im-poltergeist

[im-poltergeist]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.5k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

The last bed you laid in smelled like lemon mint detergent. It was the full bed in your sister's guest room. Everything was crisp and white. They rarely had guests besides you. Some of your clothes stayed in that closet, one of your toothbrushes stayed in the connected bathroom, waiting for your visits. You'd awaken that last morning not thinking you'd never sleep in bed for another five years. You left it unmade.

This bed smells like pine and warmth.

Ghost's room is small and dimly lit. The ceiling slants so that one end is not tall enough for him to fully stand. There's a dresser and a nightstand, leaving only a sliver of floorspace.

After the metal latch on the door clicks shut, Ghost lays the blanket down and grabs a pillow for himself. That leaves the bed to you. Springs creak beneath your weight as you silently slip under a heavy, rustic quilt. The years-embedded scent of him wraps around you like a drug-induced fog. You hesitate to move, frozen as he flicks off the light. You wonder if he always locks the door or did it for you, to make you feel safer.

Only when his moving about ceases do you allow yourself to get comfortable. You cocoon your body under the quilt and turn to your side, closing your eyes.

A thought reopens them minutes later. You roll onto your back and speak into the darkness. "Have you known about this Switzerland place?"

For a moment, you think he's already asleep. Then, from below the bed by your feet, he says, "Heard of it."

"That is what you guys talked about, isn't it?" you ask absentmindedly.

"Among other things."

You sit up so you can see him, but all that you can make out is a dark shadow. "Care to share?"

"Some things are on a need-to-know basis," is all he gives.

"And I don't need to know?"

"Precisely."

It stings; you don't know why. "Some team we make, huh? Or I guess we're only a team when you need me to do something for you."

You quickly realize how petulant you must sound. The shadow sits upright. "They asked me to go with them. I said no. Too far. Too many variables that are hard to predict, and she's not ready for them. Happy?"

Happy—no, but relief replaces the slight uncertainty in your gut since your conversation with Nereida. Joining them was shut down. You wouldn't tell her, but their idea sounds asinine, whether or not that commune exists. The trip will be risky at best, fatal at worst. You're tempted to ask him how many days he thinks they'll recoup here before continuing their journey, but opt for sleep instead. He seems done with the conversation, too, lying back down. Then, you have the best sleep you've had in years in his bed.

When the sun turns pink, you awaken to a room void of Ghost. He's gone. It should be expected, but you'd thought he might wake you up to train like normal. Though, the past twenty-four hours haven't been normal. You look around, the details of his room more visible now. On the nightstand, there is a stack of books and you scan the titled spines. Mostly classics. One Hemingway. All tattered and read frequently. Beside them lays a silver chain attached to a dog tag. You gently finger the engraved metal so as not to move it out of place: Simon Riley. 

Snooping through his things is more tempting than you're willing to admit. You slip out of bed, socked feet padding over to the dresser. There are mostly papers. His map with the marked circle around what you now realize is Switzerland, a notepad with scribbled half-cursive on it, and then a faded photo beneath it. You freeze, breath hitching, as if you've done something dangerous just by stumbling upon it. Curiosity is thick in your chest, difficult to ignore. Gentle fingers reach to shift it out, revealing a picture that you know right away is of Blue and her mom. Blue is a baby. Maybe one year old. A woman with light brown hair holds her up, sitting on a bench in front of a playground. She's pretty and young. There is a sadness when you wonder if this is the only picture he has of them—before her death. Then, there is another feeling. You swallow it. 

You quickly slip the photo back just the way you found it and leave the room. The living room is quiet, people still sleeping. Price and Kyle's blankets are empty, but Kyle is the only one you spot outside. He sits on a tree stump, using a knife and some soap to shave his beard. He looks at you the moment you step outside.

"Good morning." He splashes a scoop of water on his smoothed jaw. 

You tuck your hands in your pockets. "Morning."

Without the facial hair, he looks even younger. Maybe in his early thirties. He pushes to his feet and you are reminded of his above-average height, though he is not as monstrous as Ghost. His form is lean, all muscle, with much less ink on his exposed skin. It is now you notice a scar across his jaw. Thick but faded. It trails halfway down his neck.

"Do you know where Ghost went?" you ask.

"Working on that truck of his. With Price."

A glance over your shoulder confirms it; you spot some movement behind the cabin where you know his truck sits. Guess that means no training. You nod. "So, um, you were in the military together, right?"

He takes a moment to look at you before answering. "Yeah. Same unit. Price was our captain."

"I kind of figured. He is... captain-y."

"'Captain-y.' Good way of putting it."

You're ready to turn away when he asks, "I hate to pry, but I admit I'm curious how you ended up here with him."

You force a smile. "It's not a very interesting story, sorry."

"I'm not looking for entertainment."

"What are you looking for, then?" You sound more defensive than you mean to. 

He shrugs. "Just curious, is all. You're a bit young."

"I'm not fucking him if that's what you're getting at." His brows lift to his hairline, and you're almost embarrassed for assuming that is what he was thinking, but before he can speak you add, "And you're young, too. I can handle myself just as you can."

"Of course." He shakes his head, moving his hand over his chest in earnest. "I apologize if I insinuated otherwise. Though, I am older than you."

"How old?"

"Let's see. Thirty-one last November. Or maybe it's just thirty. Hard to keep track, innit?" His smile is more genuine than yours, flashing white teeth. Then, his face turns more serious and he sighs through his nose, head tilting. "Look, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"I don't know your story, but I'm sure it is a gruesome one, and you have every right to feel uncomfortable. We'll be out of your hair soon enough. I appreciate you having us, though."

You want to tell him it's not like you have a choice; you're not the host here. But he already knows that. He's trying to be nice. "Thank you," you tell him honestly. 

Kyle bends to pick up his knife, wiping it off on his shirt. "So what did you need Ghost for?"

"Oh, nothing really."

"Care to accompany me for some breakfast, then?"

You consider saying no, but you need to hunt, anyway. Besides, you don't think he'd try anything in broad daylight. In another life, you may have looked at him with a more appreciative eye. But as you wade in silence through the woods, bow cinched to your back, you study him like an opponent. He's more agile than Ghost, likely quicker. When he crests the hill, it's hard to match his strides. 

Small conversation picks up by the pond and you find yourself easing up. You learn he's from London, too.

"What part?"

"Islington. I shared an apartment with my girlfriend. The rent was shit but it was worth it. Top floor loft with a good view and this insane Turkish bakery just below us." His tone is so casual you forget where you are for a second, until he suddenly throws his knife. It pins a squirrel to one of the trees. He bends to dislodge it and carries the dead animal, blood on his fingers. 

You keep walking. "What happened to her?"

"I had to make a choice. Go to London and find her, or go with Price and get my nephew, niece, and sister-in-law."

The understanding hits with the force of a fallen tree, and you pale. 

He notices your expression and continues. "I don't regret my decision. I've come to terms with it. There was no chance of me finding her in London, not with how quickly the infection spread there and the phone lines went out. I didn't even know where to look for her. At work? Home? Up north, things weren't as bad yet. I got in contact with my sister-in-law, Amelia, and told her to meet us at the small college up there where Nereida worked."

You recall what Nereida said, about Ari's mom and sister dying, so you don't pry about them. "What about your brother? Ari's dad?"

"He died before shit happened. He was in the military, too. Different unit. Multiple gun wounds while in Afghanistan a few years back."

"I think your story is more gruesome than mine," you admit.

His lips twitch ruefully. "Not a competition. Gruesome world, gruesome stories."

A more comfortable quiet settles. He is not so different than you, you realize. Only difference is he still has his nephew to look after.

The sun is already high, enough to make a collar of sweat appear on your shirt. There is a small dirt ridge you have to climb and the effort reminds you of the still-healing bruises on your body. A skirt of movement catches your eye and this time, you act quick. You use your bow to kill a squirrel up on a branch. It falls to the ground.

"Damn." Kyle whistles, low and long, as you wriggle the arrow free. "Hell of an aim you got."

"I'm... alright."

"No need to be modest."

You straighten and wipe your bloodied hand on your shirt. The movement lifts it, and you hear him suck in a breath behind you. A hand touches your shoulder, gentle than firm, as he spins you around. You're confused, then follow his gaze to the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. It's a gross yellow. 

"Twix." His voice lowers, and his friendly eyes are confused. 

Shit. "It's not whatever you're thinking."

"I'm thinking someone has put their hands on you." He frowns and shifts closer. "I know you have no reason to tell me things, but I can tell you I am not okay with that shit, no matter who it is."

You inwardly cringe. "Ghost is not... hitting me. Well, he is—"

"Fucking hell—"

"No, no. I asked him to." The bewildered look on his face makes you palm your forehead. "Not like that. Jesus. We train together, okay?"

"Train together," he repeats, shoulders loosening. 

"Yeah, like to help me get stronger." The embarrassment remains on your cheeks. "It's silly, really."

Kyle shakes his head and grins, clearly amused now that he knows you're not being abused against your will. "Not silly. Thought you two were into some kinky shit for a second there." He continues walking over a patch of dryer land, stepping onto a small rock and chuffing a breath under his nose. "Wouldn't have been surprised."

Your fingers absentmindedly tighten around the squirrel's limp neck. Your feet are frozen for a moment as you shake off a deep blush, then call out behind him. "Did you miss the part where I said I'm not fucking him!"

He simply laughs. 

---

The rest of the day passes in languid warmth. 

It's weird having so many people here, but you try to continue your day like usual, skinning the kill and washing your clothes. You learn more about Nereida as you eat together. You haven't had a female friend in... a long time. Save Blue. She used to be an arts professor at a private school. Sculpting, mainly. That is how she came to meet John Price, when he attended one of her galleries, buying a piece from her for far more than the listing price. He was just looking for a way to take me out to dinner. The way she speaks of him is that of a doting wife, despite everything they've been through. She tells you they were engaged before the infection. A makeshift ceremony at their old camp was the best they could do. 

