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mockerycrow · 2 years ago

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Emergency Contact (1/2) (Ghost x GN!Reader)

>> emergency contact concept here << PART TWO HERE!!

Summary: Simon is your roommate, and you haven’t seen each other in months, considering Simon’s job. An unfamiliar number pops up on Simon’s phone, and answering it makes his world turn upside down.

A/N: How you two moved in together is very vaguely inspired this ghost fic right here. please give it a read! If you finish the song above, I highly recommend listening to the entire album while reading. i’m not the happiest with this, but i’m happy enough to post!

[WARNINGS: Blood and injury, traumatic events/trauma brought up, gore, little comfort, medical inaccuracies, tbh ooc simon but it’s ok.]

Eight months, thirteen days, and nine hours. That’s how long it’s been since he’s been home, since he’s seen you. That’s how long he’s been stuck on base, or thrown into a foreign country to complete some mission, or to gather some intel, or to kill someone, just somewhere, anywhere but with you.

Eight months, thirteen days, and nine hours. That’s how long it’s been since you softly asked him to stay as safe as he can, and to come back alive, and to come back with at least eight fingers. It was a running joke between you two, a way to relieve the terrifying reality of his job; as long as Simon came home alive and with majority of his fingers, he could consider it a job well done. You didn’t know much of his job, of course—only that he’s military, and he’s gone a lot. You already guessed it was a lot of classified stuff, probably down top secret government type of things. That did make you scared, though. You didn’t want the day to come, the day where people in fancy uniforms show up at your doorstep like you’re some widow. The thought of someone informing you of Simon’s death makes your stomach twist.

Eight months is admittedly a long time. Simon.. he missed you, but he’s rather die that verbally admit it, but he sure as hell felt it. He missed the way he could hear you walk through the house, the weight of the floorboards creaking up your feet. Simon missed walking by the bathroom and the air vaguely smelled your shampoo and body wash, a clear indicator you had just taken a shower. Simon missed the way you carelessly have your shoes next to the shoe rack, not even on it, and despite his annoyance of your laziness? He misses it every single time he’s away. He never really realizes the difference of living on base versus being home with you, and he’s comfortable in both environments for completely different reasons. Simon is comfortable with you because you’re safe, you aren’t associated with anyone he has to deal with on a near daily basis. You don’t scan the kitchen to see which household items could be potential bombs in the vicinity like he does. On base, Simon finds comfort in the familiarity of being constantly on alert, the need for a gun to be against his hip—it’s not the best, considering he’s in fight mode majority of the time, but it’s comforting. It’s familiar. It’s.. home, in a way.

You and Simon call at least once every three weeks—it’s not more because you’re both busy, you have your life to tend to while he has to do something like protecting an American Embassy, or sneaking into a compound to retrieve some vital information. You two talk about all kinds of things; you complain about the neighbors for the nth time, or you talk about your job, just something that he hasn’t heard about in a while. Simon.. he’s limited on what he can talk about—what he wants to talk about. It’s a bit difficult, keeping details of his job hidden away from you. He also keeps you hidden away from them; his team. Price vaguely is aware of your existence, but all he knows is your name and your phone number—someone to alert when he eventually would pass away.

It surprised Price when he requested access to his own file to make a change. Simon went for years without anyone in that section, leaving it blank—and then suddenly ‘[Name] [Last Name]’ is written down, along with your phone number. Simon doesn’t want to die somewhere and then you sit at home, dreading the fact that you haven’t received a call from him for over six months. Other than that, no one is aware of your existence and he wants to keep it that way. It keeps you safe, and he doesn’t want the one thing he has going in his life to be taken away from him—not like everything else has been.

No, you and Simon aren’t together. You just are the one constant he cannot allow to die. How you and Simon became close was rather funny, really—before you were roommates, you bumped into each other at the local stores, the bank, even several public spaces like parks and such. You didn’t see him too often and you weren’t aware on why, but you didn’t really wonder why either. By this point, you knew each other for a couple of months. He introduced himself as SR—not Ghost or Simon, but as SR. You didn’t bother to question it because this tall, bulky man seemed like he was trying keep himself as anonymous as possible. Without fail, you always saw him wear dark colored clothing that hid any identifiable markings—tattoos and scars, that kind of thing. He usually has his hood up with a black face mask covering his nose down, but you do know one thing—he has to have bright blonde hair. Why else would his beautiful eyelashes and eyebrows be that bright? It would catch your eye every time you’d see them. Sometimes you would see him with a beanie on and the mask, with his hood down. This wasn’t too often, as it exposed some scarring he has on the back of his neck, as well as his forehead. This also silently lead you to believe he has a tough past of some sort, which is confirmed when you run into him somewhere you never expected to—your therapist’s building. You bumped into him right outside, and you apologized profusely before looking and going silent as you made eye contact.

A silent agreement was made between you two that day, one that you could never put into words. Something in that moment that dragged you two closer together. You had been through some shit in your life, shit that had permanent effect on you, shit that you wanted to work through. It was horribly tiring, but you knew you needed to work through it—so you could live a life you felt was worth living. Simon, was on the other side of the spectrum. He didn’t want this. He never wanted to tell anyone about anything, but Price, Price fucking made him. Simon spends his days and nights plagued with nightmares and memories—he’s woken up in the middle of the night enough times to know that he needs help, but he was so adamant about not talking to anyone about it. But seeing you there? Someone who he hasn’t known for long, someone who had always greeted him with a smile on your face, laughter spilling from your beautiful vocal cords, and someone who doesn’t touch him without permission? It made him so angry and hopeless about this world. Not even you, a stranger who he sees as the best human being he’s known in a while—despite not knowing you for long—could escape from the cruel and sharp jaws of the world. You found out you two accidentally scheduled the same days, so it became an unspoken agreement to wait for the other outside of the building so you can both go in. Even when you weren’t sure when his next appointment would be, you’d be right outside of that building, waiting for him. You would always be right there, and that’s something he quickly learned.

