risenlikethedead - Tumblr blog

risenlikethedead · 8 hours ago

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I love the mail order bride !! Can we see her trying to get a job or school something and Simon getting offending thinking he doesn’t have enough to support her ??

mail-order bride

he would not be offended if you wanted to do something for yourself; but he would be offended if you felt you were required to.

you pick up your blazer out of the closet, fitting it over your shoulders and buttoning it. you check your hair and your makeup one more time in the mirror before making your way into the living room, where simon still is, tools laid out at his feet as he uses a level and a pencil on the wall.

you clear your throat, knocking on the doorway gently.

"s-simon?" you ask gently. he grunts in response, marking a place on the wall, and you shuffle on your feet as you try to calm your stuttering breath. "i...can i ask for a favor?"

"can ask me for anythin'."

you purse your lips, "uhm...i need a ride."

"where ya wanna go?"

you play with your hands, rocking back and forth on your heels. he's still facing the wall, dark sleeves rolled up as he lifts a wooden block to the wall and starts to mount it there. he's putting up floating shelves you think, but the block of wood is very short in length. odd.

"i...have a job interview," you say softly. "it's in a half an hour. i...have to leave now to be on time. i'm..." you close your eyes, flinching. "i'm sorry, they only just called me, i-i should've given you more time--"

"why are you apologizin'?" he asks, setting his things down. he turns around to face you, and you open your eyes again, biting your lip. he comes closer, making you look up at him, and he narrows his eyes at you. "just said they only just called ya. so 's not y'r fault."

you open your mouth to say something, but he just brushes past you to head towards the door, grabbing his rain jacket and slipping it on. he flips the hood up over him after he shrugs his balaclava on, and he meets your eyes where you stand there oogling at him.

"well?" he raises a brow. "get y'r shoes on."

you scramble to go slip your boots on, picking up your purse by the door. simon opens the front door, revealing the misty rainy weather that's emerged since the morning. simon opens up an umbrella, making his way down the steps, and you follow him. he stops you before you come down, holding his hand out, and when he gets to the bottom of the steps, he holds his hand out for you.

you take his hand gently and let him guide you down the steps, and you're startled when he appears at the passenger side door of his truck. he holds the umbrella over you, opening the door for you, and he holds your hand again as you get settled before he shuts it behind you.

the drive is quiet. the rain falls hard, but simon is unbothered. you clutch the seatbelt a little bit as he drives--you don't want to be ungrateful, but simon sometimes makes a turn too sharp and brakes a little too hard. he sometimes has a hard time staying in his lane, too, but you just squeak and try not to be too loud when he swerves into a parking space crooked at a 45-degree angle.

simon opens the door for you, holding the umbrella and taking your hand again to help you onto the pavement. he walks you to the door, humming lowly, and he tilts his head to the side as you open the door.

"'ow long will y'be?" he asks, and you shrug.

"i-i don't know. maybe an hour?"

simon huffs a little, "olright. y'call me when y'r done."

you nod, about to go in, and he stops you again, big hand on your elbow.

"just..." he sighs deeply, looking anywhere but into your eyes. "good luck."

simon doesn't leave. he sits in his truck in the parking lot, eyes narrowed at the door of the building you just went inside of. his leg bounces underneath him, and he doesn't turn the car on for the heater because the bite of the cold, rainy weather keeps him awake and alert.

it's been over an hour. his phone sits on the dashboard, silent. he's not a patient man, never has been. his patience certainly has been tested with that fucking gremlin you insist on keeping around, the pocket of fur that drinks out of his water glass when he isn't looking and must nibble on his herbs in the kitchen (he can't prove it, but there's teeth mark tears in the basil leaves, the little shit). but this is somehow worse. he doesn't know why you want to get a job. he's been thinking about it while you've been gone.

maybe he hasn't made you feel secure enough. maybe you still feel like a stranger in your own house. maybe you still don't trust him yet, so you're too afraid to ask him for anything.

his phone starts to ring. he picks it up immediately, putting it to his ear.

"'ello?"

"s-simon?" it's you, of course, soft voice a little shaky. "i-i'm...can you pick me up now?"

"'m outside. i'll come get ya."

he practically rips open the door, and you're already standing there, coming out. he stops you before you start walking, making sure you're underneath the umbrella before you start to walk again. you keep your head down, and he doesn't even get a glimpse of you as he opens the door for you again and helps you up and into your seat.

as he pulls back onto the road, he barely hears the sound of your tears over the rumble of the engine. he looks over at you, frowning when he sees your hands covering your face and your shoulders shaking lightly.

he growls under his breath, not even turning on his blinker as he pulls over onto the side of the road. there's a honk sounding as other cars pass, but simon just turns to face you.

"oi, why are y'cryin'?" he asks firmly. you don't respond. you keep your face hidden, your body turned away, and simon huffs.

"oi!" he startles you with his loud voice, and your hands fall into your lap. "wot the fuck happened?"

"i didn't get t-the job," you hiccup. "i-it went...it was h-horrible. he hated my...m-my resume. the questions...i-i took too long t-to answer them, and i-i could tell...i could t-tell he h-hated me--"

"so you didn't get the bloody job," simon shrugs. "come off it. there'll be others."

"i-i don't even wanna do this!" you cry, wiping your face. your mascara is running, and simon sighs, frustrated.

"then why are you?"

"i...i-i--"

"look at me," he tells you, and your eyes meet his finally. your face is puffed and messy, wet streaks along your cheeks and eyeliner smudged along your eyes. "y'can do woteva y'want. anythin'. 'f you want t'stay home, then ya stay home. 'f y'wanna go t'work, then y'go to work." he reaches over and grips your face in one big hand, cupping your jaw and forcing you to lean closer to him. you can feel his breaths through the mask, warm and anxious. "don't worry about me. now tell me y'understand."

your lip wobbles, but you nod anyways.

"i-i understand."

your eyes close when you both lean in closer, and the mouth of his mask brushes against yours. you stay that way for a few long moments, lips brushing together, and when he pulls away to get back on the road, you notice his hand has fallen to rest on your thigh.

you put your hand over his gently, and by the time he pulls into the garage, your tears have dried, and your anxiety has dissolved.

when you emerge from your warm shower, there's an envelope by your purse. simon is in the kitchen, busying himself with dinner, and you pick up the envelope and rip it open. when you unravel the paper, there's a new credit card taped to it, with your name on it.

there's movement out of the corner of your eye, and when you look up, you realize simon had finished putting the little shelves up on the wall.

you can't hold back your smile, watching as the cat jumps from one shelf to the other. the cat follows the ascending and descending blocks of wood, all the way around the room until they curl up on their favorite spot on the couch, right inside the throw blanket that has been curled into a neat ball just for them.

you slip the credit card into your purse. when you pass by simon in the kitchen, you put a hand around his bicep and coax him to bend low, giving his cheek a kiss.

does he know he's not wearing his mask anymore?

his ears get red when he blushes.

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risenlikethedead · 8 hours ago

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hi b! your mail order bride snippet was amazing!! I totally relate to taking the cat with her! tbh I think by the end of the first week the kitty will have Simon wrapped around their paw lol

mail-order bride

you sit up in bed as the bathroom door flies open, the knob banging against the wall as simon nearly stomps his way into the bedroom. you rub your sleepy eyes, watching as he holds the cat by the scruff of its neck until he can toss it onto the floor at the foot of the bed. the cat hops up onto the bed, sitting at your feet, and simon snarls as he stares back at it (it isn't allowed on the bed).

"can't even take a fuckin' shit, starin' right at me," he snaps at you, and you blubber a little, not knowing what to say right away. "i told ya to keep that fuckin' thing away from me."

"she likes you," you say sleepily, sniffing as you shrug. "she just wants to be near you."

"i said no pets!"

you blink up at him, "i-i'm sorry, simon--" you go to push the covers off to get out of bed, but simon comes closer, pushing you back into bed.

"don't get out of bed, why are ya gettin' out of bed? it's too fuckin' cold."

"y-you seem upset," you sniffle, "i just--" you put your hand over his gently. "she just likes you, simon. can't you see that?"

it is early. when simon goes back into the bathroom, you lay back down and let the warmth of the covers lull you back to sleep.

when you wake in the morning, eyes fluttering, simon is laying beside you still. it's odd, because he gets up before the sun comes up, but when you turn over to face him, your eyes widen a little. simon is wide awake. he's on his stomach, his face smushed into the pillow like usual, but he's so angry. his face is contorted into a scowl, and the cat is curled up on the base of his neck, their little head resting on the back of his head as they sleep peacefully, little purrs escaping every so often.

simon locks eyes with you, and you bite your lip, uneasy.

"what the fuck am i supposed to do?!" he hisses. "it's been 'ere all fuckin' mornin'!"

you slap your hand over your mouth to stop the giggles, and simon growls a little.

"get it offa me!"

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risenlikethedead · 8 hours ago

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hiiiii I'm new to your page but i would like to ask you what would've happened if simon mail-ordered a bride?

mail-order bride

you stare down at the address on the card, blinking as you reread the house number and look back up at the cottage in front of you. the numbers match, but you just need a few more minutes before you knock on the door.

you're not holding too many things. you have one suitcase with the entirety of your belongings at one side, the cat carrier sitting on top of it. on the other side, you hold a bundle of papers. your immigration papers, all shiny and new, your birth certificate, and your new british passport.

when you look back down, you swallow as you read over your name. it's odd, to see something new in the section labeled SURNAME.

Riley.

you've never met him. this isn't legal, it can't be, to have all of these things. he must be someone important. someone they value. or maybe, they are just too afraid to say no to him.

the front door opens, and you freeze on the spot as you see someone duck their head to step outside. they're wearing a mask, covering their entire face except for their dark eyes, but it's hitched up over his nose as he holds an unlit cigarette between his lips.

he stares as he sees you at the end of the steps. he frowns, looking you up and down.

"weren't supposed ta be 'ere for a few weeks."

your eyes water a little, but you only manage a shrug.

"i-i..." you meet his eyes. "i-i couldn't stay there any longer. i didn't have anywhere else to go."

he tucks the cigarette back behind his ear, slipping the mask off. it reveals a tousled mess of short blonde hair and a terribly scarred face. his eyes dart to the little carrier sitting next to you when he hears a soft meow coming from it.

"said no pets."

your lip trembles.