"No wedding ring, but we do both have this." She pulls up her sleeve to show you a small scar carved on her shoulder—a faint letter 'J'. Price has the 'N'.

You're not sure what Ghost needed to fix on his truck that morning, or why it was important to do it with Price, but when you returned with Kyle, something felt off. Ghost's tension was palpable. He usually seems in thought, but even more-so. When Ari takes Blue for a quick ride on the horse—apparently Cherry used to be owned by his parents on their family ranch in Newcastle—he watches for only a minute before disappearing somewhere with Price. You pretend to need something from the cabin. You sneak around the back way, finding them again by his truck, muttering in low voices. Only pieces reach your ears.

"...through the rural parts. Not a straight path..."

"...could take months..."

"Got quite a bit of those."

Then, he's showing Price something under the tuck bed's tarp where you catch sight of that kayak once again. 

"Find it?"

A low voice in your ear. You startle and turn around.

"Huh?"

Kyle raises a brow. "You said you needed something."

Your hand flattens against the side of the cabin. "Right. Um, I just—"

Boots scuffle behind you. You don't need to turn to know Ghost and Price have detected your presence, making their way over. Kyle's gaze flicks to them and you feel like a child who's been caught by her parents—embarrassment laced over your irritation. You wouldn't have been eavesdropping if they weren't so secretive.

"Everything alright?" Price's timbre is calm. Your neck prickles where you feel Ghost's stare.

You find yourself nodding. "Yes. Just fine. Sorry."

It gets cooler by nightfall. Your knee bounces slightly under the table during dinner. You listen to Blue explain the rules of battleship to Ari. You don't eat much more of the meat you caught with Kyle. With a mostly empty stomach, you enter Ghost's room after everyone else has gone to bed. His broad form hovers over his dresser. For a moment, you fear he's somehow noticed that you looked at his things earlier. But then you realize his eyes are glued to the map, and he's penciling some things on the margins.

He looks up when you close the door behind you. His brows are deeply knotted. 

"Figured you would be sleeping out there for tonight."

"What?"

"Seems like you feel just fine around them now." 

He looks away from you as if you're not even there. He places the map down and opens the top drawer. Without warning, he pulls out a clean shirt and changes, revealing his bare chest. His shoulders flex as he slips it over his head by the collar. Then, he moves toward you, eyes dully expectant.

"Being asleep near them is different than hanging out during the day," you finally respond. Mouth feeling dry, you swallow. "What's going on? I can tell that you... you've been thinking about something."

"You mean you've been listening." His brow lifts. He shakes his head before you can defend yourself. "I am always thinking about something."

"Would it kill you to not be cryptic for once? I thought that we were..."

"That we were what?"

"Being honest with each other now."

A dark, slightly amused breath leaves his nose. He contemplates your words for a moment. "It is my plan to go there," he then says. "I'm not stupid. I know she needs more than what I can offer her here. It has always been my plan. Just not now."

"Because she's not ready," you breathe.

"Because she's not ready," he repeats, chin tilting. His eyes darken, veering to the left. "Price seems to disagree."

Your nails curl in your palms. "And?"

He looks back at you. "And I am thinking of your camp. What happened to you. I can't grow complacent."

The mention unsettles your stomach. Of course, he needn't elaborate, not when the memory is more fresh than you'd like. "But going to Switzerland would take days, weeks. And they have no idea what they might run into out there. It's not like we have inside info on the state of France and—and wherever the hell else we'd have to cross through to get there. They could be worse than London."

"I'm aware."

"So what, then? You're considering it now? I thought you told them no," your hushed voice edges a bit harsher, and the pulse in your neck quickens.

You hate what you think he's saying, even if you understand it. He has his daughter's future to think of. Even if he were to try finding some safe community when she's older, the opportunity of traveling with two other military-experienced men would be gone, along with whatever weapons and supplies they bring to the table.

The contemplation is vivid in his eyes as you study them. Ghost's head lowers, dipping down at the same time that he emits a harsh breath, and you realize how close the two of you have become in this quiet exchange, keeping your voices safe from any awakened ears. So close, in fact, that his exhalation hits the space between your neck and collarbones, where a small patch of skin tingles with alertness. 

His voice emerges low and thoughtful after a drawn moment. "I haven't fully decided."

You nod with deep breath to steady yourself, taking in his answer. "Will you tell me when you do?" 

"I can do that."

And that's all he offers—four words that give a minuscule amount of comfort, because now bitter uncertainty has snuck upon you once again. Your fate lays in his decision. You can't survive on your own, not even here, so if he leaves you have to go with him. The impending doom fogs your brain. You fail to notice his hand has moved, pinching the hem of your shirt between thumb and forefinger, and beginning to carefully lift it up. A breath hitches at the top of your throat and your eyes unfurl, only to find that he is pensively looking down at your exposed stomach.

"What the fuck are you—"

You're cut off when his bent knuckles gently brush over your mottled abdomen, sweeping down the sore midline, leaving you frozen. It's a thoughtful, slow touch—calloused skin against smooth softness. His thumb traces a particularly bad one by your hip, causing your muscles to flutter as a pleasant heat blossoms. For the second time today, your bruises are under scrutiny, and you curse yourself for not applying more of that paste on them.

"They're healing well," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and lowers the shirt back down. He steps back. Eyes find yours. "Don't get too comfortable."

You blink dazedly, then stiffen. "Um, what?"

"Sleeping in my bed. My room isn't a hotel."

The change of topic gives you whiplash. "You're the one who made me sleep here," you remind him pointedly. "I'll just take the floor tonight, and you have the bed."

"You're a woman. Take it."

"As if you give a fuck about being a gentleman."

"You're right, I don't." A dismissive shoulder shrugs, then his back turns to you. He lays in the bed before you have the chance to even move, which leaves the blanket on the floor for you.

You should've just accepted the bed.

Once the room is shrouded in darkness, you bury your head in the pillow. 

"Comfortable?" he says sarcastically above you.

"Fuck off."

Then it's silent. You don't sleep nearly as well.

[im-poltergeist]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.5k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

The last bed you laid in smelled like lemon mint detergent. It was the full bed in your sister's guest room. Everything was crisp and white. They rarely had guests besides you. Some of your clothes stayed in that closet, one of your toothbrushes stayed in the connected bathroom, waiting for your visits. You'd awaken that last morning not thinking you'd never sleep in bed for another five years. You left it unmade.

This bed smells like pine and warmth.

Ghost's room is small and dimly lit. The ceiling slants so that one end is not tall enough for him to fully stand. There's a dresser and a nightstand, leaving only a sliver of floorspace.

After the metal latch on the door clicks shut, Ghost lays the blanket down and grabs a pillow for himself. That leaves the bed to you. Springs creak beneath your weight as you silently slip under a heavy, rustic quilt. The years-embedded scent of him wraps around you like a drug-induced fog. You hesitate to move, frozen as he flicks off the light. You wonder if he always locks the door or did it for you, to make you feel safer.

Only when his moving about ceases do you allow yourself to get comfortable. You cocoon your body under the quilt and turn to your side, closing your eyes.

A thought reopens them minutes later. You roll onto your back and speak into the darkness. "Have you known about this Switzerland place?"

For a moment, you think he's already asleep. Then, from below the bed by your feet, he says, "Heard of it."

"That is what you guys talked about, isn't it?" you ask absentmindedly.

"Among other things."

You sit up so you can see him, but all that you can make out is a dark shadow. "Care to share?"

"Some things are on a need-to-know basis," is all he gives.

"And I don't need to know?"

"Precisely."

It stings; you don't know why. "Some team we make, huh? Or I guess we're only a team when you need me to do something for you."

You quickly realize how petulant you must sound. The shadow sits upright. "They asked me to go with them. I said no. Too far. Too many variables that are hard to predict, and she's not ready for them. Happy?"

Happy—no, but relief replaces the slight uncertainty in your gut since your conversation with Nereida. Joining them was shut down. You wouldn't tell her, but their idea sounds asinine, whether or not that commune exists. The trip will be risky at best, fatal at worst. You're tempted to ask him how many days he thinks they'll recoup here before continuing their journey, but opt for sleep instead. He seems done with the conversation, too, lying back down. Then, you have the best sleep you've had in years in his bed.

When the sun turns pink, you awaken to a room void of Ghost. He's gone. It should be expected, but you'd thought he might wake you up to train like normal. Though, the past twenty-four hours haven't been normal. You look around, the details of his room more visible now. On the nightstand, there is a stack of books and you scan the titled spines. Mostly classics. One Hemingway. All tattered and read frequently. Beside them lays a silver chain attached to a dog tag. You gently finger the engraved metal so as not to move it out of place: Simon Riley. 

Snooping through his things is more tempting than you're willing to admit. You slip out of bed, socked feet padding over to the dresser. There are mostly papers. His map with the marked circle around what you now realize is Switzerland, a notepad with scribbled half-cursive on it, and then a faded photo beneath it. You freeze, breath hitching, as if you've done something dangerous just by stumbling upon it. Curiosity is thick in your chest, difficult to ignore. Gentle fingers reach to shift it out, revealing a picture that you know right away is of Blue and her mom. Blue is a baby. Maybe one year old. A woman with light brown hair holds her up, sitting on a bench in front of a playground. She's pretty and young. There is a sadness when you wonder if this is the only picture he has of them—before her death. Then, there is another feeling. You swallow it. 

You quickly slip the photo back just the way you found it and leave the room. The living room is quiet, people still sleeping. Price and Kyle's blankets are empty, but Kyle is the only one you spot outside. He sits on a tree stump, using a knife and some soap to shave his beard. He looks at you the moment you step outside.

"Good morning." He splashes a scoop of water on his smoothed jaw. 

You tuck your hands in your pockets. "Morning."