You lost your house to a fire, everything went with the burning embers that raged inside of the 4 walls of your previous home, the structure collapsing in on itself. You had gotten out in time, and you numbly watched the fire roar, the crackling burning it’s memory in your ears. The piercing sound of different sirens were approaching, but all you could do is stand there with your phone in your hand, watching the home you worked so hard for burn to the foundation built years ago. You felt a hand on your shoulder, but you didn’t bother to turn to see who it was. Everything was going so slow, almost like a movie scene in the worst way possible. Your nostrils burned from the smell of burning wood, drywall, and installation. The hand squeezed your shoulder and you slowly looked at who it was—and was him. Simon. His eyebrows were furrowed, eyes ever so slightly panicked and it was obvious he was asking you something, but you didn’t hear him. All you could focus on was that he was here. You blinked rapidly as your eyes began to burn from the smoke and from that choked feeling going from your chest to your throat. “I..” You croak ever so slightly. You couldn’t hold it back—you quickly grabbed onto Simon desperately, letting out a heart-wrenching sob because you just lost everything you owned, every memory, every piece of furniture, everything.. but he was here. He was the only thing was wasn’t crumbling away from your grasp, the only constant. Once you clung to him, Simon’s senses were flooded with you. Fuck, your touch burned, just like everyone’s else’s but he liked—no, loved how it felt. Despite the image of a burning house in his wake making dread bubble in his gut, your sobs and touch were the only thing he could focus on. Simon hesitates for only a second before pulling you into his personal space, his arms wrapping around you and weighing heavily on your body. Neither of you spoke, he just let you scream into his chest and sob, your fists gently banging against his chest—the anger, the sadness, everything was too much. Simon knew exactly how you were feeling, so he didn’t mind the twinges of pain your hands produced. Simon was the one who helped you while you chatted with the paramedics and the police. He was the one who helped you find your words when you had none left to share, the smell of the smoke imprinted on your clothes.

Without question, Simon took you to his house. He did not have another bed set up, so he had you sleep in his room while he slept on his couch. He hated the hollow look your eyes held, the way you were delayed with your answers, the ways your hands shook. Your everlasting smile had dissipated into a wobbly frown and he.. Simon couldn’t handle it. He grabbed you some of his clothes and helped you into his bathroom, quietly telling you to take a shower. He’ll take care of your clothes. Simon left you alone, and you showered for a long time. He didn’t count, but it was over an hour and a half. Simon didn’t say anything about you possibly racking up his bill, how could he when you had just lost everything? He wanted to.. to help you, and he wasn’t sure why. Even when he found himself scrubbing your smoke and tar covered clothes in his kitchen sink, he couldn’t find an exact reason why he wanted to help you. Maybe it’s because you made him feel human when he needed to be, maybe you were the one thing that kept him coming back to this town, the one thing that kept him from completely pulling away from the civilian world. You had found him in a corner like a dog, lips curled back and snarling—sharp teeth clashing together, and without a word, you gave him reasons to trust you. Although they may not be.. normal reasons to the regular eye, but they were enough for Simon.

You’re enough for Simon. He scrubbed your clothes until his arms burned, and then some.

That’s when he found out that you too, were also someone who could not stay asleep for long. When Simon awoke with his adrenaline pumping from the muffled sound of vomiting, he had to calm himself down because he’s safe, and you’re safe, most of all. Simon isn’t sure when he began to think that way, but it’s one of the many things he’s decided to not question—which also new for him. Simon is man who demands answers, yet with you? it’s like everything naturally falls into place, which is why he doesn’t complain when your stay at his house—which you swore would only be until you gathered enough money for an apartment—turned from a two week stay, to Simon carrying in an IKEA bed frame to put and assemble in one of his empty rooms. Many sleepless nights came and went, and each and every one you spent them with each other, sitting by a windowsill together, other times spending it in the backyard and looking at the sky. Sometimes you would wake up first, sometimes it would be him. You somehow always knew when he had woken up from a nightmare, his heart pounding in his ears—until your hands grab his and squeeze, to ground him. You burn him, and he welcomes the tickle of your ever-glowing flame. A year into this arrangement, Simon finally shows you his face and he appreciates that you don’t look at him any different. He usually hates the searching eyes, trying to memorize every inch of his face—but he’s greedy when you do it. When your eyes roam over every scar and acne scar, when you point out his messily cut hair and half-assed shaven stubble, he doesnt get angry. Simon doesn’t feel suffocated by your glances. He doesn’t wear his mask at home anymore, not when you’re there.

Then Simon gets the notice about his three month leave ending soon; and he knows that you need to know about his job. Or at least, the bare minimum you need to know. In reality, it’s how much he wants you to know, but he doesn’t want to admit that. He sits you down one morning, a cup of tea in his hand and he had a mug of your favorite morning drink on the other side of the table he had bought a few weeks you started staying here. Simon explains that he has a job in the military, that he can’t tell you much, but it means he’s going to be gone for weeks, even months at a time. You’re at a loss at first, because who is going to have an extremely positive reaction to “by the way, I work an extremely dangerous job and I can’t tell you anything and I’ll be gone for a while.. Oh yeah, you likely won’t know if I die!”? Despite your initial reaction, you grow to be okay with this situation. Or, we’ll, as okay as you can be with it. You also find out that he was here for way longer than he originally is, due to his boss demanding him to take a break—AKA, “go to therapy you dafty”.

For a little over two years, you two fell into a good rhythm. A call every three weeks, him coming home and you becoming the safest space he’s ever had in his life.

Which is why when his personal cell phone begins to vibrate in his pocket during some fuck-all meeting, his eyebrows furrow. The number is unfamiliar, but the area code is not. Simon quietly excuses himself from the extended round table, taking his call outside of the meeting room. Price’s eyes follow his figure as he exits, noticing it’s his personal cell phone in his hand. Simon answers the call and presses his phone against his masked ear, muttering a low, “Hello?”