"please," you whisper, and his lip twitches as he fights off a scowl. you imagine he must not have much practice in hiding his emotions. he comes down the steps anyways, coming closer, and you pick up the carrier as he snatches the suitcase off the pavement, making his way back inside. you follow him, naturally.

when you close the door behind you, you're surprised at how quaint it all is. nice brick fireplace, a soft carpet (no shoes allowed is what he snapped at you), and wonderfully furnished to make the place cozy, warm, lived-in. there's throw blankets and accent pillows. there's pictures on the walls, paintings, yellow corner lights to give everything a soft glow. the kitchen is beautiful, with lovely colored tile and wooden cutting boards, a drip-coffee setup in the corner and worn cookbooks stacked neatly by a stainless steel toaster. there's herbs growing in little pots sitting on the windowsill above the sink, and there's a cast iron pot decoratively resting on the stove.

it's spick-span clean. there's no specks of dust or splatters left over from bacon grease. there's papers pinned to the fridge, lists to remind him to buy whole milk and sliced bread and call about the internet bill being charged twice again.

you set the carrier down on the couch, unzipping the top. a little curious black head pokes out of it, and you reach in and pick the cat up under its belly and drop it onto the floor. immediately, the cat spreads its front paws, claws sticking out as they begin to knead the carpet and use it as a personal scratcher, the prick, prick, prick sound enough to draw the giant man out of the bedroom with a hard frown on his face.

he points at the thing and shakes his head.

"keep tha' thing off the fawkin' counter," he snaps at you. he purses his lips when he sees you still standing there, afraid to even move. he comes closer, the cat scurrying off, and he yanks your coat and scarf off, going to the hang them up by the door. "can unpack tomorrow. need t'make somethin' ta eat."

you move immediately towards the kitchen, hoping he keeps a stocked fridge, but he puts out a big hand and stops you, stepping in front of you.

"the fuck are y'doin'?" he asks, and you blink up at him.

"you said to make dinner...s-sir?"

he tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes.

"y'listen t'this," he murmurs. "women don't lift a fuckin' finger in this house, y'hear?"

you nod, and he reaches up and palms your throat, cupping your jaw.

"and my wife doesn't call me sir," he mutters. "it's simon."

you soften a little. "i-i'm sorry, simon."

"don't apologize," he grits his teeth. "did nothin' wrong."

when a fresh set of tears comes down your face, he wipes them away with ease, calloused thumb swiping over your cheeks and quieting you. he puts something into your hands, a velvet box that he must've gotten when he went to put your suitcase away.

"y'r a riley now, yeah?" he murmurs, and you tilt your head at an angle, and your foreheads brush together when he bends low to speak to you. "act like it."

you lean up on your toes (he's so fucking tall), and you kiss him softly beside his mouth. when he moves his head, your lips brush against each other, but he pulls back to make his way to the kitchen. you hear the gas stove light up, and a few minutes later, there's a familiar smell of onions hitting hot olive oil.

you take a seat on the couch, smiling to yourself, wiping your eyes as you curl up there. you flip open the box, sighing shakily when you see the rectangular diamond and matching gold wedding band. when simon comes back in to give you a mug of tea, you take it with your left hand, and his eyes flicker when he notices the new jewelry there, so pretty, so new.

mine.

when he pads back into the kitchen, the cat blinks up at him slowly, green eyes bright as they sit on the counter.

simon walks past it, saying nothing at all.

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risenlikethedead · 8 hours ago

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ok simon and his mail order bride live rent-free in my head now and, like, what i wanna know is what their anniversaries look like? not just their one year anniversary, but also their fifth or tenth? how does it change as they settle into that deep comfortability that comes with being with someone a long time? -391780

this piece i still consider canon mail-order bride, but i see it almost as an extra than a continuation of the current story since it is very much in the future of that timeline. <3

mail-order bride

it's difficult to see the potential of something so mangled. sometimes things are so worn out and so used that they don't reflect what their purpose was. instead of function, they see flaw. instead of value, they see waste.

sometimes you wonder if that's what they saw in you. sometimes you wonder if that's why you were given to him.

that's what they made him. simon was a tortured dog they let loose. they saw value, but only what was left, and perhaps they thought something like you might help them squeeze just that little bit more out of him. one more year. one more op.

the sunlight wakes you up. you forgot to pull the blinds, but when you see simon sleeping peacefully next to you, it's worth it to be up so early. you know as soon as you move, he will wake, so you keep still for just a few more minutes.

today marks ten. he doesn't look much older. he seems to have stopped aging ever since you asked him to put in his papers.

like always, as soon as you sit up, simon blinks awake. he's bleary, but conscious, and when your eyes meet, you smile at him. he lifts his big hand and rubs your back gently. you don't speak any words so early in the morning, but you don't have to. there isn't much to say when the love of your life loves you, and you love them back.

you push the blankets off, giggling when you reveal the black and orange balls of fur that blink up at you. they almost seem irritated that you interrupted their sleep, snuggled in the heat that simon radiated. they'll just have to deal with it.

you drag your hand down simon's leg wordlessly. you hear his deep breaths from behind, and you reach into your bedside table to press a little balm into your hand before spreading the ointment across his knee and under it. you work it into the muscles nice and slow; any faster, and simon will hitch his breath in pain, and you'll have to start over.

you kiss his knee before laying back down, settling into his side, and you lift up your left hand, wiggling your fingers knowingly at him before looking up towards his face. he smiles down at you sleepily, raising his hand to cup your fingers.

"still love me?" you ask softly, and simon pretends to think about.

"mmm..." he rumbles. "still love ya."

"but do you still like me?"

"more everyday."

the first few years were spent trying to play catch-up. fancy dinners, expensive gifts, handwritten letters that could've been novels to try and stuff the love you have for each other all in one night. they were all wonderful; you think about those nights all the time, and you cherish the gifts he's given you like they are a part of you, but today feels different.

today might not be just another day, but it's just as special as yesterday. and the day before that. and the day before that.

when it's time to really wake up, you let simon guide you. he walks easy, barely a limp, and he sits you down at your vanity to help you do your hair as you add your serums and moisturizers. he's good with that brush, running it through gently, parting your hair the way you like so he can tie it up. he'd braid your hair if you asked him to (he said it wasn't unlike all the knots he knows how to tie--and he meant it, no one dutch braids like him), but you know your show came out last night, and you want to watch them with the scones you have proofing in the fridge.

he makes the coffee and tea while you set the scones in the oven. you fill the cat's bowls while he cleans out the water fountain. it's wordless, the morning routine, but you like the times when you brush by him. when your arm runs against his. when your hands bump going for the same cabinet. when he leans down as he passes you, kissing along your jaw before he keeps walking.

bliss. fucking bliss.

he's waiting for you in the living room once you pull the scones out of the oven. your coffee sits on the table on its coaster, in your favorite mug, and he's under your blanket as he flips through the tv. he already knows what you'll want to watch, and you bite back your smile when you notice him typing it into the search bar because he didn't see it when he scrolled past (you keep telling him to wear his glasses, but he'll never listen).

you take a seat next to him, thumbing at his cheek, and he takes a scone off the plate before biting into it. he smiles when he tastes chocolate, looking at you knowingly, and you reach for his hand as you settle against his chest.

you used to be mangled, too. a mess. pretty on the outside, dying on the inside. all fried wires, a traumatized animal, learned behavior of relieve and appease that kept you out of trouble and out of sight.

you have never seen simon this way. and simon has never seen you this way. no hopeless potential. no wasted space. no diminishing value.

i matter because you matter. you matter because i matter.

hidden, not broken. disguised, not incomplete. you did not have jagged edges, only armor that you tried to put up to protect yourself.

you tip your head back to look up at him, and when he cups your jaw to stare back at you, you're relieved by what you see in his eyes.

ten years. it will be nothing like forever. it will be nothing like your next life, nor like the life after that. it's comforting to know what home looks like. maybe you will recognize it the way you recognized it in this life.

no, that can't be it.

you recognized it because it had already happened. in some other time, in some other place, you were sitting where you sit now, looking at simon the way you look at him now.

you knew who he was before you even met him, and you will know who he is when you meet him again.

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risenlikethedead · 8 hours ago

Text

texting a number neighbor out of boredom.

> what's the difference between a hippo and a zippo

it's a stupid joke. you don't expect an answer. you’re certain your other number neighbor blocked you. as quickly as you send it, you forget it. you find another distraction. it isn't until hours later, just past midnight, that you get a response.

>> How did you get this number?

it's not much, but it's engagement. you smirk at your glowing screen. should you continue? at best, you make a stranger laugh. at worst, you're only mildly annoying. there's no real harm.

> no guesses then?

when they fail to respond within a few minutes, you figure they decided to block you after all. so, it really is harmless to text again. you owe it to them to finish the joke.

> one is real heavy and the other is a little lighter

you lock your phone, figuring that's that, but—a notification bubble appears.

>> Amateur hour. >> What did Cinderella say when she got to the ball?

you roll over, grinning. you know this one.

> straight to the dirty jokes, stranger?

>> The best kind I know.

> debatable

>> Unlike some, I don’t waste time.

> that why you only last 60 seconds?

it’s a dirty and mean joke, but no cruder than the cinderella punchline. if they can dish it out, they can take it. still. it’s a long couple of minutes before they respond.

>> That was at least 90 seconds.

you snort, rolling over again in bed with a gleeful kick. it goes on like that for a while. filthy joke for filthy joke. bad joke for bad joke. some raunchy. some flirtatious. neither of you bother with names. they never even ask why you texted a random number. eventually you glance at the clock. it’s an ungodly hour. this has gone on long enough.

you send a goodnight message and decide fuck it. you snap a quick photo of yourself in bed, both hands holding it above your head on the pillow. only the lower half of your face is visible to show off your big smile. blurry but cute. definitely no harm in sending it if it isn’t your whole face.

> thanks for making me laugh all night :) have a nice life!

you swiftly block the number, getting ahead of any possible creepy response. the twinge of guilt passes. you choose to believe that you made someone’s day. who wouldn’t want to trade dumb jokes with a cute face?

you let the conversation drift to the back of your head and forget about it. you get busy. no time to dick around like you used to. weeks pass. every once in a while you hear a terrible line and think of your number neighbor, but they stay blocked.

one evening, arriving home late from work, a hand catches the lift door just before it shuts. in steps a massive fella, tall enough that your head dips all the way back when you reflexively ask which floor. he hides behind a mask and a cap, but you glimpse a pale pink scar jutting over a cheekbone. he glances at the panel, and mutters your floor number.

when the lift starts to rise, your stomach sinks. he doesn’t turn around like one would normally. he blocks the doors, wide shoulders heaving with deep breaths. his eyes drill into you, studying you intently.

the moment you decide to hit the elevator’s help button, he speaks.

