forces you to try and raise your head at him, only to have Kyle's gentle, gloved hand resting you back down against the floorboards.

When you try to breathe you choke, feeling your chest compress down painfully. The air in your lungs stales, and with a wheeze you grasp blindly at Kyle, feeling panic race potent and toxic through your veins. You catch his eyes then, and the worry there has now transformed into something all consuming. Terror.

He snaps at Price, and though you can't hear the words you hear the tremble in his voice, and you realize at that moment just how terrible things must be, because suddenly Price is cutting the straps of your tac vest and shoving it rudely aside, ripping your jacket and shirt and placing an ear to your chest.

He pales.

It's that bad. Something in your thoughts whispers, and then, in a sudden, macabre burst of clarity. Try to say goodbye.

When you fumble for Price, however, he only snaps at you, tells you to stay still and stay awake. You try, you do, but the world is too bright, oversaturated, spinning like the lights of the county fair rides you saw once as a child from the window of a car. Fluorescent, vibrant, dizzying and enchanting. Glittering in the distance from beneath the grey haze of incoming mid-season thunderstorms. Now it's tinted with a putrid, vile taste of metal and bile and a sudden wave of nausea washes over you, as the skies grow green in your memory. You close your eyes against it, trying to find ground on which to retreat where there is none. Price says something about a helicopter, and whether it's moments or minutes later you feel the dull whump whump whump in the distance, beating the air around you slower than your stuttering heart rate.

Who's arms hoist you up, you aren't sure, but you can smell the scent of them. Charcoal. Gun oil. Sweat. Musk. It's familiar somehow, but it isn't until you see your blood seeping red over white skeletal gloves that you understand.

It's the last thing you see before the world goes dark.

---

You wake about eighteen hours later, and the first word out of your mouth startles Soap so much beside you he barks a laugh.

"Your mother teach you to curse like that?" He asks, but mercifully dims the overhead light when you whine at him. You ignore the fact that your mother would turn you over to your father if you ever spoke like that, deciding that such a tiny detail isn't really worth the time it would take to convey it to the Scot.

When you turn to him, Soap's brow is furrowed in a way you don't recognize. He sits in a chair at your bedside, hands clasped, shoulders hunched forwards, leg bouncing and fidgety. Wound too tight. Anxious. His blue grey eyes are drawn with concern, brow furrowed. He doesn't look at you.

"Scared us stiff, hen." He murmurs low, enough that you have to strain to hear it. "Nearly kicked the bucket- Christ on a cross, Fix. There was so much blood."

You don't reply. There's not much to say, really. You messed up, forgot to check a corner like a goddamn rookie, nearly bled out a result but you're here. Alive, mostly whole...minus the hole.

You tell him as much, but when Soap laughs it's a little mirthless, his head shaking as if he's deciding between disbelief or a reprimand.

It isn't long before Price appears, leaning on the door with a weary smile that betrays his concern. You wonder if he's slept recently, or if he's subsisting only on cigars and a gluttonous dose of black coffee. Cognac, if he found it.

The captain gives you the rundown of your injury. Gunshot to the left side of your ribs, nothing short of a bloody miracle it missed your major arteries. However, it managed to puncture your lung, collapsing it and forcing you to briefly asphyxiate on the helicopter. You were unconscious by the time you were handed off to the med-evac crew, flagging by the time you got to the hospital. Had there been a chopper unavailable, and had it not been for Gaz's quick attention to your labored breathing, it very well could have been your death would have been in a sticky, spider infested cartel hideout, far, far away from home.

That fact makes you feel your heart drop down to your stomach, and Soap sends the captain a look. Yet Price's eyes remain locked on you, arms crossed, head slightly bowed, gauging your reaction. He's waiting for you to say you want out, for you to quit, to go home.

Home, wherever that may be, to the waspish gaze of your father and the sad, docile eyes of your mother. To linen sheets and pristine, white French doors, a garden where you aren't allowed to dig your hands into the soil.

You refuse. You don't speak to Price, returning his gaze with your own. Silent, unwavering, a bough not bending to the howling gale of your thoughts.

He nods to himself, then nods to the nurse hovering by the door, and promptly vanishes.

Gaz comes to visit you, and in the days that pass between him and Soap you are hardly ever lonely. They brings cards, games, sneak you snacks past the nurses. Slowly, their laughter and banter eases the unspokenness between you, the 'What if?' that hangs as a constant reminder in the shape of your bandages. Yet you see it in their eyes, the way they glance at you when wince after laughing too hard, when your eyes grow distant in the silence.