A high-pitched, soft yet serious voice filters through the speaker, a woman. “Hi, is this Mr. Riley?”

Simon pauses, and so does his heart. “Who’s asking?”

He honestly regrets asking that in the moment—one part of him genuinely wishes he never answered this call, and the other part of him is glad he did. “I’m a nurse from Northern Manchester Community Hospital, you’re written down as [Name]’s emergency contact. They’ve been a victim of a hit and run situation, sir. They’re alive, but they’re in the ICU.” The nausea that suddenly bubbles inside of his guys, the stomach acid mixed with whatever he had eaten previously, threatening to travel up his esophagus, burn every inch and then exit with a horrific sound. Simon’s head began to spin—he’s your emergency contact? A hit and run, you were fucking hit?? By what, a car? A pick-up? A semi? God, Simon has seen the most horrible, gruesome, fucked up shit you would ever see in his entire life, yet he isn’t sure if he can handle the image of you spread out in a hospital bed, with one too many tubes circulating around you. His mind plagues him with intrusive images, ones he never wants to actually see played out. Fuck, his head hurts. It feels like someone is physically shoving a knife into his chest and twisting it, like God is laughing at him and playing with Simon’s pain for his own gain. How could he not think that, especially with everything that has happened to him? His friends, his family? His old CO? The fucking abuse he endured??

It’s like Simon lost his hearing for a moment, because he cannot bare fucking losing you, too. There’s a vague ringing in his ears, almost like there was an explosion and he stood too close. And then suddenly every sound comes rushing back to his eardrums, and everything suddenly everything is so fucking overwhelming. “Mr. Riley?” The nurse calls over the phone, her tone laced with worry. He clears his throat and when he speaks, he sounds wrecked, which he fucking hates. “I.. I’ll come as soon as I can.” Simon hangs up, not giving the nurse a moment to speak. He drops his phone and if he doesn’t sit down, he’s going to fall over like a tree that’s been cut down. Simon lets out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way his stomach is screaming and twisting as he puts a hand on the wall, and he crouches down. It’s the first time he doesn’t look around to see if anyone is watching his sudden display of emotion. When he’s suddenly rocked with the feeling of home at work, especially with the news that you’re fucking injured—he’s overwhelmed and twisted all over the place. Simon finds himself stumbling back to his barracks.

Price finds his way to him after Simon never returns to the meeting. He knocks on the door, but his knuckles pause before they can knock against the door for the third time as he discovers the door is open—which is very, very, odd. He slowly opens the door while calling for Ghost, and is met with the sight of Simon shoving some of his clothes and belongings into a duffle bag, as well as his military travel documents. “Ghost?” Price questions, who stopped in his doorway to watch Simon lose his mind while packing. Simon doesn’t respond as he practically rips his phone charger out of the wall and stuffs it into the bag, zipping it up. He slings it over his shoulder and he turns around, pausing when he sees Price. Simon’s eyes tell everything he’s feeling—that something’s happened, something bad, and he needs to leave. Price bites his lip and quietly exhales, his fingers rubbing at his chin. “I’ll approve your leave. Just shoot me a text of how long it needs to be, yeah?”

Simon makes sure to note to send Price a thank you of some sort, because within the next two hours, Simon is boarding a plane, heading for Manchester, wearing some black clothing, a jacket, a black face mask, gloves, and his beanie. The entire time, he could not stop thinking about you—and how you could possibly die before he got there to send off his final goodbyes. Is that something he would actually want to do, though? See you in the hospital, knowing it’ll be the last place you’d ever be alive in? Go home, see how you left the house exactly as you left it? A house, but without his home in it? Simon stares out the airplane window blankly, his hands curled into fists, and his nails would be digging into his palms if he didn’t have gloves on.

He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

The next part for Simon, it’s a blur again. Got off the plane, got his luggage, provided documentation, blah blah blah—he didn’t give a fuck about any of it. His focus was you. He didn’t bother to stop home to drop his stuff off, he took an Uber straight to the hospital from the airport. It was a fairly expensive Uber too, but he could worry about the costs of everything later. It took another half hour to get there.

His heart began to hammer in his chest as the sight of the hospital’s signs began to pop up on the road, the anxiety taking hold in his stomach and his head begins to hurt again. Simon quietly thanks the driver, tips them, and exits the car with a swiftness once they pull up. Simon walks through the main entrance’s sliding doors, going up to the desk. A woman behind the counter hangs up the phone, murmuring a goodbye, and then she looks at Simon with her pretty blue eyes. “How can I help you, sir?” She murmurs sweetly, noting how anxious he is. She can see the sweat on his brow line. Simon clears his throat, his voice rumbling in his chest when he speaks. It takes everything in him to not yell at this innocent woman and get thrown out. “My.. My name is Mr. Riley, I was called ‘cause my friend is here,” Simon manages to push out. “[Name] [Last Name].” The woman turns to her computer and clicks the couple of buttons and types a couple of words and holy fuck, Simon just wants to go to your wing already—“Ah, yes, I see you’re listed as their emergency contact,” The woman grabs a sticky note and writes with a pink pen your room number and elevator floor, handing it to Simon. He barely gets a “thank you” out before he nearly jogs to the nearby elevator. Fourth floor, room 283. Fourth floor, room 283. Fourth floor, room 283—it’s the longest minute long elevator ride in his entire fucking life.

Simon changes face masks whilst facing the wall, and then he finds your room number—and his heart is beating out of his chest. There’s cops standing outside of your room who stop him from entering. Simon’s anger flares up so quickly, he nearly makes a scene until a doctor exits your room. She’s wearing her usual blue scrubs, her coat, and she’s dawning a N95 and some sterile gloves. She’s holding a clipboard. “Mr. Riley?” She questions, holding the clipboard close to her chest. Simon nods without hesitation, and she responds, “I’m sorry, but due to the nature of this case, you’ll have to provide some identification for me and these officers.”