Without the facial hair, he looks even younger. Maybe in his early thirties. He pushes to his feet and you are reminded of his above-average height, though he is not as monstrous as Ghost. His form is lean, all muscle, with much less ink on his exposed skin. It is now you notice a scar across his jaw. Thick but faded. It trails halfway down his neck.

"Do you know where Ghost went?" you ask.

"Working on that truck of his. With Price."

A glance over your shoulder confirms it; you spot some movement behind the cabin where you know his truck sits. Guess that means no training. You nod. "So, um, you were in the military together, right?"

He takes a moment to look at you before answering. "Yeah. Same unit. Price was our captain."

"I kind of figured. He is... captain-y."

"'Captain-y.' Good way of putting it."

You're ready to turn away when he asks, "I hate to pry, but I admit I'm curious how you ended up here with him."

You force a smile. "It's not a very interesting story, sorry."

"I'm not looking for entertainment."

"What are you looking for, then?" You sound more defensive than you mean to. 

He shrugs. "Just curious, is all. You're a bit young."

"I'm not fucking him if that's what you're getting at." His brows lift to his hairline, and you're almost embarrassed for assuming that is what he was thinking, but before he can speak you add, "And you're young, too. I can handle myself just as you can."

"Of course." He shakes his head, moving his hand over his chest in earnest. "I apologize if I insinuated otherwise. Though, I am older than you."

"How old?"

"Let's see. Thirty-one last November. Or maybe it's just thirty. Hard to keep track, innit?" His smile is more genuine than yours, flashing white teeth. Then, his face turns more serious and he sighs through his nose, head tilting. "Look, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"I don't know your story, but I'm sure it is a gruesome one, and you have every right to feel uncomfortable. We'll be out of your hair soon enough. I appreciate you having us, though."

You want to tell him it's not like you have a choice; you're not the host here. But he already knows that. He's trying to be nice. "Thank you," you tell him honestly. 

Kyle bends to pick up his knife, wiping it off on his shirt. "So what did you need Ghost for?"

"Oh, nothing really."

"Care to accompany me for some breakfast, then?"

You consider saying no, but you need to hunt, anyway. Besides, you don't think he'd try anything in broad daylight. In another life, you may have looked at him with a more appreciative eye. But as you wade in silence through the woods, bow cinched to your back, you study him like an opponent. He's more agile than Ghost, likely quicker. When he crests the hill, it's hard to match his strides. 

Small conversation picks up by the pond and you find yourself easing up. You learn he's from London, too.

"What part?"

"Islington. I shared an apartment with my girlfriend. The rent was shit but it was worth it. Top floor loft with a good view and this insane Turkish bakery just below us." His tone is so casual you forget where you are for a second, until he suddenly throws his knife. It pins a squirrel to one of the trees. He bends to dislodge it and carries the dead animal, blood on his fingers. 

You keep walking. "What happened to her?"

"I had to make a choice. Go to London and find her, or go with Price and get my nephew, niece, and sister-in-law."

The understanding hits with the force of a fallen tree, and you pale. 

He notices your expression and continues. "I don't regret my decision. I've come to terms with it. There was no chance of me finding her in London, not with how quickly the infection spread there and the phone lines went out. I didn't even know where to look for her. At work? Home? Up north, things weren't as bad yet. I got in contact with my sister-in-law, Amelia, and told her to meet us at the small college up there where Nereida worked."

You recall what Nereida said, about Ari's mom and sister dying, so you don't pry about them. "What about your brother? Ari's dad?"

"He died before shit happened. He was in the military, too. Different unit. Multiple gun wounds while in Afghanistan a few years back."

"I think your story is more gruesome than mine," you admit.

His lips twitch ruefully. "Not a competition. Gruesome world, gruesome stories."

A more comfortable quiet settles. He is not so different than you, you realize. Only difference is he still has his nephew to look after.

The sun is already high, enough to make a collar of sweat appear on your shirt. There is a small dirt ridge you have to climb and the effort reminds you of the still-healing bruises on your body. A skirt of movement catches your eye and this time, you act quick. You use your bow to kill a squirrel up on a branch. It falls to the ground.

"Damn." Kyle whistles, low and long, as you wriggle the arrow free. "Hell of an aim you got."

"I'm... alright."

"No need to be modest."

You straighten and wipe your bloodied hand on your shirt. The movement lifts it, and you hear him suck in a breath behind you. A hand touches your shoulder, gentle than firm, as he spins you around. You're confused, then follow his gaze to the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. It's a gross yellow. 

"Twix." His voice lowers, and his friendly eyes are confused. 

Shit. "It's not whatever you're thinking."

"I'm thinking someone has put their hands on you." He frowns and shifts closer. "I know you have no reason to tell me things, but I can tell you I am not okay with that shit, no matter who it is."

You inwardly cringe. "Ghost is not... hitting me. Well, he is—"

"Fucking hell—"

"No, no. I asked him to." The bewildered look on his face makes you palm your forehead. "Not like that. Jesus. We train together, okay?"

"Train together," he repeats, shoulders loosening. 

"Yeah, like to help me get stronger." The embarrassment remains on your cheeks. "It's silly, really."

Kyle shakes his head and grins, clearly amused now that he knows you're not being abused against your will. "Not silly. Thought you two were into some kinky shit for a second there." He continues walking over a patch of dryer land, stepping onto a small rock and chuffing a breath under his nose. "Wouldn't have been surprised."

Your fingers absentmindedly tighten around the squirrel's limp neck. Your feet are frozen for a moment as you shake off a deep blush, then call out behind him. "Did you miss the part where I said I'm not fucking him!"

He simply laughs. 

---

The rest of the day passes in languid warmth. 

It's weird having so many people here, but you try to continue your day like usual, skinning the kill and washing your clothes. You learn more about Nereida as you eat together. You haven't had a female friend in... a long time. Save Blue. She used to be an arts professor at a private school. Sculpting, mainly. That is how she came to meet John Price, when he attended one of her galleries, buying a piece from her for far more than the listing price. He was just looking for a way to take me out to dinner. The way she speaks of him is that of a doting wife, despite everything they've been through. She tells you they were engaged before the infection. A makeshift ceremony at their old camp was the best they could do. 

"No wedding ring, but we do both have this." She pulls up her sleeve to show you a small scar carved on her shoulder—a faint letter 'J'. Price has the 'N'.

You're not sure what Ghost needed to fix on his truck that morning, or why it was important to do it with Price, but when you returned with Kyle, something felt off. Ghost's tension was palpable. He usually seems in thought, but even more-so. When Ari takes Blue for a quick ride on the horse—apparently Cherry used to be owned by his parents on their family ranch in Newcastle—he watches for only a minute before disappearing somewhere with Price. You pretend to need something from the cabin. You sneak around the back way, finding them again by his truck, muttering in low voices. Only pieces reach your ears.

"...through the rural parts. Not a straight path..."

"...could take months..."

"Got quite a bit of those."

Then, he's showing Price something under the tuck bed's tarp where you catch sight of that kayak once again. 

"Find it?"

A low voice in your ear. You startle and turn around.

"Huh?"

Kyle raises a brow. "You said you needed something."

Your hand flattens against the side of the cabin. "Right. Um, I just—"

Boots scuffle behind you. You don't need to turn to know Ghost and Price have detected your presence, making their way over. Kyle's gaze flicks to them and you feel like a child who's been caught by her parents—embarrassment laced over your irritation. You wouldn't have been eavesdropping if they weren't so secretive.

"Everything alright?" Price's timbre is calm. Your neck prickles where you feel Ghost's stare.

You find yourself nodding. "Yes. Just fine. Sorry."

It gets cooler by nightfall. Your knee bounces slightly under the table during dinner. You listen to Blue explain the rules of battleship to Ari. You don't eat much more of the meat you caught with Kyle. With a mostly empty stomach, you enter Ghost's room after everyone else has gone to bed. His broad form hovers over his dresser. For a moment, you fear he's somehow noticed that you looked at his things earlier. But then you realize his eyes are glued to the map, and he's penciling some things on the margins.

He looks up when you close the door behind you. His brows are deeply knotted. 

"Figured you would be sleeping out there for tonight."

"What?"

"Seems like you feel just fine around them now." 

He looks away from you as if you're not even there. He places the map down and opens the top drawer. Without warning, he pulls out a clean shirt and changes, revealing his bare chest. His shoulders flex as he slips it over his head by the collar. Then, he moves toward you, eyes dully expectant.

"Being asleep near them is different than hanging out during the day," you finally respond. Mouth feeling dry, you swallow. "What's going on? I can tell that you... you've been thinking about something."

"You mean you've been listening." His brow lifts. He shakes his head before you can defend yourself. "I am always thinking about something."

"Would it kill you to not be cryptic for once? I thought that we were..."

"That we were what?"

"Being honest with each other now."

A dark, slightly amused breath leaves his nose. He contemplates your words for a moment. "It is my plan to go there," he then says. "I'm not stupid. I know she needs more than what I can offer her here. It has always been my plan. Just not now."

"Because she's not ready," you breathe.

"Because she's not ready," he repeats, chin tilting. His eyes darken, veering to the left. "Price seems to disagree."

Your nails curl in your palms. "And?"

He looks back at you. "And I am thinking of your camp. What happened to you. I can't grow complacent."

The mention unsettles your stomach. Of course, he needn't elaborate, not when the memory is more fresh than you'd like. "But going to Switzerland would take days, weeks. And they have no idea what they might run into out there. It's not like we have inside info on the state of France and—and wherever the hell else we'd have to cross through to get there. They could be worse than London."

"I'm aware."

"So what, then? You're considering it now? I thought you told them no," your hushed voice edges a bit harsher, and the pulse in your neck quickens.

You hate what you think he's saying, even if you understand it. He has his daughter's future to think of. Even if he were to try finding some safe community when she's older, the opportunity of traveling with two other military-experienced men would be gone, along with whatever weapons and supplies they bring to the table.