Price floats by, brings with him a thermos of hot tea. It's unlike him, and when you question him on it he merely shrugs, tells you to drink up. Yorkshire gold, you recognize. The same kind you mother liked, with her British sensibilities.

You try to ignore the bitter ache of disappointment that settles inside you when Ghost doesn't visit, acrid like over-steeped tea.

It's on Price's third visit that he tells you you're cleared to head back to base with them. After that, however, you have a mandatory six week leave to fully recover.

It sinks your stomach.

Six weeks. Six weeks they'll be deployed without you, six weeks you'll be trapped at base, not knowing the details of their missions, not knowing if it's at that very moment that they need you. All because you got caught off-guard, because you didn't check your corners and nearly bled out in from of your team.

You swallow hard at the news, but know any protest on your part is futile. Price's orders, as per the doctor's, are absolute.

The next day, you find yourself being assisted down to the tarmac, Soap present at your side and offering little jabs that mask his worry. Price deposits your pack beside his, between the three others. You blink then, see in one of them the thermos he brought you, and wonder why it isn't stored with his own things.

Ghost watches you from where he sits, locks eyes with you when you glance from the thermos to his silent, piercing stare.

Ah.

Yorkshire Gold.

You settle in one of the seats, wave off Gaz's fussing as he checks with your pain. You'd been dosed shortly before the flight, and by the time the plane is in the air you find yourself drifting off to sleep, slouching uncomfortably as drowsiness takes you.

Strangely, when you wake shortly before your landing about eight hours later, it's not your seat you find yourself in. Instead, you lay on the floor of the cargo hold, head braced by a folded jacket. You can smell the scent on it. Charcoal. Musk. Gun oil. You have just enough time to turn and bury your face into it before Soap is shaking you awake and helping you back to your seat.

No sooner have you landed are you rushed off to medical once more, checking your stitches, rebandaging the gash in your side. The doctor frowns when he examines you, pushing his glasses up his nose and commenting within ear range of your captain to not undertake any strenuous activity, that you may require eight weeks instead of the six you've been issued with.

Eight weeks. Fifty six days. Two months without your team.

Stuck alone on base, in the dim light of your room, praying that somehow they return whole, unharmed.

Price must sense your thoughts, for he lays a heavy hand on your shoulder, offers you a conciliatory smile that you feel only deepen the wound in your chest.

"It seems like a long time." He tells you genuinely, voice dipping low, rusty with cigar smoke. "It'll be over before you know it."

You don't have time to reply, because to your horror there's another soldier at the door, saluting before conveying that the captain is needed in the briefing office. When you trail behind Price, he only turns, settles both his hands on your shoulders and gruffly tells you to rest.

When you watch his back vanish down the corridor, you try not to hear the sound of creaking bones and rifle bullets, of cataclysmic destruction that leaves behind only the aching void of loneliness in its wake.

You don't even have time to say goodbye.

You watch from the windows of the barracks as the plane lifts off to an unknown destination, vanishes behind the veil of clouds, and then there's just you.

Alone. Again.

Alone with your thoughts, with the embrace of rumination that feels like the whisper of the witching hours, desolate, dark, restless. You feel it wrap around you even in sunlight, and the ghost of solicitude loops her lithe arms around your neck like a lost lover, kisses the inside of your thoughts with the taste of temptation.

They aren't coming back. They don't need you. They've seen how weak you are now, they'll never return.

"They'll be back." You whisper aloud to yourself in response, placing a trembling hand against the glass pane. "They haven't given up on me yet."

---

You wander the base aimlessly for the next few days, haunting the mess hall and rec room, trying to find yourself in the silhouettes of others. Your small collection of paperback novels is polished off quickly, tiny notes scribbled in the margins of 'Dante's Inferno' and 'Wuthering Heights'. Eventually they stack in a tiny tower at your bedside, spines creased gently and pages dog-eared.

You heal slowly. Far too slowly. The pain has become mostly manageable, but there are nights when you rise in your sleep with a wheeze, pace the dark confines of your room trying to escape the shadows there. It doesn't help that your dreams are plagued by them, your comrades, bloodied and broken, reaching out for hands that aren't there. Hands you cannot reach.