Usually, Simon would hesitate—he gives anyone outside of his team the bare minimum, hell, he only introduced himself as SR until he knew you for a while. This time, he takes out his military ID and shows it to the officers. He ignores their looks of surprise, and ignores the murmurs that come from them. Simon puts his ID away and he holds back the urge to shove them out of the way as he glares down at the doctor on accident. “Come in,” The doctor opens the sliding door and steps into the hospital ICU room with him. Simon follows behind her and he immediately smells the sickening smell only the ICU gives off. There’s a small wall blocking his view from you that he hasn’t past, and he can already hear the machines working. A heart monitor, a ventilator, combined with other machines he doesn’t know too well. The doctor flips through the papers pinned to her clipboard. “They were hit by a vehicle of some sort, the scene suggested they were walking home from the local corner store. [Name] has multiple broken bones and fractures, a punctured lung, a fractured jaw and internal bleeding. They lost a lot of blood at the scene.” Simon doesn’t respond as he slowly walks forward, and he finally lays his eyes on you. It’s.. traumatizing, to say the least. You were never supposed to be in a hospital bed like this, hooked up to machines he can’t even name. He slowly walks over to you, dropping his duffel bag somewhere on the floor. He doesn’t care to look where. Simon barely pays attention to what the doctor is saying—his hands tremble as he stands by your side, his heart thumping harshly in his chest. Fuck.

He drags over one of the chairs next to your bed. Simon takes off one of his gloves slowly, and then he tears the other one off in a frenzy. He feels so unlike himself, so.. different.. human. He reaches over to your hand and his fingers grab your wrist, so gentle as if you’re glass. Simon presses his fingers against your pulse point, counting your heartbeats despite the monitor. The thumping under your skin makes it more.. real. Feeling you, your heartbeat, your warmth and your skin—it’s comforting. Simon clears his throat and fights the urge to vomit once a gain, watching your chest rise and fall, produced by the ventilator.

He moves his hand to intertwine with your fingers and he uses his other hand to feel your pulse. Simon closes his eyes, muttering the beats per minute under his breath.

At least you’re alive—you’re here, you’re alive, and you’re with him. And that’s all he asks for.

tags;; @alwaystired--neversleeping @handsomeunderwear-art @indefenseofkara @kaysav608 @1-is-loneliest-number @rosee-sensuelle @kitty-satan1 @k4marina @rahmown @royalty-purple @bowtruckleninja — if you are not tagged, it’s not allowing me :-)

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clancycatears · 5 days ago

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FIVE MORE MINUTES (Gaz x GN!Reader)

gaz masterlist

five minutes. just five more. that can't be too bad, right?

cw: MDNI (18+), pet names, domestic!gaz, established relationship, kissing, fluff to smut, backshots, overstimulation, gaz is a bit of a meanie in bed, brat & brat taming if you squint, second-person pov.

a/n: two posts in one day?!?! (had a spur i guess). yet again inspired by an instagram post. this is also my first smut write so feedback is appreciated! anyways i need him your honor.

; 900 words.

The alarm blares, the noise shrill and unrelenting, but you hardly stir until you feel the mattress shift. You whine as Kyle's warmth leaves your side, your eyes fluttering open just to squint through the morning haze to look for him.

He's already out of bed and halfway dressed, pulling a black t-shirt over his toned chest. He moves quietly, cautiously, so as to not wake you. Though it's too late for that now.

He turns to you, noticing the sleepy pout that adorned your face. He strides up to the edge of the bed, leaning down over you to press a quick peck to your forehead. "Be back in a couple of hours, love. Go back to sleep."

The sheets are already cold, and the idea of drifting off without him beside you feels impossible.

You reach out, fingers curling around his wrist. "Five more minutes," you beg, tugging him gently. "Please."

He hesitates, eyes glancing to the alarm clock before returning to you. "I really have to go, sweets," he says, but the way his eyes soften give him away.

When you tug once more, this time more firmly, he lets out a long-suffering sigh and slides back under the covers. You curl into his chest, a small smile curving your lips. You savor his warmth when his arms embrace you once more.

"Y'know the lads will give me hell if I'm late," he mutters, but his hand trails up and down your back slowly.

You smile into his neck. "Worth it."

The rain pounds against the window, a mix of heavy and light drops trailing down the glass.

It's perfect weather for staying indoors, but Kyle is already tugging on his boots, ready to brave the storm for a supply run. He adjusts his jacket, and then double-checks his gear, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag before turning to you with a determined expression. "Won't be long, love. Promise."

You lean against the doorframe, eyes dragging over to the window to examine the gloomy skies outside of it. "It's pouring out there," you point out, crossing your arms. "Soap can wait, yeah? Five more minutes?"

Kyle's gaze flicks to the rain, then back to you. A brief battle waged in his eyes. "N’ you say I'm bad at excuses," he teases, but the playful grin on his lips softens when you step closer.

"Please?" you press. "It's miserable out there." You tug lightly on his jacket.

He sighs dramatically, but his arms slip around your waist, tugging you closer. "Five minutes," he relents, his voice low.

You grin, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips.

Five minutes becomes ten, then twenty, and by the time you're curled up on the couch together, the bag long forgotten, Kyle just mutters, "Never stood a bloody chance, did I?"

You nestle closer to his chest. "Nope."

Kyle's jacket hangs loosely over his shoulders, the leather worn and familiar. He glances at his phone, muttering something about Soap blowing up the group chat with taunts about being late.

You watch him from the couch, arms folded as he tugged the jacket snug. He catches your eye and flashes a quick smile. "Don't wait up, yeah?"

But you stand, crossing the room and sliding your arms around his neck. "Five more minutes?" you murmur, giving him your best puppy eyes.

Kyle raises a brow, but his smirk betrays him. "You're not playing fair," he mutters, though his hands come up to rest on your hips. You press closer, inhaling the scent of his cologne and faint gunpowder, savoring the feel of him.

"Come on, Kyle, the boys can wait," you coax, lips brushing his jawline.