The contemplation is vivid in his eyes as you study them. Ghost's head lowers, dipping down at the same time that he emits a harsh breath, and you realize how close the two of you have become in this quiet exchange, keeping your voices safe from any awakened ears. So close, in fact, that his exhalation hits the space between your neck and collarbones, where a small patch of skin tingles with alertness. 

His voice emerges low and thoughtful after a drawn moment. "I haven't fully decided."

You nod with deep breath to steady yourself, taking in his answer. "Will you tell me when you do?" 

"I can do that."

And that's all he offers—four words that give a minuscule amount of comfort, because now bitter uncertainty has snuck upon you once again. Your fate lays in his decision. You can't survive on your own, not even here, so if he leaves you have to go with him. The impending doom fogs your brain. You fail to notice his hand has moved, pinching the hem of your shirt between thumb and forefinger, and beginning to carefully lift it up. A breath hitches at the top of your throat and your eyes unfurl, only to find that he is pensively looking down at your exposed stomach.

"What the fuck are you—"

You're cut off when his bent knuckles gently brush over your mottled abdomen, sweeping down the sore midline, leaving you frozen. It's a thoughtful, slow touch—calloused skin against smooth softness. His thumb traces a particularly bad one by your hip, causing your muscles to flutter as a pleasant heat blossoms. For the second time today, your bruises are under scrutiny, and you curse yourself for not applying more of that paste on them.

"They're healing well," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and lowers the shirt back down. He steps back. Eyes find yours. "Don't get too comfortable."

You blink dazedly, then stiffen. "Um, what?"

"Sleeping in my bed. My room isn't a hotel."

The change of topic gives you whiplash. "You're the one who made me sleep here," you remind him pointedly. "I'll just take the floor tonight, and you have the bed."

"You're a woman. Take it."

"As if you give a fuck about being a gentleman."

"You're right, I don't." A dismissive shoulder shrugs, then his back turns to you. He lays in the bed before you have the chance to even move, which leaves the blanket on the floor for you.

You should've just accepted the bed.

Once the room is shrouded in darkness, you bury your head in the pillow. 

"Comfortable?" he says sarcastically above you.

"Fuck off."

Then it's silent. You don't sleep nearly as well.

[im-poltergeist]

I now have an Instagram account. I will be posting updates about Towers and Thorns so head over there to enjoy the extra content from me! @im_poltergeist. Love, Polt. 🌻

[im-poltergeist]

Towers and Thorns

Chapter 3

My heels click against the polished stone floor with every step that I take. Heavy thuds from boots coming closer behind me.

“I was just wondering when you’d join me”, I say to the man behind me.

“Had to have a laugh at your poor time management skills”, Shadow replies, falling in to step with me.

“Hilarious.” I roll my eyes.

“Always am, your highness.”

Shadow opens the door to the grand dining hall with his head bowed to me. I walk in, a polite smile with teeth. To make it seen genuine. Or something. The wall opposite me has portraits of previous rulers. Ranging from the one before my mother to one from as early as the 18 hundreds. All in neat but extravagant golden frames. In front of the wall there is a long wooden table. Decorated cleanly with a white table cloth, flowers in pink and lilac and lit candles. My mother sits at the table. A crown decorates her head. I bow my head to her and make my way towards the table around the edge of the room. If I’d look out the windows I’d seen the flowerbeds in the garden. Full of red, white and pink roses. The afternoon sunlight casting the room in a warm yellow glow.

On my mum's left side sits the president, and on her right my father. There is an empty seat next to him. My seat. I hurry towards the chair. Shooting my mother a quick apology as I pass behind her. I sit down and smooth out my dress. My father gives me a stern look. Honestly, I deserved that.

“Sorry”, I mouth to him. He nods back. Apology accepted. I exhale. I look around at the other two tables. One to my left and the other to my right. The table to my right is designated to the families that are close to the crown. There’s the Callahans, the Riveras and Marshall and his parents, ew. At the table to my right is, oh god no. My cousins are sat smirking in my direction. Well, four out of five. My eldest cousin, Grace, keeps her head down. Eyes on the plate in front of her. She’s in a light pink dress that she thinks hides her already growing baby bump, it does nothing of the sort. A shadow passes behind her. No, not a shadow. A balaclava clad man who somehow blends in like a chameleon into the dim light of the dining hall. He’s a shadow alright.

“How kind of you to join us, your highness”, The president addresses. Earning him amused chuckles from various people in the room. My eyes dart to him.

“I do sincerely apologize. I’m afraid that my poor time management skills have struck again”, I answer. Causing many people in the room to laugh. Including a snicker from behind me. The corners of my mouth twitch upward. The president chuckles. The tension in the room eases. The conversations start flowing and I let out a breath. My mother and father are swept in to a conversation with the president. Theres a joke about tea. Something about a wall. I don't pay attention.

My eyes wander around the room again. They sweep past your cousins towards the door. Next to the door stands Sanchez, or Samir, which is his real name. His dark skin and neatly trimmed hair fits in like a piece of a puzzle with the rest of the room. Elegant but with the touch of "don't mess with me Im a bodyguard". Next to him on the other hand is a man who does the exact opposite. The mohawk on his head, an eyesore. His slightly rugged look may be appealing to some women. But in this context it stands out like a drop of blood on cotton. Even though thats the case he is far from ugly. Wait a minute. Isn't that? Yes its is. It is the bodyguard that Grace is rumored to have a relationship with. Why on earth is he here? We don't need the scandal to take fire once again. It has barley burned out.

I pry my eyes away from the man. Looking towards the table on my right instead. The Callahans are talking with the Riveras about something I can't hear. Marshalls parents are listening in to the conversation. But Marshall himself is staring at me. Shooting me a cocky grin as my eyes meet his. I look away in disgust. Supressing a shiver.

The first corse is served. It is some kind of soup with tiny vegetable squares floating around below the drizzle of oil. It tastes alright. It's nothing special. Apparently it's supposed to warm up the stomach before the main course. What nonsense. There are so many better options to serve as an appetizer. Especially when the President is visiting.

The main corse plays out the same way. Some kind of meat, grayish and dry. The royal family can't eat raw meat in case of food poisoning. I do it anyway. The chefs rules are much looser when the palace is empty of guests. The president keeps talking with my family. He goes on and on about something that I can't be bothered to listen to. Until my name is mentioned that is.

"What", I ask. Suddenly interested in the conversation.

"Would you consider yourself a republican or a liberal", the president asks me. The strained smile on his face tells me that it was the second time he asked.

"Im not allowed to vote, nor am i allowed to take a stand in politics", I answer. The answer had been drilled in to my very bones. I can't express myself politically. Especially not right now.

"Come on. This is just a friendly conversation between two acquaintances. Theres no need to follow such formalities." He pushes. I clench my fists under the table. Why can't he just drop it. My father tenses beside me as I open my mouth to speak.

"Like I said, I will not speak on the matter", I reply. A polite but stern answer. My father relaxes again. The president laughs and says something about rule following and I stop listening again.

Desert is served and I would like to be anywhere but in the dining hall. My cousins have had too much to drink. Probably something stronger than alcohol as well by the way they constantly disappear in to the bathroom and talk so loud that I can hear almost every word that they are saying. When I have finished my desert I politely excuse myself to get some fresh air and hurry out of the dining hall.

When I get into the corridor outside of the big door I take a deep breath. It finally feels like I can get enough oxygen. I walk towards the garden. Fresh evening air can't hurt. The roses should be blooming. A hand grips my wrist and tugs.

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Chapter 1 🌻 Chapter 2 🌻 Chapter 3 🌻

🌻Wattpad link🌻

Authors note:

Ooo, a cliffhanger! As usual feel free to share any thoughts or correct any errors! See you in the next chapter! Love Polt.

[im-poltergeist]

Towers and Thorns

Chapter 2

Lenses begin shuttering the moment that I step out into the light. My parents wave to the crowd that has formed outside the gates. I just smile, and breathe. Remember that part Victoria. I think to myself. Crowds have never been my cup of tea. But with my oldest cousins recent scandal it has been worse than ever. One wrong move and the reporters will write about if for weeks.

I continue walking along the gravel path towards the podium where an older man stands with his hands behind his back. He has two bodyguards on either side of him. Mum walks up the stairs, greeting the recently elected president with a handshake. He smiles at her with far too white teeth and bows down to kiss her hand. Next is my father and last, me. I walk towards him with a smile plastered on my face.

"Mr President", I greet him and extend my hand towards him. He takes my hand in a firm grip, a too firm grip. It makes my hand ache but I don't move a muscle. I feel Shadows eyes burning into my back as if he could sense my discomfort. The president lets go of my hand without saying a word and I move to the far side of the podium. Shadow follow suit and stands behind me. His frame is towering over mine and I feel the heat radiating from his body on to my back. It's a strangely comforting feeling.

My mother and The president hold their speech. They talk about how "We need to work together more than ever in these uncertain times" and "With this cooperation we will ensure that both England and The United States of America thrive towards a better, safer, future". I hardly listen. I may look in their direction and smile. But most of their speech fall on deaf ears. I am much too occupied with my aching right hand to pay much of it any mind. I massage the area between my thumb and pointer finger absentmindedly behind my back. That's when I feel a large, warm, hand wrap around my wrist. I twitch at the unexpected feeling before relaxing in to his grip. Shadow twists my hand slowly, checking for any serious damage, I suppose, and rubs the sides of my fingers gently before letting my hand go.

When they had finished speaking and had given the photographers plenty of time to take pictures of them shaking hands and holding their joint hands up into the air, they left the podium. Walking past me on the way to the garden. My mother walking first and The president as well as my father walking after her. All of their respective guards following close behind. Me, on the other hand, walk back towards the palace. It's not mandatory for me to walk with the president through the garden. Even if it would provide a good image to see me speaking with the president, it's best that I don't. You don't need to make a fool out of yourself, Victoria.