One night you wake in a cold sweat, gasping for air, the visage of a cracked, bone white skull mask haunting your innermost thoughts. The eyes blank, cold. Dead.

Laswell tells you little about the mission. You get bits and pieces, but every time you push all you receive on the other line is a disparaging sigh and "Fix, you need to rest. I'll keep you updated if anything goes wrong."

You hate it. You don't want to know when things go wrong. You want to be there when they do, to prove yourself to them, in hopes that maybe they'll keep you just a little longer.

Soon. You remind yourself by day five of the team's absence, constantly pacing the corridors, trying to find instances of them in your loneliness. Soon they'll be back. Soon they'll need me again. Soon, I'll know I can stay.

You wake on day six before dawn, gasping awake as you fall in your dream, endlessly into the chasm of failure, where the crippled bodies of your teammates reach out for you with emaciated, broken limbs.

The training grounds are still dark by the time you get to them. You run them, blasting music, circling the perimeter over and over again like you're trying to stay to the edge of a dark, endless whirlpool. Running so as to avoid the chasing, predatory self-doubt that nips at your heels with feral eyes and jagged teeth.

The sun rises, and soon it begins to bake the back of your neck, your shoulders. Eventually you stop, and the inertia of your motion threatens to drag you off your feet. Your chest aches, but you welcome the pain. It's a distraction, a reminder. An anchor against the fraught silence that plagues you more than any wound.

By the time dinner rolls around you're back again, circling the drain until well past sunset, after your playlist has looped for the third time that day. By the end of it you're bent over, breathless, shaking, and yet somehow there's triumph. Yet it tastes hollow, bitter like over-steeped tea, and you push down the part of you that offers a gentle respite, a reminder of self-preservation.

If you run, you can flee, can hide from the perilous self-doubt that threatens to haunt the shadows of your thoughts, spinning cobwebs of dismay that overtake the empty caverns you've long since carved out. Fight or flight fuels every waking moment, a spiral you mimic with your steps across the training field, running a rut in the grass so deep it resembles the abyss that haunts your dreams. Perilous failure, a chasm where the wind howls in your ears and bites across your skin. You feel like a doe in the twilight glade, heaving heavy breaths as the wolves of your ruminations bark and howl, nip at the hocks of your legs.

The entire time your mind flashes with visions of them. Of Gaz's grin, eyes hidden by his sunglasses that reflect the sibylline brightness of daytime. Of Soap's jovial laughter, the corners of his eyes scrunching and broad chest rising, a sound that feels like trumpets announcing victory. Of Price and the sulfurous mist exhaled like dragon's breath, floating up into the same sky where you silently offer wishes for his approval.

Of Ghost, of the stygian, merciless presence of him that feels less like the visitation of a reaper and more of shadows in which to shelter yourself from the dazzling brightness of all things blinding. You lean into him and wordlessly, he has you, watches you from afar and traces your steps that mimic the history of his, observes you ascend the precarious tower of expectations you've yet to dismantle inside your soul. He extends his arms, prepares to catch you if you fall.

You need them. More than they need you, and it's the realization of that which has you clawing your sheets in your dreams. You need them to keep you, here in the place where you've found a home, dangerous and fraught that it may be. There's nowhere else for you. Not with your parents, not with your former company. You need to not be alone. You need to prove to them you can stay. Even if you can just fool them, be selfish enough to trick them into keeping you, you need them to smile at you long enough for the smoke to clear in your hideous self-deprecation, to drink in the oxygen of them like it's your last breath.

If you can heal faster, can show them how resilient you are, then everything will be fine, everything will be-

Red. On your fingers.

Wet, warm, crimson as you delicately prop under your shirt, hissing at the feeling of something torn and damp against your skin. It shines rusty under the scant light of the dark training grounds, coats the pads of your fingers like scarlet ink with which to smear a forbidden oath.

You stare down at it mutely, realizing with a strange sort of distance that it's yours. Gingerly, your hand snakes under your shirt, reveals a torn gash in your side. When you press down your knees nearly buckle at the sudden wash of pain, dark and viscous and choking you. Your voice chokes in your throat and you hate the sound of it, hearing the useless whimper of agony that chases up your windpipe. How you didn't notice the tear before is beyond you, something about imbibing in the hurt, letting the ache fill the crevasses of your heart like liquid metal seeping into a fissure.