He groans, but it's a good-natured noise. His jacket slips off his shoulders as he tugs you back towards the couch. He drops down and pulls you into his lap. "Five minutes," he warns.

The bed creaks, headboard bumping against the wall with every rough movement of the mattress.

You cling to a pillow under your chest with one hand, the other digging into the bedsheets beside your head.

Kyle slams his hips against you from behind, a wail leaving your lips as a jolt of pleasure rocked your spine, causing your knees to quiver with the attempt to hold your bottom half up.

He grunts, gripping your hips as wet slap after wet slap fills the room with every mean thrust of his hips. He bullied his cock into you over and over again, causing your brain to malfunction.

Your head spins as you reach your third peak of the night, coming harshly as Kyle pounded you right through it. Your hand flexed against the bedsheets. "Kyle—Kyle, please—" you choke out, breathless. "S'too much—"

His form leaned over your back, a hand leaving your hip to find yours. He intertwined your fingers together, before pressing your palm right back against the sheets.

You feel his breath against the nape of your neck, and you let out a strained moan as his cock managed to drag deeper into your spent hole. "M'gonna—M'gonna die—"

He fucking chuckles next to your ear, gripping your hip tighter as he rolls his hips back, only to push back home, ripping a curse from your lips.

"Five more minutes," he huffs, the warmth of his breath making all the corners of your body flush a deep red.

Should've known.

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2kiran · 9 months ago

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I NEED TO SUCK BARRAGE TIDDIES BADDDD i bet those areolas are big and supple,,,

oh, they are. barrage would let you have your way; he’ll be straddling your thighs, his burly arms circling your shoulders to prevent you from attempting to lean away from him. he’s into it, a demanding wave of arousal piercing through him, but he can’t admit it. he’s too embarrassed, letting out pretty whimpers as you flick the tip of your tongue against his hardened nipple.

“ah-haa, shit, mmfn,” barrage breathes out, shy away from a whine. he’s trapping you against his chest, his hips twitching and wanting so badly to rut against your groin. your lips wrapped around his tit, taking the area surrounding his lil’ bud completely - filling up your warm mouth so well while you sucked it harshly, your drool spilling down his stomach—fuck, he’s so turned on. “keep goin’, ngh–”

hc: #4d3129 n’ they get all hard when you blow air on them

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getaapologist · 29 days ago

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This just popped into my head: Geta has trouble falling asleep (because why wouldn't he), and so he wanders around the gardens and hears quiet singing and comes across a young woman (slave or whatever) and she gets him to fall asleep; she's not allowed to leave his side after that.

I hope I answered this in some kind of way that makes sense. Hope you like it!

(also I know these are big ass pictures (thank you @inseparabiles) but this stupid smile is too perfect to not put here.)

Fitful Sleep

Emperor Geta x reader

Warnings: none, perhaps implied nudity?

Sweat collected at his hairline, along the back of his neck, and anywhere that his skin touched. The haze of sweltering heat that had settled over the city throughout the day didn’t dissipate once the sun disappeared. It somehow got even worse at night. There was very little breeze gently pushing at the thin linen curtains separating Geta’s bedroom from the terrace.

Sleep only came to him in short bursts, something that grew more irritating each time he awoke drenched in sweat, the humidity trapping it against his skin. He would wake only for long enough to move over to the other side of the bed, now slightly cool, mostly dry, and collapse, gradually falling asleep again.

Ten times. Ten times he woke, before he had enough. He felt mad, launching himself out of bed to stand out on the terrace, the barest hint of a breeze doing wonders to his sweat-slick skin. He couldn’t be bothered with a robe, it was far too hot. There was no one to see him anyway. As he leaned against the railing, he started dozing off.

After the third such time, he moved into his room, looking around for a solution. He spotted the ornate chaise, and immediately made up his mind. Too impatient to summon someone to move it for him, he dragged the heavy piece of furniture out to the terrace, pushing it up against the railing. He laid down on it, the fabric a bit too warm for his liking, but it would have to do.

As he began to relax for once, on the fringe of true sleep, he heard a sound. Something soft, drifting on the breeze. He lifted his head, looking down to the gardens below through the posts of the railing. Eyes tracing over the courtyard, they slowed to a crawl as they first noticed a soft blue robe, hanging off the shoulder of the siren.

There was a lot of bare skin, more than was appropriate for someone outside a bedchamber. He knew he shouldn’t look, he should lie back down, but he was curious. Surely this person was suffering from the same ailment. His suspicions were confirmed when they dipped down to cup some of the water from the fountain they sat on the edge of, and let it fall from their hands over their bare calves.

Geta wondered intensely if the water was cool. If the sigh that reached his ear was any indication, it was. And as they gathered more of it up, wetting their hands to press them to their neck, shoulders, the genuine consideration he gave to going down there himself was alarming. He understood the reason they might have thrown caution to the wind and gone out there in such a state. He felt warm, heated through in a different way, from the inside out.

The most he could see of them was their bare shoulders, the robe kept up enough to hide their back from him. But it was enough to fill his mind with delirious, feverish thoughts. Burning heat like the sun bearing down, like sitting too close to a fire. Smooth, damp skin, already hot beneath his hands, his lips.

The humming roused him from his thoughts, and he caught a glimpse of their profile for a moment before they turned back around. It was branded in his mind. He thought he might know that face, but he wasn’t sure. He forced himself to quiet his mind again, knowing that above all else, he needed to sleep. If he was to be of use to anyone the following day, he needed to close his eyes.

The tune changed to one he recognised, though he wasn’t sure where he knew it from. After enough time, he stopped trying to place it and let himself relax.

********************************************************************

The heat had abated at some point in the night. Now, as Geta passed through the gardens, his eyes lingered on the fountain, on where the mystery person had sat. He could picture them sitting there still, skin shining with drops of clear water under the bright moonlight.

“Yes, well it’s a miracle that the worst of it seems to be over,” someone commented, laughter echoing.

Geta looked up, examining the throng of people lingering in the gardens. Was he looking for his siren? Checking on Caracalla? He couldn’t say. But as he scanned, he spotted a shoulder slope that he thought he recognized.