“why’d the ghost take the lift?”

your mouth dries. wait.

he steps forward, caging you into the corner. the mask lifts slightly in the corners. his eyes crinkle. he’s smiling.

“to lift ‘is spirits.”

he raises an open palm and slots it over the top half of your face, then chuckles. as it comes down, he leans closer.

“why’d you block me, sweet’eart?”

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risenlikethedead · 8 hours ago

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i dunno if youre on a break right now but 👉👈

security guard simon and a younger/college girlfriend??

(ily slater and i hope your personal life doesn't suck too bad 💕)

personal life still sucks but I'm a slut for COD men 😤 sorry this isn't too long!! Still trying to find time for online activities ❤️ Hope you like it hon!

Man Eater

Bouncer!Simon x College Girlfriend

Word Count: 3K

Tags: Strangers, fantasizing, reader is kind of a slut lmao, semi-public fingering, semi-public blow job, !!DUBIOUS CONSENT!!, Third person to second person

There she was again.

That same girl from last Friday and the Friday before.

At this point, she’d hung around so long Simon could almost consider her a part of the club’s decorations, plastered over the bar every weekend just like the confetti that dropped from the ceiling at the end of the night. She wore a new dress every week, squeezed her feet into just about a hundred different pairs of platform pumps.

But regardless of which eyeshadow she wore or which cocktail was clasped in her manicured hand, her face never changed.

Blissed out pupils, flushed cheeks, sweat-soaked hair—they were nothing short of her very identity, smothered within the stifling walls of the pulsing night club.

She’d been coming here since the beginning of the semester. Simon knew the type. Ditzy sorority girls, batting their lashes at him from the end of the line, tugging at the hems of their too-short dresses like that might convince him to pull them out of the October chill any faster.

By the time they reached the front of the line, they were usually tripping over their high heels just to hand him their IDs…Not like the desperate display was any more likely to endear them to him anyway. At a certain point, their faces blurred together. Just another mish-mash of blonde hair dye, Daddy’s money, and Jello shots.

Now that he was pushing 32, he had a bit more tact than to jump at the first girl who showed him some attention.

But that girl…

She’d been here for hours without a care the world—least of all to the bouncer in the corner, whose eyes hadn’t left her since the minute she walked in.

It was indecent, really, the way that she threw herself around the dance floor. Thumping and bouncing with every move of the crowd, yelling the lyrics so loud he swears he could nearly hear the vibrato above the blaring stereo.

A gaggle of women brush past him—some sexed out bachelorette party—momentarily blocking his view of the girl on the floor. He mutters a curse under his breath, leaning this way and that just to try and get a better look. But the irritation leaves him soon enough, lungs breathless the minute he catches sight of her.

She’s still there, hips swaying with every beat. The drink in her hand spills when someone else pushes past her, but even as the stringent liquid spills over her front, she doesn’t open her eyes for even a single second.

He’s sure the cold alcohol must feel like dry ice against her superheated skin, but she isn’t the one who’s shocked to stillness. Rather, it’s Simon who finds himself unblinking, blood rushing cold as he looks out over the dance floor.

Over the hem of that stupid mini-dress (off the rack, no doubt), peeks a hem of black lace and push-up padding. The drink soaks in, sparkling under the disco ball, flecks of tequila and salt sticking to the curves of her cleavage. She was a grade-A example. Mascara running. Nail polish chipped. Panty lines showing through against the material of her skirt.

God, his chest aches just at the sight.

Another throng of people walk by, and when his view of her is restored, some no-name frat boy is pushing his hips up against her ass. Instantly, he rolls his eyes, but she hardly misses a beat, grinding along with the guy like she couldn’t smell the stench of cigarettes on his teeth.

God, he curses, tongue in cheek, Another fuckin’ prick.

It happened every weekend, some two-bit asshole hanging around like they had any business dancing with a girl like that—like they had any business dancing with his girl like that.

His crossed arms clench and he can’t stop the scowl that climbs up over his face.

His girl.

God, he’s on that again?

In all truth, Simon was hardly better than those nameless pricks, blinded by a pretty face and desperate to test out the springs in her mattress. They were drooling for it the minute she crossed their paths, but what did they even know about her really?

Did they know that she always ordered a round of tequila shots to start the night? Did they know that she grimaced at the salt rim and always skipped the chaser?

Did they know that she wore bandaids underneath her heels because her feet bled after a long night of dancing? Simon had seen the blood on her ankles. She’d worn Hello Kitty bandaids for three weeks before she finally managed to get her hands on a color that was a bit more tasteful.

Did they know that she never spared a man a second look? That they were only the latest toys for her to play with?

Didn’t they know that they were second in line? That somebody else had already called dibs?

God, didn’t they know that she was too good for trash like them?

In that instance, she spins out underneath the multi-color lights, eyes opening for a split-second. Her line of sight brushes over him, in his black clothing and threadbare long-sleeve. The sensation of it—passing over his chest all the way down to the bruises on his knuckles—hits harder than any bump, shot, or drag. It hits him like ice water, sending rivulets of ice down the back of his spine. He swears his heart skips a beat, but it’s gone just as soon as it came, lost underneath her black false lashes once again.

He manages a low breath.

God, he thinks, watching her push the boy away to move towards her second partner, This is awful.

Was he really that all that different? Was he really so much better than the shmuck sliding his hands up the the sides of her bare thighs right now?

Her skirt edges dangerously upwards and his eyes drink in the movement with rapt attention.

Fuck.

He has to be, he thinks, He fucking has to be.

Because he knew her name. Knew her birthday, too. He could recite every detail on her ID off the top of his head, from her eye color all the way down to her blood type. Every time she handed it to him, he tried to muster a smile. Really, he did. But, in the moment, her perfume drawing him in like a vise, it was easier to look over her shoulder than into her hypnotic eyes.

“You’re in,” he’d grunt tersely every time.

“Thank you,” she’d say without missing a beat, brushing past him without sparing a second look.

That was all it was. A few words between the two of them. But Simon knew enough to fill in the blanks. After all, it was his job to know things.

She was a student, probably. One of those girls who threw themselves into everything they’d ever done, he liked to imagine. He could see her standing in front of a lecture hall, reading a powerpoint, head aching from a hangover. He could see her posing for photos at ball games and wearing a black gown at graduation.

She looked smart, his girl. He just knew it was true. Though, what would her major be?

Marketing, maybe? Art, perhaps? Political science, if she was feeling risky? Or maybe—just maybe—she was on her way to medical school.

It was a fun game to play, forcing the jagged pieces of his thoughts to fit amongst the puzzle of her mysterious life. But the finer details paled in comparison to the big picture. His body thrums just at the possibility.

Next week, he thinks.

“You’re in,” he’d say, and she’d smile at him. She’d hand him a napkin with her phone number, whisper something in his ear, leave swipes of cheap lipstick against his skin.

He takes a breath in, watching the way the man’s hands cradle her hips.

She’d drag him to the dance floor. She wouldn’t ask his name, and he’d pretend like he hardly knew hers.

Again, she walks away from her partner, downing the rest of her drink.

He’d stand there behind her, let her shove her ass up against his belt, and act like his hands weren’t drifting too low. She reach behind her back, edge her pretty fingers beneath his waistband and give it a few tugs—just enough for him to get the message. Just enough for him to follow her back to her campus apartment. Just enough for him to pocket a pair of her skimpy lace panties, kneeling over the edge of her Twin XL just to get a taste of the cunt between her legs.

At the image alone, his blood runs south, cock throbbing underneath his slacks, but the fantasy is interrupted when she begins to walk across the floor with a purpose. He watches as he leans up against the bar, mingling with a few girls in sparkling party dresses.

Without missing a detail, he watches her lips move. The other women giggle, rocking in their chairs, but he can see beneath the fake excuse she gives them. When she begins pushing to the other side of the bar, ducking into a part of the bar he can’t keep an eye on, his irritation peaks.

Instantly, his heart pounds, blood positively rushing as he shoves his way through the crowd.

“Fuck,” he curses beneath his breath, knocking another drunk patron to the side. Vaguely, he can hear the man yell a slurry of incomprehensible words at his back, but he’s much too focused on the trail of her perfume to care.

It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to get to the other side of the room. Between drunken dancers, handsy women, and obvious contraband, the hands on his watch make more than just a few passes over twelve before he hits the bar.

“Hey,” he shouts, snapping his fingers at the man behind the counter, “Y’seen a girl come this way? One who ordered the tequila shots earlier? She’s a regular.”

“Uh—yeah, she was headed towards the bathroom a few minutes ago,” the bartender slides a drink across the bar, “Why? She do something wrong?”

“None o’ your business,” he clicks his tongue, pressing towards the bathroom before he can see the exasperated shrug the other gives him.

The bathrooms are hardly a step away from the bar, but it’s hardly a walk in the park. Sugar and rum make the bottoms of his boots stick to the floor with every move and vape fluid hangs in the air like a cloud. He pulls it into his lungs, turning the corner. Immediately, a chorus of hushed conversation greets him, and he quirks a brow, peering down at a group of men that huddle close to a door.

He sticks two fingers between his lips, bellowing a sharp whistle. Within an instant, all four of their heads whip in his direction, and they jump away from the door like they’d just been burned. When they spot his hefty frame lumbering towards him, they collectively hold their breath, going red in the face with every minute Simon stands there posturing.

“You lot stupid or somethin’?” He growls, pointing towards the sign on the door, “Kindergarten teacher never taught you how to read, huh?”

“Uh—no…sir,” one of them thinks to stutter, practically pissing his pants the longer he spends standing in Simon’s shadow.

“Yeah?” He glowers, hooking a finger under the guy’s collar, “Then what’s a git like you looking into the ladies’ room for? Forget your bollocks in there did ya?”

“N-no,” he shoves at Simon’s hands, “Uh—look, man, we weren’t lookin’ for any trouble, it’s just…There’s this girl in there and she’s…Well…”

“She’s what? Hiding from creeps like you?”

“No! We’re just—”

“All of you,” he snaps, pulling the man forward, “Out. Now. Show your face ‘round here again and I’ll throw your asses out on the streets before you can get another word in. Understand?”