Your hand clings to the fence beside you, fingers tangling with the chain link as the distress of your injury washed over you all at once.

Fuck, it hurts.

You've done something, whatever that may be, and now your mistakes seeps over your fingers.

This is bad.

Bad not just for you, but for your recovery. Shit, the looming eight weeks ahead of you seems to stretch into infinity, into an inexhaustible leave where they leave you behind, dismiss you and curse you to roam the earth endlessly, looking for a place in which to rest.

The infirmary.

You have a key, of course, being one of the medics. It's probably empty at this hour save for the sergeant on attendance. You can probably sneak past them, grab enough supplies to see to this yourself without one of the nurses telling on you to Price or Laswell.

You stumble in the direction of the barracks to retrieve your key, shrugging on your jacket to hide the blossoming stain across your side.

You don't hear the plane land.

The barracks are quiet by the time you reach them, most of the officers and squaddies already tucked into their quarters, the commanding officers lounging in the rec room or officer's lounge. It makes your journey easier as you traverse the corridors, trying to avoid any questions lest someone see you even now, realize what a complete and utter wreck you are, dipping falsehoods onto your fingers. Your feet nearly trip over the stairs, hand clutching at the rail ad dragging yourself upwards despite the effort it takes to not think about your leaking wound.

Carnations, scarlet and blotted with vibrance, blossom where stitches meet skin, a grotesque bouquet of regrets with the scent only of iron to color your senses.

When you reach the third floor, and turn the corner, you feel a wave of nausea suddenly wash over you, green and viscous and sour. You have to brace on the wall for a moment, waiting for your stomach to settle before making your way down the hall.

Then you see him.

Tall, imposing, clad in black. He soaks up what little light there is in the dim hallway. The unshed tactical gear makes him look bigger than he is, looming like a phantom outside your door. His scarf trails behind his back, and for a moment it feels almost like the cowl of a specter, his bone white mask a flash of white before it all ends and you're sucked down into an obsidian infinitum.

His hand is raised to knock, hovering over the metal surface. You can smell the grenade smoke wafting off of him from where you stand, acrid, burnt, molten metal like the glint of his stare. You blink as you realize he must have come straight from the plane, not bothering to untack or store his gear before coming to see you.

You startle at the sight of him, and it's in the corner of his stained vision that somehow he sees you, turns with an alert gaze that's soon masked by an expression of disinterest.

"Ghost." You hoarse, and his eyes narrow at your tone, closing the last few steps between you, stopping just short of you. Not touching, not moving, not reaching for you. Contained in his own orbit that you're drawn to anyways, looking up into his eyes, where the ink of his paint has faded from his blonde lashes.

"Fix." He greets, hands loose at his sides, chin tucked to fully regard you. The strap of his helmet creaks as he does, and briefly your eyes dart up to the night-vision goggles still strapped to his head.

"Price sent me to check on you." He offers in the silence that follows, and there's enough clarity within you to note that it somehow feels rehearsed, too practiced.

"Well-" You huff an anxious laugh, try to not let your eyes dart to your door handle, mind running to your desk drawer, where you keep your clinic key stashed. "Consider me checked on."

There's a pause between you, and within it lies the heaviness of the unspoken, the unsaid. All the confessions inside of you threaten to bubble up like the last gap of air before drowning in the deep, dark ocean.

I'm glad you're safe. Where are the others? Are they hurt? Did you need me? Will you forgive me when I wasn't there?

"How's your injury?" He asks suddenly, voice flat, but beneath the feigned disinterest you see his eyes, framed by blonde lashes, dip to your side. Your heartbeat flutters -too loud- as you pray the blood has yet to seep through the fabric of your jacket.

"Fine." You answer, a little too quickly, and that dark gaze sweeps up to your face, pins you to the spot without a single touch. You feel your chest tighten now not with the constricting compression of pain, but with something more phantasmic, a byproduct of his very presence. A prickle of awareness that breathes across your neck every time he ventures close, a reminder of him where he smears his ink stained fingers on the inside of your skull.

Door. Desk. Drawer. Stairs. Five minute walk. Clinic. Back room. Supply closet. Third shelf.

Your mind runs the steps ahead of you, but you can't sidle past, not with Ghost's immense, towering form blocking the width of the hallway. His dark gaze stares down at you, scrutinizing you, and it feels somehow like you're being flayed open by his knife, skin parting from bone as he dares a glance at the hidden, duplicitous interior of you. You try to not meet his eyes, knowing that if you do he'll see it, he'll see all of you, with his gaze that feels like black holes, threatens to tear you asunder with the gravity inside them.