*******************************************************************

You hadn’t been given a moment of peace since the gathering started. It wasn’t enough that you had barely slept the night before, just like everyone else, but it seemed the discomfort from the night before bled over into tonight.

All of the staff were so frantic, so frazzled after the heatwave that what should have been easy work became all the more complicated as tempers rose and communication faltered. There had been three dropped amphorae, and one beautiful green glass pitcher shattered. As a household, they were never this clumsy.

Thankfully, the twin Emperors seemed to be distracted enough that they wouldn’t hear of this until tomorrow. You knelt and gathered the bigger shards as carefully as you could. Some of the glass disposed of, and the rest of it being swept up by another, you turned to return to the party, to see what else might need doing.

You collided with a chest, hands reaching out to steady yourself, an apology ready to begin tumbling from your lips. It died on your tongue as you locked eyes with him. Geta.

“Are you alright?”

He seemed genuinely concerned, and though you were new here, you assumed rightfully that it was a rarity.

“I’m fine, thank you, Emperor.” As instructed, you averted your eyes from his warm brown ones, ignoring the way his hand lingered on your upper arm.

“Look at me,” he instructed, his voice slightly firm.

After a moment of warring with yourself, you did. He was smiling, a sight far too beautiful to comprehend.

“Are you new here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. His eyes traveled over your shoulder, your neck.

You found yourself nodding, having a hard time stringing words together. He was intimidating, as he should be, one of the co-Emperors of Rome. But it wasn’t his title that intimidated you. It was the way he was appraising you.

“You helped with dinner yesterday, yes? I was trying to figure out where I’d seen you before.”

You nodded, letting out a cautious smile. He wanted to remember where he had seen you before? Why?

“The fountain… It sure seemed refreshing.” He was teasing you. “I considered walking down to join you myself.” His words were tinged with amusement, a glint in his eye confirming it.

An overwhelming wave of embarrassment and slight fear washed over you. You were only here what, a few days? Already in trouble. It was stupid, you knew it was stupid when you did it, but you would have actually lost your mind if you were made to suffer another moment in the sweltering windowless room.

Geta’s laugh ripped you from your thoughts.

“You saw me?”

“Emperor,” he spoke sternly, raising an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his full lips.

“What?”

“‘You saw me, Emperor,” he corrected.

“E-Emperor,” you repeated, concerned that you were about to be dismissed.

“Yes, I did.” He let his smile spread. “What was that tune you were humming?”

“Just something my mother used to sing to me,” you answered. An eyebrow raise reminded you. “Emperor.”

He looked away for a moment before returning his attention to you. “I do think that you would be better suited elsewhere.”

Oh no. You were being dismissed.

“I think I will have need of you in my personal quarters. A good tune may come in handy during sleepless nights.”

Boiling hot mortification poured over you, your mind making many leaps and assumptions. He was unaffected, still smiling, still more handsome than he should have been.

“Don’t look so scared,” he chuckled. “Do you know how to make a bed? Draw a bath?” His tone was slightly mocking, but full of amusement.

You nodded, watching him carefully, the mortification giving way to something quite different. Something you couldn’t, or wouldn’t, name.

“Good. I’ll expect to see you later.” He looked satisfied with himself, his gaze still approving, if a bit intrigued. And after one last look, he turned, walking off further into the gardens, back to where the party was concentrated. As he passed the fountain, he looked back over his shoulder at you, a grin on his face.

#emperor geta x reader #gladiator ii x reader #joseph quinn x reader #gladiator 2 x reader #emperor geta #tried to keep this neutral

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circusinthewalls · 11 months ago

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NSFW Ghost Rambling - 18+ MDNI, AGELESS BLOGS DNI [Masterlist]

Simon knows damn well how big he is. In height, in stature, in.. everything, really. Even dear Soap is dwarfed at least somewhat by him. So, yeah, he knows how massive he is.

And admittedly now, as he's leaning over you, thick digits gently, gradually working you open, he doesn't know quite how to feel about it. Rare is it that the man ever gets considerably worried about anything, but he's just not sure how he's supposed to fit.

Much like everyone else, you're smaller than him. Perhaps not by a considerable amount, but you feel so goddamn tight around his fingers. Part of him is worried his dick will outright detach when he goes to pull out later.

Uncertainty is twisted on his face, and you think he's bound to burn two new holes in your junk if he stares at it with that perplexed expression any longer. You reach down for his wrist, trying to both soothe and ground him despite your own oncoming pleasurable brain fog.

Pulled from his thoughts, he looks up to meet your gaze and swallows. He can already tell what you're thinking. What you're about to ask. His hand stills for a moment.

"Don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," you breathe in response. "It'll be okay, yeah? We'll be okay."

He doesn't answer initially, seeming to contemplate your words. Soaking them in and visibly relaxing before he nods.

"Yeah, love."

When he's actually pushing into you, his eyes are trained on your face. One hand is cupping it, and the other thumbs slow circles over the thigh it's holding open. Not once does he look away. He's watching, ready at any second to internally reprimand himself if-

You whine. His hips stop dead immediately.

There's a sort of look he gives you. Questioning the noise in the silence that's followed it.

"Want it," you plead. "Simon.."

He has more trust in you than anything else in this world, honestly, and the way your brows are knitted, eyes fluttering just so with each soft pant.. How did he ever get so lucky? Whatever higher power it is that's spared him long enough to let him have you, he thanks for it.

He leans down farther, propping himself up on one elbow so he can tuck his face into your neck as he starts up again. With every sound that escapes, he peppers your throat with kisses. Each one makes the dull, burning ache from the stretch so very worth it.

"So good," he murmurs, like sinking into you is breathing new life into him. "Takin' it like a champ. Fuckin' beautiful."

He does eventually still again, not quite bottomed out, but content with the depth since you are. He just holds you and let's you adjust, grinding forward ever so carefully on occasion while he continues to whisper praises until you're ready for him to properly move.