Without further persuasion, the three other men scurry towards the entrance to the dance floor, looking anxiously at back at their friend, who dangles from Simon’s iron grip like a rag doll. Just for good measure, Simon looks at him from head to toe, memorizing the man’s face.

If he ever tries to get near his girl again, Simon can’t be held accountable for what he’ll do.

With a sigh, he releases the poor boy, resisting a laugh when he scrambles to his feet. Simon watches the four of them retreat first, peeking out at the dance floor just to make sure they leave. However, when the front door slams behind them, a weird sort of tension settles over his shoulders. Inhaling low, he spares a glance at the closed door behind him.

Should he wait for her? Y’know, just to make sure she was really okay?

Cursing his inability to make a decision, he idles in the hallway for a minute, glaring at the front door, like those four men might come barreling back through any minute now.

Minutes pass.

His watch ticks.

The music blares.

He taps his fingers against his watch.

Was one of those men the guy she’d been dancing with earlier? Did they chase her into the bathroom?

He thinks on the possibility of it for a minute. Truthfully, he couldn’t recall the face of the men she’d been dancing with. They were unremarkable for the most part. Though, if there’s one thing he knows about her, it’s that she’s never denied a partner. She didn’t go home with them, but she wasn’t afraid to sidle up to them on the dance floor or in the backrooms for that matter.

She wasn’t afraid to let them have their fun for a few minutes. They never lasted long enough to please her, but she still tried.

God, he scowls, Her heart was just too big. If she gave him another glance, he’d give her a real reason to stay out of the club.

But, he digresses…

Perhaps one of them had gotten the wrong idea. It was plain to see. She left broken hearts in her wake with every step she took—his included. Though, none of the four men seemed aggressive. They were creeps, sure, but not ones he’d struggle to beat into a pulp.

Still, for a woman like her, maybe it was different.

His heart rate picks up and he spares another glance at the door. For what feels like hours, he reads and rereads the sign, chewing on the skin of his cheek. Yet, when he hears a small noise emanate from within, it takes remarkably little for his resolve to break.

Without thinking twice, he’s pushing the door open, peeking into the barren bathroom. There’s no one else inside. Thank god. However, the emptiness only amplifies the pitiful sound when your voice rings out again, bouncing off the walls like a tolling bell. His stomach drops.

You’re crying.

You’re really fucking crying, in some dirty bathroom stall, all alone without your friends to keep you company.

His hands wring at his sides, anger spiking.

God, he should have pummeled them when he had the chance. On reflex, he looks back at the door behind him, contemplating rushing out there to kick them to the curb while they’re still int he vicinity. Yet, another whimper stops him dead in his tracks.

Did they lay a hand on you? Do something unseemly to you? Did they offend you somehow? Give you a suspicious glance, perhaps?

To him, it didn’t matter. They were all capital offenses in his book. His chest heaves as he considers his options. However, standing here so close, he’s filled with the overwhelming need to do something, to prove himself to you somehow. Leaving you to fend for yourself would be as good as turning tail.

So, without wasting another second, he swallows his anger, trying to put on a sympathetic face. He has a feeling it turns out more menacing than he intends, but still, it’s a start.

“Um—miss,” he speaks, unsure of how to broach a conversation.

Your voice hitches behind the door, and he raises a hand to knock…

Only for the door to creak open the second his knuckle makes the softest of contact. His brow furrows. Slowly, he inches the door open, peering down at where you sit on the stool. Instantly, his mind draws a blank.

There, you sit, one glistening thigh propped up against the side of the graffiti covered stall. A pair of black panties dangle from your high-heeled foot, Hello-Kitty bandaid shining proudly beneath the strappy leather of the shoe.

When his burly frame pushes open the door, situating himself in the entryway, you don’t make to hide yourself. Hell, you don’t even flinch. You only look up at him in frozen dismay, lashes blinking slowly while you try to make heads and tails of the situation…

His eyes drop and so does your stomach.

There, two of your fingers rest against the crook of your hip, shiny and wet, matching all too closely to the stain on the gusset of your panties…strings of slick stick between the pair of them, shining in the flickering bathroom lights.

“Fuck,” he curses absently, trying and failing to pull himself away from he sight of you…

His girl.

The one he’d spent weeks watching on the dance floor, rejecting advance after advance, found herself here. Not because a group of overeager frat boys had her running for cover. No.

She just needed something to fill her up. Something that could finally satisfy her.

In public, no less.

Breath caught in his throat, he drinks in the sight of it. From your frizzy hair and smeared lipstick, down to your waist, where the skirt of the dress is haphazardly scrunched up around your waist. The longer he looks, the hotter he becomes, and before he knows it, he’d nearly running a fever, watching as you slowly pull your fingers away from your exposed, leaking cunt.

He watches them like a hawk, cock pulsing with every move that you make. The two of you stay frozen for all too long, sizing each other up like they were a prime rib on a silver platter. He bites his cheek, watching the way a drop of slick drips off of your swollen clit. And you…

God, he can feel your eyes settle on the hefty bulge at the front of his pants, looking at the way the button of his jeans strain around the length of him.

The door isn’t locked.

The bathroom smells like cigarette smoke.

The stall is hardy even tall enough to allow him to stand.

You’ve never met him.

He’s never met you.

But somehow…

Your eyes flick up to his, frozen no longer. Cautiously, you reach a slick, shaking hand in his direction, easily fisting his shirt. He watches your lips curl into a low smile.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move a muscle. Hell, he doesn’t even try to kick the door closed behind him. No, he’s all but paralyzed when you pull him forward, giggling underneath your breath when you yank him between your legs. Your bare pussy brushes against the knee of his jeans, and he shoves a hand up against the wall to stop from falling over when you tuck your wet fingers underneath his belt.

And just like in the dreams you didn’t know that he had, you clumsily pull his belt out of the loops with one hand, tucking your other hand up the front of his shirt to brush at his soft abs. When you whisper in his ear, patches of your lipstick get stuck in his stubble.

“Sir,” you whimper, straightening up to press your body into him all the easier, “Think—you can help me out?”

“Hm,” he answers noncommittally, blue veins pulsing when you reach behind his fly to fondle his through his boxers.

“Pretty please,” you murmur, stroking him through his pants, “Just—just for tonight. Just…”

Your breath hitches and you lean back against the wall, spreading your legs so that he can see the way frothy bubbles of slick gather between your folds.

“Just until I cum,” you plead, tugging at his belt loops.

His entire body thrums at the sight of it—at the sight of his pretty girl finally spreading her legs for a man who deserved it. All pretty, puffy, and wet, waiting just for him to make a move, dainty fingers tracing the vein on the underside of his shaft.

He doesn’t shiver. He doesn’t balk.

No, this time he situates a hand around that pretty neck, shoving you back to stand to his full height.

“Please,” you whisper, finally managing to free him from his pants. His length bobs in front of you, red and leaking after so many nights on edge.

“Just until I cum,” he mirrors your words from before, barrel chest heaving.

At his words, your mouth drops open, lashes fluttering as you look down at him. God, at the idea of it—at the idea of being used like a toy, of the tables finally turning—your body positively hums, and before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning down to tuck his flushed cock head between your lips.

When your tongue envelops him, suckling at him with a rush of saliva and red lipstick…

It’s nothing short of heaven.

“God,” he pushes his hips forward, head falling back, “Good fucking girl.”

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risenlikethedead · 9 hours ago

Text

Into Your Veins- Part XII

Ao3 Masterlist

cw: stabbing zombies to death, brief mentions of self harm, angst

It took an apocalypse for Ghost to finally feel like his life (or afterlife, he supposes) is going well. He's respected in the community he lives in, he's well-fed, and if he's honest with himself, he's significantly less lonely than he used to be. It's all Brekkie's doing- most of the civilians on base steered clear of him before he had such a charming girl by his side. They still do, truth be told, but at least now they'll give him a little hello and ask how his pair is faring as she establishes herself on base. It's nice, really. Feels about as domestic as he think he'll ever get, coming back to the apartment and giving his pair all the well-wishes he's gathered from the neighbors as she cooks up something for her and Price to split while Ghost patiently waits for his own meal to throw him bedroom eyes to signal she's ready. It's all so much more than he ever had while he was alive, and he's determined to keep a tight grip on everything good he's been handed, lest it slip through his fingers and entirely out of grasp again.

The Captain is, of course, far too chuffed about the changes Ghost is experiencing. Every day he drops some sort of comment abut how being paired looks good on him, how much more relaxed Ghost looks, how glad he is that he won't have to feel his teeth anymore. The old man also loves to sing the praises of Breakfast's cooking, telling anyone who will listen how much he enjoys finally sharing an apartment with someone who knows how to use the spices in their cabinets. Every night he leans back in his seat at the dinner table, thanking Brekkie profusely as he pats his softening stomach and teases Ghost for not being able to enjoy all of his lovely pair's talents. Ghost wants to tell him that he enjoys plenty of her talents, a couple times a day, in fact, but keeps his mouth shut out of respect for the pretty soft girl that warms his bed and fills his belly with blood.

Days around the base feel less hectic with her around. Even when she's not by his side, all of his tasks are done with the thoughts of how nice it will be to be by her side again when he's finished. He's never really had anything to look forward to before, so the idea of wanting to go home is new to him. Novel. Uncharted territory. He'd never fully understood the phrase 'home sweet home' before she'd moved in, but now he feels it in the blackened marrow of his bones. He looks at her face and thinks 'home'. He holds her as she sleeps and thinks 'home'. He listens to her giggling at his bad jokes as they lie in the dark together and thinks 'home'.

Today they're on a run for charcoal and sand together, sent by Price to raid the home and garden center and fill up the truckbed with as many bags as possible. It's a solid plan, one that Brekkie came up with herself- they need a filtration system for the water they've been gathering from the nearby creek. Step one is to boil, step two is to filter, and the rest of the steps involve bottling, storing, and distributing equally amongst the people living on base. It's more of a system than they'd had in the past- a sort of free-for-all where people were expected to make their water potable as they saw fit. Ghost couldn't help but beam with pride as she detailed her plan to Price, complete with hand-drawn schematics for the filtration system and maps of where she thought they could acquire the necessary parts and plastic bottles for storage. She was so excited to have her plans approved immediately, and her joy and pride at the trust she's been given kept Ghost smiling to himself under his mask for the rest of the day as she flitted about getting everything ready for today's excursion out to get supplies.

It's the makings of a decent day, with one major hitch- Nikto's volunteered to come along and help.