He says something else when your eyes again dart to your door. When you don't immediately, he tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing.

"Fix?"

"Sorry-" You supply immediately, eyes darting back to Ghost. Yet the world around you wavers then, and you frown, blink, trying once more to tether yourself firmly to gravity. Even as you focus, however, the room seems to tilt and sway under you, and you can't help but rock on your feet a little in a subtle but desperate bid to find balance. "W-what did you just say?"

Ghost stills suddenly, and his eyes narrow from behind his mask, form going rigid as he appraises you.

Don't. You think desperately, both to yourself and to him. Don't look.

The wound must be worse than you thought, because the sudden wash of dizziness makes you threaten to sway on your feet, lost in inertia. You can feel the tug of it, your feet carrying you in endless circles as you spiral down a familiar whirlpool, lost in despair.

"...You alright?" Ghost asks tentatively, as if not expecting you to give him a straight answer.

"Solid." You reply almost instantly, and even as you tilt your head up to regard his massive form the shape of him seems to shift before your eyes. Despite being pinned under his stare you try not to sway, not to buckle.

Just breathe. You remind yourself, forcing manual inhales and exhales in an attempt to remain composed. The warm wetness of your wound is already bleeding through your bandages, soaking the gauze packed against your side and dyeing it a rancid scarlet that reeks of failure. You know the longer you stay here, the longer he questions you that you run the risk of being discovered, of your ruse being revealed in horrific, dazzling color.

God, you wonder if he can smell it on you- the bitter, iron taste of blood.

"Don't lie." He states, stepping closer, and when you instinctively take a step back you nearly stumble, one arm dropping to your side in an attempt to find something to balance with. "You don't look fine."

"W-what do you mean?" You try, but your voice wavers when you speak- as unsteady as your form. A sapling in a thunderstorm. Lighting bursts across the darkened skies of your anxiety.

"Fix." Ghost states, and that sends a flash of panic through you, the way his voice evens with seriousness, eyes suddenly steely and trained completely on you. A hunter's scope, and you're caught in the snare.

"Don't." You manage, and take another step back, retreating-

The world shifts under you.

You have just enough time to blink, for your lips to part in an 'oh' of realization before the weakness in your legs finally gives. As they buckle your eyes dart to Ghost's, and you catch a single glimpse of shock that flashes plainly across his gaze before he's moving, reaching for you-

When the world stills again it's to the sensation of an arm under your back, the hand snaking around your side and pressing close to your raw, seeping wound hidden under your gear.

You choke on the pain, the sound a strangled gasp that bubbles up your throat and forces the air from your lungs.

When Ghost moves his hand you feel it, feel the crimson ooze soaking through your shirt and jacket against your side, and painting his glove in dark, glistening wetness.

"FUCKING hell." Ghost snarls when he realizes what it is, his eyes darting down to your side where red colors across the fabric of your white tee.

"G-Ghost-" You manage, even as the world spins around you, an abrupt kaleidoscope of shape and color. It's the white of his mask that grounds you, mirroring his wide, surprised gaze as it turns from his glove to your ashen, stricken expression. "LT, wait-"

"You stupid girl." Ghost snarls, and you flinch.

Before you can stop him, Ghost reaches for his radio, and when he presses down it leaves a bloody stain on the casing.

"Price." He barks, voice grating deep in his chest- the one he uses to issue orders, bring men back into line. "Fix is injured. Tore her stitches."

In a desperate bid you try to reach for him, face alight with pain and shock as you try to stop him, try to grapple the radio away. Yet Ghost merely knocks your hand aside and fixes you with a stare so harsh and cold it freezes you in place.

"How bad?" Price's voice crackles from the other end of the comm, and you swallow, try to answer.

"I-I'm okay." You supply, but Ghost snarls at you.

"She's not okay." He echoes over you. "She's fucking bleeding out."

"I'm...not-"

"Shut up." Ghost bites at you, but there's a waver in his voice you don't recognize as it harshes inside his chest, grinding and impatient and...somehow scared.

You hear Price curse on the other end of the radio.

"Where are you? I'm on my way and sending Gaz to find a medic."