I walk down the stairs to the podium but as I reach the fourth step my flat slips off the edge. I feel myself fall forward, my stomach sinking. Two hands catch me by the waist and hip setting me upright on the next step. My eyes widen and I pause before taking the next step down. The smile gone from my lips. I gather myself again and smile towards the crowd outside the gate. I continue walking towards the palace. Back stiff and smile faltering.

"You okay", Shadow whispers. His warm breath hitting my ear through his balaclava.

"Yeah", I breathe and wave to the crowd outside the gate.

This is going to be gold for the news articles tomorrow morning. I can already imagine the headlines. "The princess of England, falling head over heals" and "Knight in shining armor, the princess saved by her bodyguard".

The doors closes behind me and I run a hand through my hair. Well more like half my hair since I used my right hand out of habit and the pain made me tense up. I turn around to face Shadow but he is nowhere to be seen. I swear to god, that man can disappear into thin air. Just as I finish that thought I hear someone clear their throat behind me. There he stands, with an icepack in his hand.

"Oh, thank you", I mumble, reaching out for the icepack.

"Ill do it", Shadow replies, placing the icepack on my hand gently and wrapping it in place with a piece of cloth.

"We don't need you to be all black and blue in time for dinner, your highness", he continued. He clearly didn't trust your medical skills. You suppose that he was right not to since your first aid skills consist of bandaids.

"Right, dinner", I mutter. As if a stroll in the park wasn't enough, we had to have dinner with The president too. Great. More opportunities to make a fool out of yourself. Exactly what I need right now.

"Don't worry, by next week they will have forgotten all about your little tumble", Shadow interrupts my thoughts. Do I have to add mind reading to the list of things that this man seems to be able to do.

"Maybe a few months ago. But after the scandal theres no chance in hell that they'll let this opportunity for more gossip pass them by", I sigh and look down at the floor.

Of all the things that my cousins have done. This takes the cake. My eldest cousin fell pregnant. Under normal circumstances this would be wonderful, but she isn't married. After a text between her best friend and her got leaked to the press, with a picture of a positive pregnancy test, the whole world has been asking who the father is. The most popular rumor, her own bodyguard. Which obviously isn't helping my current situation.

"Letting you fall wouldn't have been a good look either", He says, bringing me back to reality.

"No it wouldn't, I suppose. Im sorry. Im just under a lot of stress right now. Not that it justifies it", I apologize and take a deep breath. I glance up at him. His brown eyes looking back at me. His usually cold eyes soften ever so slightly.

"It's alright, your highness."

I sit in front of my mirror putting mascara on my eyelashes. My right hand feeling considerably better. Still sore but, considerably better. In thirty minutes I need to have dinner with the man who caused the damage, just great. I put the mascara wand back in its tube and stand up from my vanity. The lilac dress Im wearing slides back down my figure, the shimmery fabric contouring my body in the light. My hair is curled and put up into a bun. Everything is flawless, just as it is supposed to be. I sigh and walk to the wall mounted mirror. The gilded frame reflects the dim light. I give myself a once over in the mirror, straighten out my dress around my bust and wipe some gloss out of the corner of my lips. I take a deep breath and turn around, straight into something solid.

"What the-", I look up and meet a pair of dark brown eyes. The eyes are outlined by blond lashes. How have I never noticed that before?

"Better not finish that sentence. Would be inappropriate, don’t you think", Shadow suggests, the corners of his eyes crinkling briefly.

"Sneaking up on me isn’t", I ask tilting my head to the side and crossing my arms over my chest.

"I would hardly call that sneaking", he replies, crossing his arms and leaning forward.

"Oh yeah? What would you call it then",

"Checking up on you", he replies, grabbing my right arm gently. "How’s your hand doing", he continues. I clear my throat.

"Fine, a bit sore still", I answer. His fingers trace over the bones in my hand. I swallow and advert my eyes. They drift towards the opposite wall. Towards the clock. Shit.

"We need to go", I exclaim and wrench my hand out of his grip. I rush towards the door. Purple silk whirling around my ankles as I hurry out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 1 🌻 Chapter 2 🌻

🌻Wattpad link🌻

Authors Note:

Next part is out! Let me know what you think and as usual, feel free to point out any mistakes. Until next time! /Polt

[im-poltergeist]

Towers and Thorns

Chapter 1

"Do you have to keep bending the rules", he asks from the doorway to my room. I scoff at the question.

"This is hardly bending the rules. The skirt is just above knee length", I answer, glaring at the balaclava clad man stood before me.

"Not sure I agree with that, your highness", his cold eyes scanning my figure. I groan and shove him out the door. What's the matter with him anyway.

I walk over to my closet and stare at the skirts. Apparently the light blue one I had on was "inappropriate". I pick out a white, patterned one instead and hope that it is acceptable. I roll my eyes. The bodyguard I had before him, before Shadow, wouldn't have batted an eye at that skirt. But at the same time he was off fucking a maid in some linen closet while Marshall ambushed me in that corridor that night and kissed me. The memory makes goosebumps spread over my body, and not the good kind.

Marshall seems to think that he is entitled to me. Just because my parents didn't say an outright no when his parents talked to them about marriage, he's disgusting.

I tried to tell my father that I didn't want the kiss and that Marshall kissed me without my consent but he wouldn't have it. "Think about how this could reflect on your mothers reputation. Sneaking off, kissing boys." That's what he had to say about the matter. Speaking about me as if I was a young, rebellious teenager. I am, in fact, an adult. I have been for a good while now, half a year at least. I went through my teen years without any major scandals. The same can't be said for my cousins.

I open the door and I am faced with arms crossed over a broad chest clad by a black t-shirt, tight enough to reveal strong shoulders and muscular arms, and cold eyes staring down at me from the gap in his balaclava.

"Better", I ask, glaring up at Shadow.

"Much", he replies and steps aside.

Shadow opens the door to the dining hall for me and I nod as a thank you to him. My father is sat near the end of the table, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. He looks up as I enter.

"Good morning, Dad. Good morning, Sanchez", I say to the dark-skinned man stood behind him.

"Important day today", my father replies, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Im aware", I sit down at the chair opposite his and scoop a spoonful of scrambled eggs and another of bacon down on to my plate.

"Make sure to behave. We don't need the President or the American press to get the wrong impression", he reminds me for what feels like the hundredth time this week.

"I know", I acknowledge, eyes fixed on my plate. Fork moving the eggs around aimlessly.

"Good. We can't afford a scandal", my father adds and rises from his chair. Hand nudging my shoulder as he walks past me and out of the door. Sanchez a few steps behind him. The door shuts with a dull thud. I drop my fork on to my plate with a clink and put my head in my hands. Why does he always always talk about me like Im an accident waiting to happen. I feel Shadows eyes burning in to my back.

"You don't have to just stand there, you know. You can sit down", I turn my head to look at him. His brown eyes meeting mine before walking slowly over towards the chair next to mine. Pulling it out and turning it so that he faces me. He sits down. Arms crossed over his chest and one of his legs resting on his knee. I pour some water in to my glass and do the same to his. Shadows eyes still boring in to mine. I sigh.

"Whats the matter", I ask him. Something clearly occupying his mind.

"Do you have a drinking problem or something, your highness", he questions me.

"What? No", I shriek. How could he think such a thing.

"A guy just kissed me at the last event and my dad thinks Im going to go into a late teenage rebellion. Besides, you would have noticed if I had a drinking problem by now", I continue rambling, shaking my head.

"Guess you're right", he replies. His voice having and unreadable tone. My eyes move towards the grandfather clock at the other end of the room. It reads half past ten. Shit. I stand up and the chair almost tips behind me. Shadow rises, eyes darting around the room to find the source of my sudden movement.

"Im gonna be late", I clarify and hurry out the door. Shadow a few steps behind me.

I make it to the front door with less than a minute to spare. My parents are stood talking and turn around when I approach with quick steps. I come to a halt behind them. Smiling at my mother. She smiles back and turns towards the men beside the door. Sanchez and Millard are on either side of the door. Ready to follow their queens order. My mother nods to them and the doors open. I face the light erupting from the gap and put on a smile that I hope looks natural. The forgotten breakfast on my plate makes itself reminded as my stomach churns. I feel Shadows eyes burn into the back of my head and I step outside into the light.

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Authors Note:

Chapter 1 🌻 Chapter 2 🌻

🌻Wattpad link🌻

As some of you may know, this used to be a fanfiction. I have rewritten it, but many elements still remain. English is not my first language so if you find any grammatical or spelling errors you are more than welcome to let me know. With that said I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'll see you in the next one. /Polt

[im-poltergeist]

Hey everyone! After much thought, I have decided to rewrite Towers and Thorns in a non fanfiction, non reader point of view. Writing from a reader perspective has caused a lot of struggle and lack of motivation to continue writing. Therefore, I will rewrite the story with my own characters instead. My bodyguard character will be inspired by Simon Riley, just not be him. I will be keeping the other parts up for memories sake. I hope that you all understand and will continue to follow Towers and Thorns.

Love, Polt. ❤️🌻

[im-poltergeist]

A (Late) WIP Wednesday. In honour of me writing a bit. 🌻

[im-poltergeist]

just needed to map out his scars for science reasons, I promise...

[im-poltergeist]

I barley plan out when I write. I go: Oh, That's a really nice scene! Or, That's gonna be absolutely amazing! Plan out where they should go chronologically and then just wing it. How am I ever going to string everything together? 🥲

[im-poltergeist]

“Hey, I found your blog on Tumblr-”

[im-poltergeist]

Johnny Runs Away (18+)

Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader/Johnny MacTavish Content Warnings: Vaginal fingering, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PIV sex, Overstimulation, Squirting, Oral (m-receiving) she/her reader Word Count: 4.9k

Service Dog Johnny Part 17 (full part list here)

“Johnny.”

The mouth nibbling your ear pulls away slightly, leaving you with a faint tickly sensation when he sighs contentedly against it.  “Aye?” 