There's something not right about Nikto, and Ghost is determined to find out what it is. It's been several weeks now that they've been in camp, getting into the groove of things, and still Ghost can't shake the idea that he's somehow brought a threat into their base. Sure, Nikto hasn't said or done anything egregious (aside from bringing back a fucking hyena, of all things), but there's still something not right. Brekkie seems to like him well enough, but it's just not enough to convince Ghost that there's nothing to be worried about.

The three of them are piled into the pickup truck, speeding down an empty highway as Breakfast fiddles with the radio, as she always does, searching for a signal. It's cute that she still tries, really. Ghost gave up on that kind of optimism months ago, if he's honest. Searching for a signal seems entirely futile to him, but he doesn't have it in him to break her spirit by saying so, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets her harmlessly fill the truck with the sounds of whirring, crackling static. His eyes flick up to the rear view mirror, and what he sees makes him grip the steering wheel just a bit harder.

Nikto is crammed into the tiny backseat, knees to his chest, staring at Breakfast's profile with a tilted head and soft, adoring eyes. Ghost is mostly certain he won't try anything with Breakfast, but still. It's the principle of the thing- you don't make goo-goo eyes at another man's pair, full stop. Nikto should know that better than anyone, Ghost reasons, so it's even more insulting that he's doing it.

"What will you do if you hear something on the radio?" Nikto asks from the backseat, his innocent question damn near making Ghost roll his eyes in annoyance.

"I dunno. Listen, I guess? I imagine if someone gets the ability to broadcast they'll have instructions or something." Breakfast's shoulders hunch, and immediately Ghost knows she's feeling foolish about the whole thing. That Russian prick, if it wouldn't upset Brekkie he'd drain the bastard right here and now.

"We should try to send a signal ourselves." Ghost says in lieu of cursing out his backseat passenger. "We could be the first to reach out, maybe give coordinates to a neutral meeting spot so we can safely bring people back to base."

"Neutral meeting spot?" Breakfast asks, sweet thing that she is.

"We do not want to just give out our location to just anyone. Zakhaev is still out there, I am sure he would love nothing more than to raid our base." Nikto chimes in from the back seat. "I believe Finn knows a thing or two about radios. I will ask them about what parts will be needed to build a radio tower when we return."

"You just keep checkin' the airwaves, Brekkie. We can't be the only people to have this idea." Ghost says, ignoring Nikto and patting Breakfast's big, soft thigh. If it was just the two of them, he'd dig his fingers into her inner thigh and talk dirty to her until she begs for a bite and a fuck. Bloody Nikto, ruining everything about his day, just like Ghost thought he might.

The rest of the drive passes in companionable silence as Breakfast finishes her back and forth across the AM and FM frequencies. Ghost keeps an eye out for signs of wildlife, but none can be found. He suspects that in the spring they'll have more rabbits and pheasants running around again, once the freaks have all rotted over the winter and stopped consuming everything in their path like decaying, shambling locusts. With any luck, the cold weather will make them slower and more brittle. Might be a good time to actively hunt them down and try to eradicate them. With any luck, even the deer population might come back in the next spring and summer.

The home and garden center looks a mess when they roll up to it. Windows broken, doors hanging lopsided in the frame, trash and abandoned cars everywhere. Even through the big front windows, the inside looks equally perilous- it looks exceedingly dark in there, with shelves that have been pushed over, their contents littered everywhere.

"I will do a perimeter check, just to be safe. Wait for me before you go in." Nikto says, hopping out of the backseat, making a show of stretching out his legs, and Ghost smirks. Must've been bloody uncomfortable, being folded in half like that in that tiny backseat. Good.

"We probably should have brought Sputnik for this, huh?" Breakfast asks, sounding more nervous than Ghost's heard her in a while.

"She was occupied when we left. Penny and some others borrowed her for a trip to the river." Nikto says simply, sliding a loaded magazine into his gun. "It will be fine, we are more than capable."

"Too right." Ghost says, patting Breakfast's shoulder, trying to make sure he's included in Nikto's 'we'.

“Yeah, OK, I know, I just... yeah. Let's just get this over with.” Breakfast says, picking at her nails. A nervous habit she's picked up lately, probably from Penny. That girl's cuticles are always bloody and raw.

“If it will help ease your fears, I will go ahead. Do not worry, Miss Breakfast. We will not let anything happen to you.” Nikto assures her with an uncharacteristic acknowledgment of Ghost. Finally. He gingerly moves across the blacktop to the overgrown grass that surrounds the building, leaving Ghost alone with his pair.

"What's got you so nervous? I know you've run supply missions alone before." Ghost inquires, cocking his head. "I- yeah. I just. I can't believe I didn't think about a neutral meeting spot. I think maybe living at the base is making me, like. I dunno. Soft." The words trip out of her mouth, clumsy and tinged with her own embarrassment. Ghost snorts and pokes a finger into the fat of her hip.

"You were soft when I found ya, Brekkie." He teases, and she snorts and swats his hand away.

"Oh, fuck off you menace." She laughs, hand covering her mouth as she tries to stifle the sound. A precautionary habit borne of having seen too many freaks drawn to sounds. One day, she'll be able to laugh as brightly and loudly as she wants, and Ghost looks forward to hearing it.

“You know, it's too bad Nikto's on this run with us. Would've liked to have the opportunity to chase you around a bit, just like old times.” Ghost teases, and Breakfast playfully smacks him with the back of her hand to his chest, not even remotely hard enough to hurt.

“Oh my god, why are you like this?” She laughs, and it makes Ghost grin wide under his mask.

“Not hearin' much of an argument from you, love. What do you say sometime you and me come out to the middle of nowhere so I can hunt you down and fuck you hard against a tree?” Ghost asks, moving into her space to speak lowly into her ear.

“Not today.” Breakfast says with a laugh in her voice, gently running a hand over his shoulder and biting her lip.

“That's not a 'no'.” He points out, and she smirks at him playfully.

“You're right. It's not.” She pats him on the shoulder with a wink. “Come on, let's get inside. Sooner we get this done with, the sooner we can go home and discuss your dastardly plans for me.”

“Dastardly?!” He laughs, following behind, his laughter getting louder when she turns back to wink over her shoulder at him. These last few weeks have been good, getting to know her without the imminent, constant threat of death hanging over them. She's somehow even more when she's not fighting for her life- more fun, more lovely, more lively, more affectionate. Never in his life did Ghost think he'd pair with someone who lovingly cards her fingers in his hair while he drinks her blood. She's one in a million, and he's not likely to take that for granted anytime soon. Whatever it takes to keep her safe, he'll do it, no questions asked.

Sooner than Ghost would have liked, Nikto trots back to Breakfast's side, reporting an all-clear.

“That's not to say there is nothing inside, however. I recommend caution.” He says, and Ghost bites the inside of his cheek to keep from calling him Captain Obvious and commenting on how Nikto tends to speak directly to Breakfast, not to the two of them.

“Noted.” Ghost says gruffly, shoving a loaded magazine into his gun. “I'll go first, Nikto, you take the rear, and we'll keep Brekkie in the middle.”

“Brekkie in the middle sounds like the name of a basement punk band.” His pair muses to herself, earning a huff of laughter from both of her masked sentries as they make their way in.

No sooner is his door open than the smell of decay hits Ghost's sensitive nose. It's more than just the rot of the white, furry bags of moldy beef jerky lining the tills, but the foul stench of corrupted blood. There's freaks in here, no doubt about it. He's sick of the smell, to be honest. It's been growing fainter and fainter as time wears on and the freaks decay into nothing. One day they'll all be gone for good, probably. The ones wandering around the outdoors have been falling apart at a faster rate than the ones trapped indoors, but he'll take what he can get. Fewer roaming herds is a very, very good thing. Hopefully in the next year or so they'll be gone entirely.

"Stick close, I smell freaks 'round here." Ghost says, bringing his rifle to his shoulder as they breach the doors. Breakast dutifully finds her way to his side, with Nikto trailing along close behind.

"Parker said the charcoal should be towards the back, with the grilling stuff. Apparently sand's with the outdoors department." Breakfast says, her head already on a swivel as she peeks down the aisles they pass. “I guess he used to work here.”

“Why is he not with us, then?” Nikto asks, every syllable of his innocuous question grating on the last of Ghost's nerves. Every single thing this man says and does is the most annoying shit in the entire bloody planet.

“Apparently he hid here for the first week of the outbreak. Not all that keen on going back after all that.” Ghost answers for Breakfast. He can't blame Parker that much, he probably had to do some nasty stuff to survive living in a relatively busy home and garden center at the end of the world. Lord knows Ghost isn't that keen on going back to the barracks anytime soon, not with the shit he'd seen go down there when his fellow soldiers started ripping each other apart.

“Ah. Understandable.” Nikto says as he gingerly steps over broken glass that's strewn across the cement floor. “Oh, look, there he is.”

Nikto points to a pyramid of photos on the wall, denoting the heirarchy of various managers of different departments. Parker looks nothing like his smiling, sanitized portrait above the title 'Warehouse Manager'. The three of them stare at his photo for a moment, shoulder to shoulder and completely silent. Ghost's only known Parker a few months, as he was one of the first to come back to the base with Soap, but the man he knows looks only vaguely similar to the photo on the wall. The Parker he knows has shaggier hair, dark rings under his eyes, and a permanently nervous expression.

“Warehouse, huh? Explains why he knows where everything is, I guess.” Breakfast says as she marches up to the portrait and pulls it off the wall. She smiles warmly at the picture in her hands, and slides it into her backpack. “I'm gonna give this to Finn, I think they'll like seeing their boyfriend from before.”

“Very thoughtful of you.” Nikto says, and the compliment feels like nails on a chalkboard to Ghost. It is thoughtful, lord knows Ghost would love to see pictures of Breakfast pre-apocalypse one day, but hell if he's going to say anything like that in front of his self-appointed nemesis.

“Come on, we didn't come for picture day. Grab a shopping cart, both of you. It'll be easier to drag everything out that way.” Ghost says gruffly, ears perking up at the sound of movement towards the back corner of the store. There's something moving around back there, and based on smell alone, it's not likely to be a bird or stray cat.

As the other two make their way to the grilling supplies with shopping carts in tow, Ghost can hear the freak, breathing heavy and moaning, feet shuffling unsteadily across the floor towards the metallic clanging of empty shopping baskets traversing trash-strewn aisles. The stink of it's overwhelming, filling his nose, making it hard to smell anything else. He pulls the butt of his rifle tight to his shoulder, finger hovering by the trigger guard, ready to fire at the first sight of one of those... monsters.