"Southeast hallway. Third floor. Outside her bunk." Ghost replies sharply, and at once he's readjusting you, laying you down on your uninjured side. You curl into yourself, feeling tears threaten as he does so.

It hurts.

The pain itself, but the knowledge that with every stained drop you're exposing yourself, letting him know you failed, that you aren't fit to stand by him, that your injury is-

When Ghost's hand presses down against your wound you yell, the agony of his touch unexpected and horrific as he tries to stem the gush from your side. It blinds you, sends white shooting across your vision in brilliant white specks, blotting out the brightness of the humming fluorescent lights above you both. The aftertaste of it lingers in your mouth, like burnt pennies, thick and vile as it clogs your chest, grips your heart-

"Stay. Still." Ghost tells you on no uncertain terms even as you writhe, tears now spilling from your eyes and tracing down your cheeks in hot, furious trails.

"I'm sorry-" You try, but your voice is cracked, caught in your throat as a sob. "Ghost, I'm sorry-"

"Why did you do this?!" He hisses, as he uses one hand to press against your shoulder and anchor you. "Why didn't you say anything?!"

You swallow, but it does nothing to stop the ache in your throat, the pain that laces up your side and cross your spine, your hips, your heart.

"I-I didn't-" You hiccup, and the world is in chaos now, with your cries and your secrets exposed, with his gaze raking over your trembling, injured form. "Didn't want you to see, Ghost. I'm sorry-"

He stills.

Then, Ghost's eyes take on a light you've never seen before. Frustration, anger, disappointment, these things you've been witness to in your lieutenant. However now the color of Ghost's eyes is dark not with these things, but with fury.

"Have you gone bloody mental?!" He bellows at you, and the world feels like it's trembling with the volume of his voice alone, shaking at the foundations of the earth itself. "Do you have any idea the danger you put yourself in?!"

There's a note of his words that ring true in you, that cleave apart the shell of doubt and allow radiance to seep through. You hide from it, curl further into yourself on the cold linoleum of the hallway, a sob cracking your throat as the weight of the world comes crashing down around you.

They're going to leave you for this. You're going to be alone again, all because your life seems to be a litany of failures, an impossible grave to claw out of as dirt pours in from the top.

You're heaving now, breaths too uneven, too ragged, and when it presses down on your lung the hurt is enough to make you cry out a strangled yell, kick out your feet in an automatic reflex.

Ghost's voice sounds distant now as blood rushes in your ears, your heartbeat wild and banging against the inside of your chest like a frantic, trapped bird. His hands are on you but you hardly feel them as panic engulfs you, and the whirlpool roars as it drags you down, down, down.

"Hey! Calm down, Fix! Fuck, just breathe!"

It hurts. Everything hurts. Your chest, your side, your lungs, the pain feels like it's seeping into your bloodstream, blocking your airways, poison running through your veins.

Another set of hands. Cigar smoke, ash.

"Soldier! Fix! Look at me!"

You can't. You refuse. If you see Price's gaze now in the moment of your ruin the stitches that bind you together will come loose at the seam and you'll unspill, empty cotton falling over their fingers. Fluff where there's supposed to be iron.

"Where the fuck is the medical team?!"

"They're on their way. Keep pressure on the wound."

Hands on your face. Gloves that smell like gun smoke.

"Fix, darling. You're having a panic attack. You need to breathe, you're going to hurt yourself if you don't."

You shake your head, dislodging the captain's touch.

No. You think with a ragged heave of air. Don't look. Don't look don't look please don't look.

The ground trembles as footsteps draw closer, and there's voice you don't recognize, hands pawing at you, light in your eyes-

You flail blindly, confused, scared, and when a heavy pair of hands lands on your shoulders to pin you it only makes your voice choke out with a frantic cry.

"We need to put her under."

No, no, please don't. Not sleep, not the nightmares-

"Do it."

Price. Captain. No, please-

"It's alright, darling. We've got you. You're okay."

Don't-

A jab, a little pinch on the inside of your arm. You try to make a noise, a whimpering sound of protest. There's a sudden flash of clarity before the darkness, and you open your eyes (When did you start crying?) to Price above you, his face pinched, distraught. Ghost is holding down your legs, and as your eyes drift to him he becomes nothing more than a shimmering phantom, blurred dark at the edges, a void in contrast to the too bright world around you.

"Please-" You whisper, the word heavy on your lips, eyes blinking-

Then there's nothing.

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spacecola7

2 months ago

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