Your sweater moves with the motion of his hand, doing something to your nipple that you can’t see, but you can certainly feel, all the way down to your pussy. It feeds that simmer inside you, joins up and wraps around the ache his other hand is creating, with every purposeful roll of his wrist. Each movement of his fingers tightens something in your belly, and every breath from your lungs is a barely-audible plea that you know he understands. 

“I’m close,” you mumble, shutting your eyes to process it, like if you can just focus hard enough, you’ll be able to get yourself there.

Johnny presses his lips to the side of your neck, moves his chin against your nape like a cat wanting attention. “I know.”

You can’t help grinding your hips backwards a little, as if pressing your ass into the hard front of his pants will convince him to fuck you a little harder. But he’s being so stingy about it all of a sudden, slowly massaging his fingertips against your g-spot, and then dragging them back out to slide down your thigh.

You lean your head back on his shoulder to get a look at him, watching his lashes kiss his cheekbone when he smiles down at you. 

“Are you really going to be mean to me today?” you inquire.

His eyes flick upwards for just a second, towards your boyfriend on the other side of the couch. “I’m a miserable bastard, and it’s time you learn that.”

“No you’re not.” You press your lips to the edge of his jaw, letting your happy sigh wash over his skin. “Not at all.”

He’s wavering, you can feel it. You make a soft noise and cuddle a little further into the crook of his shoulder, as if you’re extremely comfortable there and not actually throbbing painfully between your open legs. He drags his hand down the inside of your thigh again, to run his thumb over your sticky clit. 

Johnny’s been handsy with you ever since he arrived a few hours ago — palming your ass, getting in your way on purpose — basically making himself into a massive nuisance just to get your attention, and guess what? It worked. You climbed right into his lap the first chance you got, and now he needs to live up to his end of the bargain. It’s not fair for him to toy with your body and then leave it alone. He shouldn’t know yet that you like that sort of thing. 

He kisses your hair, getting a little more serious about those back-and-forths of his thumb. You enjoy how safe your body feels with his touch, how it’s no longer a thought in your mind that he’s doing this out of pity. You’ve formed this strange sort of sexual bond, and friendship, and it makes sense to your pussy that he gets to touch it whenever he wants. 

It’s entirely comfortable to be here, at this moment. You’re warm, and wet, and getting touched exactly right in a nice, muscly lap. You could get used to this. Maybe it’d be okay to let yourself get a little bit used to it. 

Oh, there it is, there’s your orgasm. It’s suddenly rising in you, and holding in your thighs for a moment. It’s turning them hot and tingly as you start to breathe faster and shut your eyes for it. 

“Good girl,” Johnny murmurs, and fucking— fucking pulls his hand away. 

“Come on,” you whine, slamming your knees shut. 

“M’sorry.” He kisses your hair again, squeezing your thigh apologetically. 

Fucking MacTavish. 

You exhale a frustrated breath, opening your legs again to try to tempt him to touch. Your hips are just going to twitch and hump the air a little, there’s nothing you can do about that. But you work to gather yourself together mentally, and figure out the smartest way to get what you want. 

“Johnny,” you murmur, tilting your chin up to get a view of his face.

He takes a deep breath before looking down at you, as if all of this isn’t entirely his fault. “Hmm?”

You ignore how nice his fingers feel, as he holds you to him and plays with your breast again. “Have I told you how nice you are?”

“Me?” 

There’s Simon’s quiet laugh a few feet away, as if he knows exactly what you’re trying to do. 

“Mhmm,” you tell Johnny, drawing out each syllable in a slow, breathy voice. “So sweet, and thoughtful, and you smell really… Mmmm... Really good.”

Johnny raises his eyes to the ceiling, inhaling a long, frustrated breath. For what reason, you can’t imagine, because you’re certainly doing nothing wrong.

“Your eyes are so pretty—” you start to say, and to your delight, Johnny starts peeling your sweater off. Excellent. Naked is good. Naked is fucking and orgasms.

“Alright, you smooth talker,” he grumbles, pushing your shoulders forward. “Go see your man.”

Your man?

Confused, you glance over at Simon, who’s shaking his head a little bit and reaching for you. Did they make a plan to torture you?

“Fine,” you huff, sliding off his lap. “Simon will let me cum. He likes me.”

“Shouldnae have said that,” Johnny mutters, shoving you towards your boyfriend. 

You try to ignore that splash of disappointment, but your brain is latched onto the unfairness of it. You earned that orgasm on Johnny’s fingers, and you were patient and good. You don’t want to touch yourself on Simon’s lap, you want Johnny’s mouth on your neck and his fingers deep inside you, and you want to fuck him afterwards, too.

But apparently you're not getting what you want today. 

The guilt does start to hit a little, as you get dragged onto your actual boyfriendʼs lap, and a less-scruffy mouth presses to your cheek. You're being selfish. You've gotten too used to your wants being met, and you really need to dial it back down to just needs. This is simply a wakeup call, like hello, hereʼs reality, sometimes your own fingers are all you get, and thatʼs okay. 

“Iʼm gonna let you cum, hmm?” Simon uses his hand to push your knees open, his other one cupping face to press your head back to his chest. 

“Yes,” you answer confidently, wandering your hand down between your legs.

But he intercepts it with his own, deftly entwining your fingers with his, and raising your joined hands to his mouth. “Hmm,” he muses, kissing your knuckles one by one. “Good to know.”

His hand shifts under your chin to tilt your face up, planting a firm kiss on your lips. Surely he’s… he’s got to let you cum. Surely that’s the logical place this is headed, when you’re already so turned on. 

He determinedly holds your face up to his as he kisses you, so you can’t actually watch him drop your hand back down to your side. You just feel him release it, and then you feel his hand wrapping around your breast with unusual ease, softly kneading it in the way of a man taking his time. 

He makes a delicious sound into your mouth, low and breathy, while he enjoys the feel of your body in his palm. And then your hips are suddenly lifting on their own, because your nipple is giving you unexpected sensory feedback. It’s a little pinch, you think, spearing something intense through your belly and making your clit ache. You close your legs without even thinking, flexing them together and squeezing down on emptiness, while Simon licks across your lower lip.

That was a bad thing to do, apparently, because it makes him take a moment to put you back where you’re supposed to be. He pushes your knees apart again and adjusts you in his lap a little, pulling his face back enough so you can see the friendly warning in his eyes. It’s not serious, they project down at you from a few inches away, but you really need to stay where I put you. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, and then feel your face get hot when you realize Johnny’s probably watching this whole thing. Up until now, sex with Johnny has been somewhat casual, and you haven’t embarrassed yourself too badly. But things are always different, when it’s Simon. Suddenly your heart’s in it. Suddenly your brain is pushed to the side, and all you can think about are brown eyes and big hands, and being as good as you can possibly be. And you’re unused to the feeling of having Johnny nearby when you’re so focused on giving yourself to Simon. 

So it’s a new experience for you, spreading your knees wide and making yourself extra convenient for Simon, when you know you’re being watched. Letting your love for him radiate from you in your soft body language and slow blinks, tracking over his features in the low light. It’s just that you belong to him, and you can’t hide that fact when you’re this wet and getting this kind of attention. 

Simon’s thumb brushes across your cheek, as if he’s trying to soothe your pride away. It’s stupid that you’re clinging to it, really. It should have been shattered long ago, the first time you fucked his friend for your own pleasure. But maybe it’s the sort of thing you have to give up in stages. Maybe it’s okay to let yourself feel a little exposed right now, because you are. 

He watches your eyes while his fingers trail down your belly, and to your utter shock you suddenly feel them on your pussy. Some pitiful kind of noise escapes you, while your boyfriend slowly coats his fingertips in that puddle between your legs. He lowers his face to press kisses to your features – your cheekbone, your nose, your brow – and explores your pussy by feel while you clench imperceptibly.  

He nudges his mouth against yours again, slippery fingertips finding your clit, and the issue of Johnny being there melts away into irrelevance. Who cares if your hand wanders into Simon’s hair to caress him back. Who cares if you’re making little noises of pleasure and curling your toes to cope. It’s just going to happen, while your boyfriend rolls your clit under his finger. You’re just going to have to cum for him for the first time, and probably cry after, and maybe during, and Johnny’s going to watch your heart break and melt into Simon’s. It’ll be okay, he’ll understand. 

Simon seems to have a decent understanding of what he’s doing. His fingers don’t fumble around, they go right to where they’re supposed to over the top of your clit, giving you that steady, soft back and forth that makes perfect sense to your body. That’s how you get touched, in order to cum. Your clit is nice and wet, and you’re already so close thanks to Johnny, there’s nothing stopping it now. A tremor runs through your thighs, but you keep them spread up for him and try to stay in place, even when your abs contract and release on their own. You take some deep breaths and let him kiss you, and then your body starts to lock down in anticipation. 

“Gonna cum,” you mumble against his lips. “Baby— hhhh—“

Simon’s exhale washes over your cheek, and you’re just processing that it sounded almost relieved, when his touch disappears. 

“Wha? Baby, n—” you start to protest, but then your pussy is getting filled up with two long fingers, and the words choke off into nothing as you screw your eyes shut and instinctively roll your hips up to meet them. 

Actual tears prick your eyes at how good it is, how much everything hurts in the best way, after getting edged several times. You can cum like this, if he’ll just give you a little more. If he’ll switch those in-and-outs to some deep presses into the right spot, it’ll send you to glory. 

“My girl,” Simon whispers, working his hand down to get a deeper angle. 

No humiliation flares to life. No self consciousness can even maifest in the bubble of sensation you’re currently experiencing. Everything is so encompassing that it takes you longer than it should, to realize he’s not trying to make you cum. If anything, he’s going slow on purpose so you won’t. 

Your eyes spring open with a wash of water when his fingers pull out of you and simply move up to your breast again. 

Did you do something wrong? Are they both punishing you for something you didn’t know you did? Making you trust them, and then being so fucking mean—

“Why don’t you go see Johnny?” Simon murmurs, giving your forehead one last kiss. “Get you something better than fingers.”