“Hurry up, we have company!” Ghost barks over his shoulder. There's a grunt of acknowledgment from Nikto, followed by the sound of a heavy bag of charcoal being loaded into a shopping cart. From around a corner, a freak in an orange apron scuffles forward. Ghost takes her in for a moment- a plastic name tag reads “Tats”, and there's a pride pin on the apron next to her name, orange and white and pink. It's easy to forget that this thing was a person once, probably a pretty thing, if what's left of her face is any indication. Ah, well. Nothing to be done for her now.

She's moving too slowly to merit the hassle of an attention-getting rifle blast, her left ankle clearly at the brink of cracking apart. She can't move very fast, and by the time Ghost has his knife in her brain, she's barely had the time to raise her leathery arms to grab at him. There's a beat before she falls heavily to his feet, and Ghost braces her body with a firm boot at he retrieves his knife from her skull.

“Sorry, Tats.” He mumbles under his breath, taking in the stillness of her body as thick black blood pours from her head wound. He's not normally very emotional about the eradication of freaks, but seeing her name, her pride pin- it's a stark reminder of her former humanity.

“FUCK!” The sound of Breakfast's scream sends Ghost running blindly her direction. There's no time to assess, no time to take stock of the situation, just instant, blind panic as he runs as fast as he can towards his pair. Fast as he is, he's still too late. Nikto is standing on top of a downed freak, the business end of his ice pick hilt-deep in it's forehead.

“Jesus, Nikto, thank you. It came out of nowhere, I didn't even- I didn't-” Nerves are hitting her hard, and something awful writhes and twists in Ghost's guts. Guilt, self-loathing, and jealousy comingle as he watches his pair, his Brekkie, touch Nikto gently on the arm in thanks.

“It is alright. This is what I am here for, yes? To keep you safe.” Nikto says gently, patting on the hand she's placed on his arm.

“Nikto, do an interior perimeter sweep and make sure there's nothing else. Brekkie and I will finish loading up.” Ghost barks, and the look his pair throws him doesn't escape his notice. She's annoyed at his snappishness towards Nikto, he'd bet money on it. It can't be helped, really. Ghost wasn't a particularly good man in life, and in death, even less so. He's petty, territorial, and jealous. He knows that. She knows that. It should hardly be a surprise he doesn't take kindly to someone else taking it upon themselves to protect what's his.

“Of course.” Nikto says evenly, as if nothing were wrong at all. Prick. Ghost watches with narrowed eyes as Nikto disappears behind shelving, his glare interrupted by a hard smack to his shoulder.

“Stop being such a fucking dick to him. He's only saved my life twice now. Find some gratitude, for pete's sake.” She hisses, and, god, it really says something about him that it makes his tail wag when she's pissed off. He's sure one day he'll push it too far and she'll try to leave like so many men and women before her, but unlike the rest of them, she's his pair. Not working it out isn't an option, not now that her blood sings for him, regenerates at a supernatural speed solely for his benefit. No matter the hurdles, he's determined to put in the work to fix it every time.

“Once. He only did it the once, you'dve been fine today. These freaks are falling apart, should be any day now that they all reach the state of decay that reduces 'em to dust.” Ghost replies dismissively, kicking at the rotten corpse at his feet and ignoring the way Breakfast crosses her arms over her chest. “Come on, let's run these out to the truck and check the back for more supplies.”

Breakfast doesn't say anything, just sucks her teeth and dutifully loads up another big bag into the cart, lifting with her knees. Good girl.

Loading up the truck is easy enough, two freaks aside, it's a rather uneventful fetch mission. Ghost clears a path of rubble and rotten body parts through the store with a big push broom he found, making the journeys bakc and forth to the truck much easier for the carts. At some point Nikto pops out of nowhere, apparently done with the errand Ghost had sent him on, silently lending a hand and loading the charcoal into the back.

"Thanks, Nikto. For everything." Breakfast says as they settle into their places in the truck, words weighted in a way Ghost doesn't like. Nikto perks up a bit at being addressed by her, sitting up straighter with a shine in his eyes. He always does, Ghost's noticed. It makes something churn in his guts, a black, sour ichor that threatens to poison him with rage.

"Of course. This is what friends are for, yes?" Nikto replies, daring to reach out and pat Breakfast's shoulder again.

“Enough.” Ghost snaps, putting the truck into gear and ignoring the unimpressed glare Breakfast is throwing him. Maybe she's right to be annoyed, maybe he is being unreasonable, but hell if he's ever going to admit it or apologize without her asking him to. The drive home is tense and quiet, with only the road noise and the sound of static as Breakfast makes her pass through the AM and FM dials again.

Unloading the truck is fast enough work between the three of them, and Ghost is grateful that Nikto has the decency to slink away silently to god-knows-where as soon as the task is done. The less time spent around him, the better, as far as Ghost's concerned.

There's just something so offputting about the way that man keeps secrets, although he supposes it's a bit hypocritical of him to judge that. Lord knows he's got his own secrets hidden under his mask, away from strangers and friends alike. Hell, the only reason Price knows anything about his diet is he'd caught Ghost fangs-deep in a stray dog when he'd first turned, back when he was sloppy and inexperienced. Still, it doesn't sit well that Nikto knows Ghost's hidden secrets while he's left wondering why the fuck he can't smell the masked Russian.

Ghost silently follows Breakfast out of the supply depot and across the base back to their apartment, trudging up the stairs at her slow, steady pace. He could shoot up these steps in no time, it would only take a second to fly up, but he prefers being near his pair, keeping an eye on her even if it means doing things the hard way. The long way. The human way. Besides, following along behind is the best way to watch her ass move as she climbs the stairs.

"Don't want you hangin' around Nikto without me anymore." Ghost says as soon as the door shuts behind them, and Breakfast spins on her heel to throw him a capital-l Look.

"What? Why? He's a little weird, but he's super helpful and nice and not, like, actively rude or malicious or anything." Breakfast tells him with furrowed brows.

"Can't smell him." Ghost says simply, and Breakfast rolls her eyes.

"That's stupid. That's... olfactory prejudice or something. Besides, he saved me, Ghost. Took a literal bullet for me back at Graves's barn and stabbed that zombie in the back of the store today. Surely those are points in his favor?" She looks so earnest, it almost changes his mind. For the life of him, Ghost can't explain exactly why someone he perceives as a threat to the community would save her, but he still can't shake off the feeling of unease.

"Still. Don't want you hangin' around him alone."

"... Are you jealous?" She scoffs when Ghost tilts his head back, preferring to stare at the ceiling than acknowledge her statement. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous. Nothing's going to happen between us, OK? I'm your pair, and I'm also done arguing about this. Gimme a bite so I can go to bed, my skin is starting to feel tight." Breakfast holds her arm out impatiently, and Ghost can tell that she's absolutely itching for it.

"No." He says with a mean smirk that she can't see but can surely hear. She blinks at him, disbelieving.

"What?"

"No. You agree to stay away from him, or you don't get bit." Ghost shrugs. Breakfast isn't likely to try to go for a razor blade to fix this herself, no matter how stubborn she can get, but even if she does go for a knife or something, Ghost is more than prepared to hold her down and stop her.

"I'm not going to do that, Ghost. He's my friend, and you don't own me." She says, squaring up. It's cute, really. There's no way she could take him in any sort of physical confrontation, even if he was still a living human being.

"No, I don't, but you're my pair, aren't you? It's my responsibility to look out f'you. If I've got the feelin' that someone's bad news, it's my job to say so and tell you what's what, innit?" he crosses his arms, and the way Breakfast stares at his arms doesn't escape his attention. It's such an ego boost, having this pretty thing ogle him like that, even when she's annoyed.

"I'm going to pretend that you're being sweet. Now bite me or I'm going to medical and getting a blood draw." Breakfast keeps her arm out, an offering made veins up. As hungry as Ghost is, it's very tempting.

"You wouldn't dare." Ghost says before she cocks a defiant eyebrow at him. "Alright, you would. Still, I'm asking you as my pair- stay away from him."

“And I'm telling you as your pair- you're not the boss of me. Now bite me so we can go to bed." She waggles her arm around in the air.

"Not until you tell me you'll steer clear of Nikto." He says stubbornly, setting his jaw as she sighs and rolls her eyes at him. "Simon, I'm not going to do that. You're being weird and this time it's not fucking cute." She pushes past him and heads back towards the coat rack, grabbing an empty backpack.

"What are you up to? Where you goin'?" Ghost asks, incredulous.

"Medical for a blood draw, and then I'm staying the night at Parker and Finn's. You aren't invited." Breakfast says tersely, and if Ghost's heart was beating, it would stop. It's not fear he's feeling, but it's as close as he's come in a good long while. He learned as a kid not to give into it, to face it with bravado and cover it up so no one can detect it. It's just a spat, nobody's dying, there's no reason to be vulnerable here.

"That puntable lad and his equally tiny little partner? You think they'll be able to stop me from getting my girl back?" He practically growls through clenched fangs as he watches her stuff spare clothes intot he bag.

"They don't need to stop you, like I said, you aren't invited. That means you can't come in." Fuck, shit, he wishes she were less clever sometimes. Too smart for her own good, that girl.

"I can make Finn invite me. Or his pretty little boyfriend." Hell, the way Finn looks him over sometimes, he doesn't think he'd even need to thrall them. Just ask a quick favor and bam, he's in.

"Not if you ever want me to speak to you again." She snaps, and, oh, shit, he can tell she's serious.

"I'm just trying to keep you safe, Brekkie. Come on, don't be like this." He's not pleading. He's not. It's not desperation clawing inside of him, anxious to keep her safe and sound and in his bed.

"Come on yourself! If he's so dangerous then tell me what he's done. Go on, list his sins. I'll wait." She crosses her arms and leans against the door frame, backpack looped over one shoulder, all ready to go. Ghost sighs and silently purses his lips. There's no concrete evidence of a problem, not really. All he knows for sure is that Nikto is something else, half of a broken pair that doesn't smell human when he bleeds. He'd share that information with Breakfast, but he already knows her counter argument- I'm half of a pair, and you're not human either. You're being judgmental over nothing.