Writing not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or to use with AI technologies.

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ghulehunknown · 8 months ago

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Waking up with Papa Headcanons 💤

The below contains Safe For Work headcanons! Gender neutral reader

This morning I woke up daydreaming about having a Papa in my bed and all the cute cuddling and pillow talk we’d do 🥹

Primo

He’s already awake and brushing his teeth by the time you wake up

He’s made you a cup of tea, waiting for you on the bedside table

Kisses you sweetly on the forehead and hugs you before he leaves for the day

Says you are welcome to stay in his bed as long as you want

Secondo

You wake up to his arms protectively wrapped around your body

He already woke up long before you did, but wants to spend as much time with you as possible and didn’t want to leave yet

Has time for a quick cup of coffee and light conversation while he gets ready

Kisses you before leaving

Terzo

You wake up to him planting kisses on your neck and face

Your limbs are all tangled together because he’s wrapped himself tight around you in the night

He can’t get close enough to you and agonizes about leaving because all he wants to do is lay in bed with you all day and do nothing but watch TV and talk

You’re the first one to leave bed; he keeps pulling you back for more kisses, no matter how much you protest that you’re running late (and so is he)

Copia

He’s still snoring but is sleeping on his side, cuddling you with his hand on your waist, drool coming out of his mouth

Smiles when he wakes up and sees you next to him

Spends most of the free time staring into your eyes and talking with you before getting ready

Pulls you in tighter when you get up, and lets out an exasperated groan. “So soon, tesoro?”

Nihil

Laying flat on his back snoring with his mouth wide open

It takes a while to wake him up

Complains about what terrible sleep he got while you lay on his chest as he rubs your back soothingly before getting up for the day

He’s very slow to move or get ready at all, unless he has an important meeting

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lotusbxtch · 9 months ago

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heehee I made a meme because I can’t stop thinking about Acacius 🤭

Psst @for-a-longlongtime @mermaidgirl30 @mountainsandmayhem @sin-djarin @alltheirdamn

@qveerthe0ry @nerdieforpedro @luxurychristmaspudding @burntheedges @javierpena-inatacvest

@ezrasbirdie @frannyzooey @gasolinerainbowpuddles @hoeruiner @julesonrecord

@ozarkthedog @oonajaeadira @penvisions @reggiesfilthylittlesecret @reallyrallyauthor

@the-ginger-hedge-witch

#marcus acacius #pedro pascal #gladiator II #pedro pascal memes #gladiator II memes #I heard this in my head after I watched the trailer for the 10th time and I had to make it real #I tried to make this gender neutral so we could all use it #look ma my first meme #lotusbxtch memes #user: lotusbxtch #userlotusbxtch

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callahanisms · 9 months ago

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favorite person

for @shinyanchorface because i know you went feral over the pics and now we got a trailer. also this is definitely not historically accurate so please do not come for me. am i sure how things were done back then? absolutely not. this is just for fun.

character: marcus acacius

content warning: smut. consensual sex. by pressing read more, you consent to viewing sexual content.

word count: 1k words

"There you are. You're late."

"I apologize." You set down your bowl, towel, strigil, and the oil pitcher by the table. "I was...preoccupied." It was true. You would not dare lie to him. "It won't happen again."

"The Emperor?"

You don't look up from the table. Your hands twitch slightly and your heart pounds against your ribcage. You can feel the tile of the table. Smooth with small crevices, the surface being chipped away by its constant usage. Your finger runs over it, feeling the ragged edges. If you press your finger down hard enough, the crevice will leave you with an imprint on your skin.

"Perhaps." You answer.

There's a small sigh. "Well he doesn't matter. Just come over here."

You finally look up. The general still has his armor on. He's covered in dirt. You walk over, steps rather quiet. Your fingers rest on his shoulder as you walk around to be behind him. Then you begin to undo the straps holding his armor together, gently removing it from his body. He slouches a little bit and lets out a breath. A weight had been taken off of his chest, literally.

Marcus shivers with the grazing of your fingertips against his skin. He lets you strip him down until he's bare. You keep your eyes away. He found your aversion to him cordial.

You have someone else fill the private bath and remove the cork from the pitcher yourself. You pour some oil onto his shoulders and begin to rub it into his skin. There's a new bruise on his body, making him wince when you touch it. And beneath your fingers, you feel the raised skin of scars.

You pick up your bowl and strigil and begin to scrape his upper body. Your touch is gentle and he could feel the metal pressing hard against his skin. "Harder. I know you can do it." He says, his voice gruff.

You apply more pressure as you scrape the oil off his body and into the bowl. His skin leaves a pink tint from the places you've scraped. with his upper body done, you begin to lather his legs in oil, scraping the mixture into the bowl. You move upwards, keeping your eyes away from...well, between his legs. "You're my favorite." The general speaks.

You look up at him from between his legs. His tongue darts over his lips. "General?"

"I said...you're my favorite." His hand snakes to the back of your neck, causing goosebumps to form all over. "I prefer it when they scrape hard."

"I know you prefer to be clean, general. You've had a long day." You continue scraping, trying to avoid what lied just between his legs.

You finished scraping and cleaning him thoroughly, setting the strigil and bowl aside. "Join me."

"General?"

"Join me. In the bath." He walks over to the tub and steps in. Marcus slowly sinks into the steaming water, letting out a groan. His muscles relax and he feels at ease. Marcus rests his arms against the edge of the bath, looking at you expectantly.

"I'm not...I'm not clean." You shake your head.

"So? Just join me (Y/N)."

You can't deny that the steam coming out of the water was looking rather tempting. And then the general. Legs spread, a gorgeous face profile, and a strong nose, his muscles popping. You shed your clothes and step into the bath with him, sinking into the water. You could feel your muscles creak and your bones pop as you stretch a little bit.

Marcus watches you rub the water over your skin. "Come closer. I don't bite."

You look at him before inching closer to him. A small gasp leaves you when he grabs your waist and pulls you atop of him. "I like seeing your body."