“I think you should let her have something of yours,” comes Johnny’s voice, before you can begin to form a reply. “Cross my heart, I won’t look.”

You can practically feel Simon’s pulse begin to race, but you’re so messed up with need that you’re having trouble processing the situation. You only begin to register what’s about to happen, when Simon lifts you off his lap and helps turn you to face him, but then all you can think about is cumming. He’s getting his pants undone somewhere beneath your ass, but your pussy hurts. Your clit aches, you’re cramping deep inside, and you need to get filled. 

Simon takes care of it. He lines himself up for you, grabs your ass with one hand to help you find exactly what your pussy needs, encouraging you to sink down onto something warm and thick, and then wraps you up in his arms. 

It finally clicks into place for you, as you breathe in the smell of his skin and feel your cunt flutter around him in anticipation. Simon is letting you fuck him, for the first time. He already had his first time with you, but this is your first time with him. The first time he’s giving you his body for your pleasure.

You’re beyond caring what sorts of noises you’re moaning into his shirt collar, past worrying about if he needs to stop, or if you’re being too needy. You drag your hips up and down a few times, letting your pleasure come out of you and coat the man you love in your wetness, and then you just cum.

Your lungs know it’s happening before anything else does. They expand and then hold, and the next drop of your hips feels so good, as something deep inside you turns itself inside out. With a debilitating roll of sensation, you let out a pained cry and feel your cunt begin to brand itself onto him with pulse after pulse of your release. 

It streams down your limbs and explodes in your belly, and it’s Simon who’s got you this time. His arms are the ones holding you steady, his body is what’s giving you this mind-emptying bliss. It almost hurts to cum on something that big, but it’s a good kind of hurt. It’s that deep ache that has you groaning into the crook of his neck in the hopes that he won’t make you stop. It feels too good to stop. You’re not capable of stopping, you just need to keep lowering yourself onto him until you burn out or cum again. 

But he makes you stop. Right when you’re beginning to latch onto that heat and mold it into your next orgasm, his hands wrap around your hips to hold you still, shoving himself deep inside you. 

You can’t help the anguished little cry you do, eyes shut tight and trying to mind control him to let you keep going. It feels too good to stop. It’s not fair.  

Simon’s arms are steady as he wraps you up in them. One comes around your shoulders to hold you tight to his body, and he cups the back of your head with the other, keeping your cheek on his shoulder, and your pussy down on his hardness. 

“You okay?” you find the presence of mind to whisper, trembling with everything your body is feeling.

“Yeah. Don't want to cum.”

“You need to cum,” you counter, because he does, you can feel that much.

“Shh.” His palm smoothes up and down your naked back, and he dips his chin down to kiss your cheek. “Let me have a moment with you, and then you’ll go back to Johnny.”

You try to peel your cheek off his shoulder and get a look at him, but the movement is useless with that heavy hand on the back of your head. He can’t possibly expect you to just leave him like this and go to the next guy. That’s not how this works, because you want his cum first. You need to get his cum, because it means you did a good job. What’s the point of anything, if your body can’t be useful?

Your hand climbs up to his face, but instead of the rough five o’clock shadow you expect to find, the first thing you feel is something wet. He twists his face away, but it’s too late. You felt that line of dampness on the edge of his jaw.

His fingers begin to stroke your hair, so you comfort him too. You run your hand across the muscled line of his shoulder, wishing there was something you could say to make it better. Maybe someday when you’re better with words, you can let him know how it feels to have him connected to you like this, to have both of your hearts wide open and witnessing each other. But all you can do right now is caress his neck and plant a little kiss on the skin you can reach, and whisper that you love him. That he’s doing such a good job, and you see his efforts. You see him. 

Finally you feel his hand lift to swipe at his face. He pats your ass with a, “Go see Johnny.”

The mix of emotions and sex are impairing as usual, but you manage to drag yourself off his still-hard dick, and he doesn’t want eye contact, so you just do what he’s asking. You turn your eyes to Simon’s friend, who seems to know that it’s his turn, and offers you a sympathetic smile. 

So you climb back into Johnny’s lap and rest your drippy pussy against the hardness in his pants, and hug him. 

“Doin’ alright?” he asks, hugging you back because he’s a very nice person. 

“Yeah.”

“Done for now, or want more?”

“More,” you tell him, lining up your faces for a kiss. “Everything. All of it.” You want to drown in Johnny now. 

He removes his clothes more or less around you, letting you keep contact and kiss him while he works. You know now, why he didn’t let you cum before. He let you think he was being mean, in order to give you an experience you never thought you’d have. Johnny gave that to you, for no reason other than he knew it would make you happy, and he was the only one who could. 

The noise he makes when you take him into yourself is so Johnny. It’s half groan, half breathy laugh, mirroring the way he seems to see his sexuality as a game. He just wants you to play with him, that’s all. A little tug on his hair, a little smile while you kiss him, he eats it up. So you do it. You play with him for the noises, because he likes it.

You can’t get enough of him, that’s the problem. Yeah, the sex is fun, and necessary at times, but you just like having him in your house. You like those hands that never hurt you, the sunshine in his voice, those eyes that know when to pretend they don’t see things. It’s just who he is. 

Johnny nips at your lower lip, and then pulls back when you gasp, just to get a look at your face and make sure he didn’t bite you too hard. You just touch your hand to your mouth and laugh at his expression, ignoring the way your heart flips in your chest as you tell him, “You’re too lovable for your own good.”

He makes a dismissive sort of noise and squeezes your ass hard with one hand. “You let me hit it from behind, and we’ll see about that.”

So that’s how you end up on your knees on the couch, with your cheek pressed to the top edge of it while he devastates your insides. You can’t look at him or kiss him now, and you don’t like that, but he slides his hand down your stomach to touch your clit for you, and it changes your perspective rather quickly. 

He makes you cum like that. Leaned over, taking his cock and throbbing under his fingers while you gasp and spasm through your orgasm. They both get to hear exactly how much you enjoy getting your second fucking of the night, cumming on your boyfriend’s friend because it’s just what you do now. 

You have a sex life again, whether you deserve it or not. It’s uncommon and probably weird and dirty to most people, but you’re starting to come to terms with it. It’s easier to rationalize it to yourself, when your mind is whiting out in splotches because Johnny won’t stop touching you between the legs. He’s hitting something different, in this position. It’s something swollen and cramping that feels like it’s made to be hit, even if your knees are trying to knock together to dial down the intensity. 

It’s not enough. You can’t escape anything that’s happening to your body, and to your utter mortification, your next orgasm waits just long enough for you to fully comprehend the fact that you’re squirting right before it hits. 

You try to apologize, but it doesn’t come out right while the pleasure whips through you. It’s unintelligible gasps and half-words that don’t mean anything, but he’s still fucking you good and hard and not giving you a single second to get a handle on yourself, and then—

Oh, god. 

It’s another one. Splashing down your leg, he makes you cum it all out until your ears are ringing and you can’t handle any more. You have to stay there past your outer limits for few agonizing moments, because all you can do is whine and whimper, and you can’t figure out how to make it stop. But then you have the presence of mind to sling your arm back and tap your own thigh a few times, and though you can’t reach him, he understands. 

Breathing hard, Johnny pulls his hand out from between your legs and slides out of you with a, “That was fucking— hot as shit.”

“Glad you’re— ahh…“ You curse, feeling more of your own cum drip down your leg. “…entertained.”

He steps back to help you off the damp couch, and it’s no surprise to find your legs useless and vibrating with trembles. 

“Did that feel good?”

You turn to face him, trying to blink away the haze in your mind, because he still hasn’t cum. Neither of them have, and you need someone to cum in you. “How about you sit down, and I’ll tell you?”

Johnny follows orders, dropping his bare ass halfway on that wet spot for you. You just give Simon a quick glance to make sure he’s not disgusted or something — he just smiles — so you’re good to go. 

You drop to your knees and get yourself between Johnny’s legs, sighing up at him. 

“Johnny,” you start, taking his cock in your hand and getting your face a little closer to it.

“Mm?” He asks warily. Judging by his expression, he’s not sure if you’re mad at him or not. 

You give him a slow stroke. “That felt so good, I can’t even tell you.”

Oh, that grin is beautiful. He slouches his hips forward and widens his legs to make it easier to get him what he deserves — a nice soft mouth, and pretty eyes.

You let out a happy breath, and press your lips, and then your tongue, to his cock. “Johnny, I like you.”

You just barely catch the way his smile drops away, as you take him into your mouth. He’s in it now. No more flirting, no more foreplay. He’s ready for you to get him to your throat, and let him cum in it.

It takes a little practice, because it’s been a long time since you’ve done this very deep. You drape your elbows over his thighs and take your time with it, telling yourself that he’ll cum when he’s ready, but until then you’re going to experiment with your gag reflex a little. 

Johnny rests his hand on your upper arm, running his thumb over your shoulder while you suck your own cum off him. It feels dirty. It feels fun. It feels like you could do this for hours, if he’d let you. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take hours. It takes you finally getting him comfortably into your throat, and within two bobs of your head, he tightens his hand into the back of your neck and cums loud. 

Finally. 

You’re swallowing it down and gagging just a little, getting his load in your body where it belongs. You make sure to swallow as much as you can before you pull your mouth off and blink happily up at him, satisfied at his still-heaving chest and closed eyes. There you go, MacTavish. That’s what you deserve. It’s the least you can do, really.

“Still with us?” you prompt. 

“Aye.” He doesn’t open his eyes, just runs his hand down your arm and squeezes it. 

Oh, he’s being lazy in the afterglow. That’s a beautiful thing. 

“You know, um. We have a spare bed now. You can stay over tonight, if you’d like.”

Johnny opens his eyes to look down at you for a second, then over at Simon. His hand slips off your arm.