“Right. OK. I'm leaving. Don't follow me until you either grow the fuck up or come up with a real reason I shouldn't trust a man that's saved my life twice while you were in the same room.” She says, snagging her toothbrush from the cup by the sink and marching out into the hallway, leaving Ghost alone in the apartment. He knows she was holding back, that the little barb about him failing to save her twice was the least of his sins. Hell, they only met because he stalked and terrorized her into coming with him. There's no doubt in Ghost's mind that she's got plenty of other things she could have thrown in his face, and all he can do is begrudgingly admire her restraint as he listens to the sound of her storming off down the stairs, her footsteps growing fainter by the second.

The resulting silence in the apartment is oppressive. If he could breathe, he'd be doing his exercises, deep breaths in and out to help regulate the sudden surge of rage that's rising up inside of him. But there is no breath in his lungs, no functioning nervous system to calm down. There's nothing to be done to regulate this angry, sick, twisty feeling in his rotten guts that makes him feel ill. So he grits his teeth, pulls his mask off, and throws it as hard as he can, embedding the skull deep in the drywall as he slumps to his knees and lets his frustrations and self-loathing wash over him like a powerful tide.

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risenlikethedead · 9 hours ago

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My hatred of cishet men is getting worse & worse, for obvious reasons. I’m really struggling with the idea that I could meet a man who isn’t right wing, wants a real relationship, not just a hook up, and loves me for me (fat bird here). I was thinking about joining the 4b movement.

And then today, I’ve been thinking about the 4b movement, the taming of the shrew and the man that is John Price appearing in my life at just the right time

ok see you fucked up because i didn't know what 4b was before getting this ask, and now that i've put in some research, i'm annoyed you think i'd be cool about this.

the western spin on the 4b movement seems like an attempt to blame all straight men for trump being elected, despite plenty of women voting for him of their own free will. you think women like megyn kelly, candace owens, and anne coulter are anomalies? you think there aren't lgbt conservatives like george santos, caitlyn jenner, and meg cheney backing these regressive, sexist policies? please. this is a problem with the rise of fascism, not gender or sexual orientation.

this is just political lesbianism remixed, and that shit is terfy as FUCK. to be clear- i do not fuck with transphobes, i do not respect transphobes, and i wish all transphobes a very merry fix your hearts or die.

(and before you say 'oh no 4b isn't terfy!'- the original website where the original 4b movement was founded, wombad, is an offshoot of the website megalia that separated because megalia restricted homophobic and transphobic slurs on their forums. you cannot separate terfy bullshit from this movement when it's built right into the foundation, full stop.)

obviously you're free to date or not date, to sleep with men or not, to marry men or not, to have kids or not, but if you want gender equality it's going to take work, not just gendered separatism. that kind of ideological isolation is cult shit, baby! also, abstaining from sex and relationships is thee laziest attempt at activism i've ever fucking heard of. the tenants of the movement are about inaction, not action.

bc lbr the 4b movement has been going since the mid 2010's and hasn't accomplished it's goal because it's fundamentally useless. let's be real- refusing to date or fuck the guy from accounting isn't going to do anything but make him date and fuck someone else. it won't change policy, it won't create equality, it just means you're going to be single. thassit. dale from the corner store isn't the one who is in control of whether roe v. wade got overturned, turning him down for a date won't change shit on a national, or, hell, even local policy level. unless you've been solely fucking billionaires and politicians, your sex life has nothing to do with laws being passed or repealed.

also keep in mind that lysistrata is a fictional comedy, babes. it's not historical truth. that shit doesn't work in real life and pretending it does is, frankly, fucking foolish.

imho the solution is not refusing to fuck or date men, but instead, organizing and educating. organize your workplace, to join or build a union to get equal pay. you need to be active in politics, not just on a national level but also local. rally for candidates and policies that will make the changes you want. educate the people around you, regardless of gender, about the inequalities marginalized folks (not JUST women) face. put in actual, factual work, and changes will happen.

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risenlikethedead · 9 hours ago

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Thinking about a ghost who keeps his mask on because the face is the hardest part to keep human.

When he first came back he would spill out of his flesh at the slightest stimuli. A breeze had three arm-like protrusions erupting from his back. A dog bark resulted in his torso splitting vertically down the middle from his shoulder to groin. When he stepped on a stick and it cracked he lost his shape completely, sharp spikes ricocheting out of his body at random, elbows bending backwards before 5 hands grew out of his arm, head showing only teeth.

He’d come a long way since then.

It was slow work, learning how to control it when his body didn’t want to maintain its shape. Trial and error left bodies in his wake—people terrified of this thing walking around that looked like a man only some of the time. And we all know how scared people react.

It took time but he did it. He mastered it. All of it.

Except for the face.

His face had a habit of dropping its skin at a moments notice. Someone coughed and you could see how his back molars rested against each other, his cheeks disappearing.

Or the shape would morph. Nothing too dramatic but his nose would shift an inch to the side while his tongue stretched like hot taffy spun between hooks.

So he started wearing a mask to hide it. He had a job to get back to—a new team to meet and he couldn’t afford to waste any more time with this. Covering it up seemed the best option.

So he went about his life, starting with the 141. He fit like a glove and they never pressed about the mask. It was perfect.

Until the day one of them saw. An enemy had gotten too close, their knife made quick work of the fabric before ghost broke their neck. When he turned around it was gaz watching him—watching the way his teeth shifted to points before disappearing completely, leaving gaping, bloody holes in his mouth, watching the way his lips would peel back in a Glasgow smile before restitching themselves.

Ghost had come to expect the screams, the way people would ward him off like he was some demon, the aggression that wasn’t very far behind.

So when all gaz said was just a sec, lt, I have a spare mask in my pack just in case, after a quick double take, ghost was floored.

Where was the cursing and screaming and crying?

But gaz acted like it was just another day, pulling out the spare mask he’d stuck down in his pack ages ago just in case it was ever needed, handing it over to ghost once he shook it out.

And ghost waited for the other shoe to drop. 30 seconds, 5 minutes, 2 days—nothing. Gaz just didn’t care. He didn’t bring it up or make innuendos about it. It was business as usual.

And for the first time ghost felt like he might belong. That the 141 just may be the home he wasn’t aware he was searching for.

Now to break it to the other two. He bet he could make soap scream if he played his cards right.

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risenlikethedead · 9 hours ago

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Same mace...same...

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risenlikethedead · 9 hours ago

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Thinking about Johnny helping you unlearn shame about receiving head by letting you free use his face. He surprises even himself, the level of patience he displays training you, starting where you're comfortable with his head buried under your blanket and the lights off. It's embarrassing, both the prospect and the measures he has to take for your benefit, but he's so enthusiastic it's hard to stay so wound up about it all, letting him drown himself between your plush thighs with a growing eagerness.

It's a slow build, easing you into asking him to eat it from the back because you want unimpeded access to your clit; to putting him on his knees in the kitchen because the competence with which he fixed the fan above the oven had left you far too eager, far too close to your morning departure time. The way he moaned when he felt you grind across his tongue had left you jelly-legged, propped up only by his strong arms. You don't have that luxury some minutes later when you have to beg for a seat on the train because the pic he sends of his soiled pants has the same effect.

You grab him by the handle for it that night, fingers sinking into his mohawk while you ride his face until you hear his breaths come short, buried in your cunt. He never taps out, simply huffs his through his nose when he can, never once complaining about your ticklish hair.

(Honestly he seems to love even that, your scent heady on him for hours after. You catch him jacking off with your panties when you're through with him, the salty remnants of sweat along the hem pressed close to his nose. It makes you squirm, implacably shocked.

It makes you want to stuff them in his mouth, tease the both of you by riding his useless, suppressed tongue.)

And then I'm thinking about him being so proud of your progress that he can't help but show you off, letting you straddle his head right in front of the boys when the film chosen for movie night gets a little too risque, the display tempting you to rock against your own thighs. That simply won't do, hen, Johnny says, tilting his head against the back of the couch invitingly.

Johnny's a good teacher, shame far from your mind as the other boys lose rapid interest in the movie, much too engrossed in this new entertainment and you can't help but whimper your gratitude when strong hand help guide you, lift and pull you onto the plush lips of a new mouth when you're still wound up but Johnny needs a breather

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risenlikethedead · 9 hours ago

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Normalize this response

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risenlikethedead · 9 hours ago

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I read an AITA post a few weeks back about a woman who liked having snacks in the bath when she's had a long day (a result of residual trauma iirc - the bath was her safe space). Her brand new husband of three weeks, a man twice her age who had no job, made her pay all of his bills and do all housework, and spent all day every day gaming because he wanted to make it as a Twitch streamer, had always been fine with this; but, on the day in question, had whisked her bath snacks out of her hands as she was on her way to the bathroom and tried to bin them, telling her it was time to 'break her of that filthy habit in his home'. She told him if he ever actually paid anything towards the house she owns outright he might get a say, took her snacks back, and had her lovely bath. He was since giving her the silent treatment.

(Obviously the judgement was an avalanche of 'NTA and also he's abusing you', which she agreed with, and decided to kick him out, so happy ending.)

Anyway I told my husband about this and he was outraged. "I would never do that!" he told me, furious. "I would find it adorable if you had bath snacks!"

Since then, every time I try to have a bath (which I only do as a rare treat) after about ten minutes there has been an anxious scrabbling at the bathroom door.

"Elanor!" he says. "Do you have bath snacks? Do you need anything?"

My answer is irrelevant. He brings me wine and poptarts. Now I have bath snacks. I'm a bath snacks person. Last time he was literally sleeping on the sofa when I went for the bath. Somehow this still happened. I now have an eager bathroom butler. How did this happen. I have never been so decadent yet bewildered.

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risenlikethedead · 9 hours ago

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Being the only female on TF141 is like Simon constantly scolding you for getting into sheningans with Johnny and Kyle while Price sits on his arm chair with a good book, whiskey in hand and him puffing out smoke like a chimney from his cigar like the daddy he is.

"Delete it."

"Why?"

"Cos I fockin' said so."

You cock an amused brow at him as you look up from the embarrassingly cute photo of the skull-masked behemoth fast sleep and cuddling your Hello Kitty plushie. "Cos y'fockin' said so?" You mock his gravelly Manchester accent and it sends Johnny and Kyle into a fit of giggles. And even Price is chuffed by it. It's contagious really.

It lets your guard down enough for him to yank your phone out of your hand deleting the picture with a swiftness that made your eyes ream and your heart jump. You all groan and jeer at him for being a poor sport but he's quite satisfied with himself. Little does he know, you have a few copies of it in your desktop.

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risenlikethedead · 9 hours ago

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P1 P3

With the train ride now over, the sergeants ran, scouring the market for two familiar faces. Their footsteps in sync, crunching delicate mounds of white snow. Soap broke through the crowd first, then Gaz and Gary were right with him.

“Where the hell are they?” Gaz pants out, his breaths misting in the cold air.

“You said the marketplace,” Soap huffs.

“Yeah, I said the marketplace, but it's not like I know exactly where they went!” Gaz snaps back.

While the two sergeants bicker, Roach quietly breaks away, scanning the area until he spots the familiar figures they’d been hunting for. Price and Ghost stand outside a cigar shop, deep in conversation. The satisfied grin on Price's face tells Roach everything—he got what he was after.

“They’re over there!” Roach exclaims, snapping his partners out of their lovers' quarrel.

Gaz and Soap go silent, their eyes following Roach’s line of sight until they, too, spot their Lieutenant and Captain.

In a heartbeat, the three of them are sprinting toward their unsuspecting targets. Soap grins like a madman, practically buzzing with mischief, while Gaz shakes his head, both amused and slightly wary of what might unfold. Roach, meanwhile, is simply thrilled to be along for the ride.

They skid to a stop right in front of the two men, chests heaving as they catch their breath in the biting winter air.

“The hell is wrong with you lot?” Price’s voice cuts through, laced with a mix of annoyance and bemusement as he shifts his attention from Ghost to the winded sergeants.

Ghost, arms crossed, eyes them with quiet scrutiny. His winter coat does little to conceal his bulky frame, a silent reminder of his imposing presence as he stands beside Price.

Price and Ghost waited for an explanation, knowing well everytime those three got together, they were definitely up to no good.

Like how they put semi-permanent green dye in Ghost's shampoo for Halloween.

“We… we saw. A kid with your face,” Gaz manages, still catching his breath, pointing straight at Ghost.

Ghost raises a brow, baffled. A kid with his face? What the hell did that mean? Did they think he looked like a baby?

Soap huffs in mock disappointment, shooting a playful glare at Gaz. “Oi, I wanted to say it!”

Predictably, the two dive into another back-and-forth. Gaz isn’t one to shout, but Soap has a talent for riling anyone up.

Price lets their little show go on for only a moment before his stern voice cuts in, slicing through their bickering. “One of you properly explain, or you'll be walking back to base.”

Roach steps up, eager to clarify. “There’s a kid, probably about two, and she looks exactly like the Lt. Scowl, glare, and all!”

Price and Ghost pause, their expressions twisting as they both try—and fail—to imagine a little girl with Simon’s permanent scowl.

Price shudders, shaking the thought from his head. “That is not a face a kid should have.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Gaz chimes in, nodding emphatically.

Ghost throws him an offended look, his usually hardened eyes showing a glimmer of hurt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” they all exclaim in unison, even Price, who quickly averts his gaze as Ghost’s glare narrows on him.

Ghost huffs, then crosses his arms. “Did you take a picture?”

Soap snorts, leaning against the wall with a smirk. “Aye, right, 'cause that wouldnae be creepy at all.”

Ghost stares daggers Into Soap, rolling his eyes and pushing himself off the wall. “Okay, then where is she?”

The three stooges lead the charge once again, this time with their Captain and Lieutenant in tow. They weave through the crowd toward the train park, where Soap eagerly scans for the woman and kid he’d spotted earlier. But the line they were in is empty, the pair nowhere to be found.

“Shite. I think they’re gone,” Soap mutters, his Scottish accent thickening in his frustration, the words rolling out with a clipped bite.

“So the imaginary woman and kid don’t actually exist,” Ghost deadpans, unimpressed.

“They exist!” Gaz insists, voice edging on exasperation.

“Sure,” Ghost replies, his tone flat and thoroughly unconvinced.

Roach snickers, then glances over at Price—only to see him staring slack-jawed through the window of a nearby café, his cigar dangling from his mouth, forgotten.

“Cap?” Roach says, touching the older man’s shoulder.

Price doesn’t look away, nodding toward the café. “Found them.”

Everyone turns toward the café, eyes landing on you and Adira. The little girl is happily weaving between your legs, her tiny hands gripping your coat as she entertains herself, all while you order hot chocolates to fend off the winter chill. A soft smile touches your lips as you watch her play, blissfully unaware of the audience gathering just outside.

The barista, with a warm smile, hands over two cups, one with a little extra marshmallows for Adira, her voice bright as she wishes you both a merry Christmas. You take the cups with a grateful nod, handing one to Adira. She immediately takes her drink, sipping eagerly, her small feet bouncing on her heels from the sugar rush.

“Yummy?” You ask, glancing down at her with a soft smile, a wave of motherly pride swelling in your chest as you watch her delight in the simple joy of her drink.

Adira nods eagerly, her eyes lighting up as she pulls away from her straw with a satisfied sigh. “Yummy.”

With a soft chuckle, you both leave the warmth of the shop, stepping out into the crisp air. Hand in hand, you walk back toward the park, the world around you feeling peaceful despite the cold. As you reach the crosswalk, you stop, waiting for the light to turn. Adira looks up at you, her little face filled with contentment as she swings your joined hands back and forth, her sugary energy still buzzing.

Across the way, the team stood frozen, unable to look away from the scene unfolding before them. Everyone but Ghost was struck by how much Adira looked like him—her features unmistakably mirroring his, save for the color of her hair and skin. The resemblance was uncanny, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world had stopped around them.

“She looks nothing like me,” Ghost stated plainly, his voice cutting through the stillness as though it were fact. His expression was unmoving, a wall of stubbornness in his eyes. He was ready to die on that hill.

Then, as fate would have it, a woman walking her dog passed by, and Adira’s cherub-like face hardened into a cold, calculating stare. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

“Nevermind,” Ghost muttered, his earlier conviction faltering as he watched her shift before his eyes.

“So… you’ve been having fun these past years?” Roach asked, his gaze flicking between Adira and Ghost, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Not that I know of,” Ghost grunted, his eyes still locked on you and Adira, a mix of unease and something else flickering across his face. He couldn’t pull himself away.

“Let’s get closer,” Price commanded, already making his move. Soap and Roach exchanged a shrug, falling in line without hesitation.

“Excuse me?” Gaz sputtered, though his body had already begun moving before his brain could catch up, unable to defy the Captain’s order.

Ghost fell silent, teeth gritted. This wasn’t a situation he was used to, especially not one where he was forced to go in blind. He stood stiffly at the crosswalk, trying to hide his glances, his focus split between the team and you.

Soap ended up the closest, standing just next to Adira. The little girl paused, her big, doe-like eyes lifting from her drink to catch sight of him. The recognition was instant. Her lips pursed into a small line, and her gaze grew heavy with annoyance.

“Ugee…” she whispered, scooting closer to you.

Soap froze, his mind stuttering for a moment. Did she just—? Did she call me ugly?

Gaz, standing behind him, couldn’t contain himself. A muffled laugh broke through as Soap turned to look at the others, wide-eyed and speechless, completely taken aback.

“Do ye lot think I'm ugly?” Soap asked, his voice thick with disbelief, clearly thrown off by the little girl's words.

“Not the time, Mctavish,” Price said, a tiny laugh tugging at the corner of his lips despite the situation.

The streetlight flickered green, signaling it was time to move. You adjusted yourself, ready to cross the street. Each member of the team started mentally preparing, unsure of how—or even if—they should approach you. Ghost, however, was the first to make a move, determined to intercept you. But Soap, ever the opportunist, beat him to it.

Ghost wasn’t exactly subtle, and having him try anything would probably send you running in the opposite direction.

“Excuse me, aren’t you the lady from the train?” Soap called out, his voice light, though his intentions were clear.

You paused at his interruption, recognition flickering in your eyes. You remembered the man who bumped into you earlier. “Yes? Is something the matter?”

“Do you happen to know where I could find Leslies?” Soap asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice, though he tried to mask it.

“The pub?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Soap confirmed, his face lighting up with a mix of relief and surprise at your easy response.

You look around for a moment, trying to remember and see the street names of your current location. “Uh…it should be about a couple blocks south from here. They have a big sign, you can't miss it.”

Thank God for Soap, because that one question was all he needed to keep you trapped in a conversation, his charm working its magic as you giggled and chatted away easily, the awkwardness of the situation melting away.

Meanwhile, Ghost’s attention shifted to Adira. He looked down at her, and she, almost instinctively, looked up at him. Their eyes locked in a silent staring contest, each of them studying the other. The intensity in their gaze was undeniable, both sets of eyes reflecting the same quiet, unwavering strength. It was like looking in a mirror—a mirror that mirrored back his own hardened stare and no-nonsense attitude.

Adira was, quite literally, his mini me. The resemblance was impossible to ignore.

“How old are you?” Ghost asked bluntly, his voice low as he kneeled down to Adira’s height, his gaze intense but trying to soften.

Adira paused for a moment, glancing up at you for help, but you were still caught up in conversation with Soap. She turned her focus back to Ghost, her small fingers fidgeting with the hem of her coat as she murmured shyly, “Two…”

She was two. Two. Ghost’s mind raced, trying to piece together the details, but nothing clicked. Nearly three years ago… what had he done three years ago? He kept everything categorized, stored in his mind like a well-organized file system, but this was something that didn’t fit.

Then, Soap’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“You don’t seem like the type of lass to frequent Leslies.”

You giggled, a soft blush creeping up your cheeks at Soap’s question. He wasn’t wrong… at least, not entirely. “I’ve only been to Leslie’s once, and, well… it’s how I ended up with my little blessing.” You glanced down at Adira, the warmth of your smile radiating as you spoke.

Everything shattered in that moment. Ghost’s stomach twisted painfully, his heart skipping a beat as the realization slammed into him like a freight train. Leslie's. Almost three years ago, during that stupid holiday.

His mind began to piece it together, the hazy memories from that night slowly coming into focus. He remembered the bar, the laughter, the way you had caught his attention. You were easy on the eyes, easy to make laugh, and most importantly—unlike everyone else. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry, you just let him lead, let him slip into the night with no strings attached.

But now, as he looked at Adira, everything fell into place. The way she stared at him, those familiar eyes, the resemblance he couldn’t ignore. His breath hitched, and the weight of the truth crushed him—she was his daughter.

A knot formed in his throat as he tried to process the fact. Adira. His daughter. The little girl standing before him was his flesh and blood, the result of a moment he'd long since buried in the depths of his mind.

---

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