“The bedroom’s all set up and stuff,” you tell him brightly. “No more sleeping on the couch if you don’t want to.”

“Awfully kind of you,” he returns, pushing your shoulders back so he has room to get up. 

And that’s… not at all what you expected him to say. 

You get out of his way while he pulls his clothes back on, just kneel there, bare ass naked on the carpet while you try to understand why there’s this weird silence now. Simon gets up too, and you barely notice that he’s collected your clothes until he helps you to your feet and pushes them into your hands. 

“C’mon, you,” he says soothingly. “Cuppa in the kitchen.”

You glance between them while you throw your things on, waiting until Johnny’s shut in the bathroom to whisper, “What did I say wrong?” 

Your boyfriend guides you out of the room with an arm around your back. “Nothing, love. He’s just not ready for it.”

“Not ready for what? A comfortable bed instead of the couch?”

Simon’s silent for a minute while he gets the kettle going. He looks like he’s about to say something, but then you hear Johnny yell from across the house, “Thanks for the supper, going home to sleep it off. G’night.”

“What the fuck?” you insist, flinging your arm out for emphasis after the front door closes. 

“Johnny’s been by himself a long time.”

“No one likes being alone,” you argue. “I think I did something wrong, and I think you know what I did, and you’re not telling me.”

“No.”

“Then why didn’t he stay?”

“Dunno.” Simon’s doing that thing where he stays incredibly calm while you’re having a major breakdown, and you don’t appreciate it at all. 

You cross your arms, furiously blinking your eyes so they’ll stop burning and you can think. “I don’t understand why he’d run away like that.”

“You don’t get to decide that what people need are the things you want them to need. Tea?”

Shaking your head, you glare at the steaming water while he pours it. “I worked so hard on that room today.”

He knows that already. It’s childish of you to say it, because he was the one helping you set up the bed frame, and he carried the mattress in. He worked on it with you, so why isn’t he upset too?

Simon reaches out to run the back of his finger down your cheek, talking to you gently. “Was it a gift for Johnny, or does he owe you for it?”

Owe you? Of course not, that’s not how it works. You were just expecting that you’d do the work, and then he—

Okay. Maybe you had some expectations about getting some affirmation about it.

Your boyfriend pulls you into his chest to rest his chin on your head. “The room looks lovely.”

It does. It does look good. And now it doesn’t even matter.

“I feel like he’s going to leave,” you admit, attempting to swallow down the pressure in your throat. “I feel like this is him leaving.”

Simon doesn’t say anything to that, just continues to hold you, because he knows you might be right. 

Next Part coming soon

[im-poltergeist]

Like hello?!

how do you all write so god damn much 😭

[im-poltergeist]

Towers and Thorns (Fanfic vers)

tags: bodyguard!Ghost x royal!reader, older Ghost, first fic, might be crappy idk, multiple parts, might be nsfw down the line, english is not my first language so feel free to correct me. 🌻

Part 1 🌻 Part 2 🌻 Part 3

Your heels click against the polished stone floor with every step that you take. Heavy thuds from boots coming closer behind you.

“I was just wondering when you’d join me”, you say to the man behind you.

“Had to have a laugh at your poor time management skills”, Ghost replies, falling in to step with you.

“Hilarious.” You roll your eyes.

“Always am, your highness.”

Ghost opens the door to the grand dining hall with his head bowed to you. You walk in, a polite smile with teeth. To make it seen genuine. Or something. The wall opposite you has portraits of previous rulers. Ranging from the one before your mother to one from as early as the 18 hundreds. All in neat but extravagant golden frames. In front of the wall there is a long wooden table. Decorated cleanly with a white table cloth, flowers in pink and lilac and lit candles. At the tale sits your mother. A crown decorates her head. You bow your head to her and make your way towards the table around the edge of the room. If you’d look out the windows you’d see the flowerbeds in the garden. Full of red, white and pink roses. The afternoon sunlight casting the room in a warm yellow glow.

On your mothers left side sits the president, and on her right your father. There is an empty seat next to him. Your seat. You hurry towards the chair. Shooting your mother a quick apology as you pass by behind her. You sit down and smooth out your dress. Your father gives you a stern look.

“Sorry”, you mouth to him. He nods back. Apology accepted. You exhale. You look around at the other two tables. One to your left and the other to your right. The table to your right is designated to the families that are close to the crown. There’s the Callahans, the Makarovs and Marshall and his parents, ew. At the table to your right is, oh god no. Your cousins are sat smirking in your direction. Well, four out of five. You eldest cousin, Grace, keeps her head down. Gaze on the plate in front of her. She’s in a light pink dress that she thinks hides her already growing baby bump, it does nothing of the sort. A shadow passes behind her. No, not a shadow. A balaclava clad man who somehow blends in like a chameleon into the dim light of the dining hall. He’s a ghost alright.

“How kind of you to join us, your highness”, The president addresses. Earning him amused chuckles from various people in the room. Your eyes dart to him.

“I do sincerely apologize. I’m afraid that my poor time management skills have struck again”, you answer. Causing many people in the room to laugh. Including a snicker from behind you. The corners of your mouth twitch upward. The president chuckles. The tension in the room eases. The conversations start flowing and you let out a breath. Your mother and father are swept in to a conversation with the president. Theres a joke about tea. Something about a wall. You don't pay attention.

Your eyes wander around the room again. They sweep past your cousins towards the door. Next to the door stands Gaz, or Kyle, which is his real name. His dark skin and neatly trimmed hair fits in like a piece of a puzzle with the rest of the room. Elegant but with the touch of don't mess with me Im a bodyguard. Next to him on the other hand is a man who does the exact opposite. The mohawk on his head standing out like an eyesore. His slightly rugged look may be appealing to some woman. But in this context it stands out like a drop of blood on cotton. Even though thats the case he is far from ugly. Wait a minute. Isn't that? Yes its is. It is the bodyguard that Grace is rumored to have a relationship with. Why on earth is he here? We don't need the scandal to take fire once again. It has barley burned out.

You pry your eyes away from the man. Looking towards the table on your right instead. The Callahans are talking with the Makarovs about something you can't hear. Marshalls parents are listening in to the conversation. But Marshall himself is staring at you. Shooting you a cocky grin as your eyes meet his. You look away in disgust.

The first corse is served. It is some kind of soup with tiny vegetable squares floating around below the drizzle of oil. It tastes alright. It's nothing special. Apparently it's supposed to warm up the stomach before the main course. What nonsense. There are so many better options to serve as an appetizer. Especially when the President is visiting.

The main corse plays out the same way. Some kind of meat, grayish and dry. The royal family cant eat raw meat in case of food poisoning. You do it anyway. The chefs rules are much looser when the palace is empty of guests. The president keeps talking with your family. He goes on and on about something that you cant be bothered to listen to. Until your name is mentioned that is.

"What", you ask. Suddenly interested in the conversation.

"Would you consider yourself a republican or a liberal", the president asks you. The strained smile on his face tells you that it was the second time he asked.

"Im not allowed to vote, nor am i allowed to take a stand in politics", you answer. The answer had been drilled in to your very bones. You cant express yourself politically. Especially not right now.

"Come on. This is just a friendly conversation between two acquaintances. Theres no need to follow such formalities." He pushes. You clench your fist under the table. Why cant he just drop it. Your father tenses beside you as you open your mouth to speak.

"Like I said, I will not speak on the matter", you reply. A polite but stern answer. Your father relaxes again. The president laughs and says something about rule following and you stop listening again.

When dessert rolls around you would like to be anywhere but in the dining hall. Your cousins have had too much to drink. Probably something stronger than alcohol as well by the way they constantly disappear in to the bathroom and talk so loud that you can hear almost every word that they are saying. When you have finished your desert you politely excuse yourself to get some fresh air and hurry out of the dining hall.

When you get into the corridor outside of the big door you take a deep breath. It finally feels like you can get enough oxygen. You walk towards the garden. Fresh evening air cant hurt. The roses should be blooming. A hand grips your wrist and tugs.

taglist: @panikk-attackkk

[im-poltergeist]

(Go read it if you havent) Link 🌻

[im-poltergeist]

1, 10, 11? 🩶

1, I unfortunately don't freckles but I absolutely adore them!

10, I am 160cm tall (about 5,3)

11, I have light green eyes

[im-poltergeist]

♡ asks ♡

 Do you have freckles? 

 Do you drink tea or coffee? How do you take it? 

What was the last song you listened to? 

Do you sleep on your back, stomach or side? 

Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? 

Do you prefer drawing or writing? 

What’s your ideal number of blankets to sleep with? 

What’s your favorite band/artist? 

When is your birthday? 

How tall are you? 

What color are your eyes? 

Who are five (or more) people you want to hug right now? 

Fears? 

What’s your favorite color? 

What’s your favorite season? 

Want any tattoos? What of? 

Want any piercings? Where? 

Who is the last person you texted? 

Do you have a best friend? How long have you been friends? 

What/who do you miss? 

How was your day today? 

How much sleep did you get last night? 

Do you believe in aliens? 

When was the last time you cried? Why? 

What’s your favorite decade? 

What are some seemingly childish things you like? 

What’s your favorite book? Or just one you’ve read a few times? 

How are you, really? 

Does it take you a long time to make decisions? 

What are you looking forward to in the near future? 

What are you looking forward to in the distant future? 

If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go? 

Do you sleep with your door open or closed? 

What’s your favorite flower? 

Do you currently have a squish? 

Do you like your middle name? 

Do you prefer dogs or cats? 

Do you have any phobias? 

Do you stay up late?

Do you like the beach? Do you prefer it sunny or cloudy? 

What’s your favorite cartoon? 

Tag 5 of your favorite blogs

Do you have siblings? How many? 

Who was the last person you said “I love you” to? 

Is there anyone you would die for? 

What do you need when you’re sad? 

Have you memorized your phone number? 

Who’s someone you can trust with your life? 

What does your last text say? 

Wild Card. Any question, ask away.