"General..."

"Just call me Marcus." His hands stroke your sides. "We're close enough. You've seen all of me. And now...I see all of you~" He leans forward, lips pressing against yours. And his facial hair tickles your skin. You push back against him, moving with his rhythm and parting your lips to let his slide past them. He explores your mouth with his tongue, caressing the roof and tasting you.

"Come on. Spread." He groans. You straddle him, aligning your throbbing hole with his already hard cock. You can feel his tip pressing against you. "Go slow. There's no rush."

You feel yourself stretch out as you begin to sink yourself onto him. Gasps escaping. Marcus can't help but moan, feeling your walls cling to him. They felt so heavenly. You felt heavenly. He wanted to be inside you. He begins to thrust upwards into you, hands trailing down to your hips. His fingers dig into your soft skin. Supple and soft and tight too. You begin to ride him, rolling your hips. "Marcus! Oh Marcus!" Your own fingers dig into his shoulders.

Marcus leans forward, lips peppering kisses along your neck and nibbling at your skin. He sucks hard, leaving hickeys and his tongue traces circles on your bruises. You move your hips faster, feeling him thrust upwards. It was ecstatic, the way his cock was stretching you and sliding in and out. Your hands slowly trail to his back, fingers nails digging into his cleaned skin. The water ripples all around you, splashing out of the tub.

"(Y/N)! You feel so good!" He buries his face in your neck, his body tightening up as your stomach's growing knot comes undone. Your toes curl, Marcus grips you tighter. You want to scream with absolute pleasure.

You feel extra warm, his cum filling you up. And you cum all over him. The ripples in the tub calm, your breathing heavy and face flushed. The general looks up at you, drunk on pleasure, drunk on your scent, drunk on feeling you. "You're my favorite." Marcus mutters.

"You're my favorite too." You run your hand through his hair, feeling how soft it was.

"Let me clean you up~"

#pedro pascal #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #x reader #male reader #female reader #gender neutral reader #smut

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lowkeyrobin · 14 days ago

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I saw you were taking request for sleep token so can I pleaseee ask for how they'll reactions be if Reader paints their nails with the drawing of their masks?

oooo okay!! I can 100% do this, sorry if I misinterpreted this cause it was a little confusing to me for some reason :,) ; but thank you for requesting, hope you enjoy!! ; quick disclaimer, I was imagining like the colors of their masks and the logo on top for each nail, and the thumbs blacked out just for a little reference on where I'm coming from

SLEEP TOKEN ; nail art

includes ; vessel, ii, iii, and iv

warnings ; language

masterlist

VESSEL

he doesn't even notice for like a solid minute of you trying to show them off without actually saying anything

he then remembers you said you were gonna paint your nails and he's intrigued to see now

absolutely crumbles when he sees the band logo

like literally giggling and smiling

he takes a picture cause he finds it so sweet

and he sends it to the other boys calling you their biggest fan

he finds the attention to detail insane too

like omg brother HOW ARE THOSE LINES SO STRAIGHT???

he notices immediately, n he's a little confused

he seems like a big hand holder / he'd rub your knuckles with his thumb so he'd notice kinda quickly

lowkey admires them for a solid couple minutes cause omg they're so cool

he'll never get over the fact you / a nail tech can paint in such fine detail on that little canvas of your nails

like holy shit the talent

he's just like "why'd you spend time doing this???"

not a mean thing, he's just like ????

III

he's yapping about it for HOURS to the boys / himself

like omg hw loves you STORP

he's sitting there yapping and asking so many questions lmao

"how long did this take???"

"howd you/they get these lines so fuckin' straight??????"

his fav is obviously the one based on his mask, I mean cmon

he literally pulls you around to show off your nails to the others

he gives in depth analysis' about it all too

like okay we get it 😭😭😭

drags you around by holding onto the iii nail just to be annoyingly cute

finds it so sweet

he notices practically immediately even if you didn't tell him beforehand

he seems like a very in depth dude, like he notices the slightest of changes

idk he just gives me that vibe

he takes a picture and saves it, maybe puts it on his private story

he also kinda sits there and stares at them, just admiring the talent

obv adores the one based on his mask 😻

he loops his fingers around that finger until it's chipped away or you've gotten your nails done again

#lowkeyrobin #gn reader #gender neutral reader #they/them reader #sleep token x reader #sleep token preference #vessel x reader #ii x reader #iii x reader #iv x reader

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susellesie · 6 months ago

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Succession, S3 E10: With Open Eyes; Sam Gordon, "A Mother's Hate"; Ella Wilson, Take Care: Mothers, Daughters, and Inheriting Self-Hatred; Jeanette Winterson "Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal"

#alicent hightower #aegon ii targaryen #neutral alicent hightower #mother son relationship #webweaving #targtowers #house targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd

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infin1ty-garden · 4 months ago

Note

Hiii,

How are you? I wanted to request an emperor geta x soul mate reader. Maybe the reader is someone who works Inn the palace?

Have a nice day!! And don't worry if you don"t want to do it🫶

୭🧷✧˚. VI ET ANIMO

⋆｡°✩ summary: [ in request ] ⋆｡°✩ pairing: emperor geta x gn! reader ⋆｡°✩ warnings: none ⋆｡°✩ word count: 312 ⋆｡°✩ author note: sorry, it took a while to post a fic

masterlist. & gladiator II masterlist

Since Geta became emperor along with his brother, Caracalla, you knew he was the name on your wrist. You never thought you'd had the chance to meet him. Until you were invited to perform at one of his banquets. It shouldn't have surprised you but it did. You weren't even sure the emperor knew he asked his soulmate to sing.

You were introduced to the crowd by your full name. You glanced at the emperor as he sat up straighter, his eyes unmoving from you. As you performed, nothing could tear the emperor's attention from you.

You're here. Finally, he has you. He must speak with you.

Despite him clearly being impatient, you were still paid to sing for the next two hours. He would have to wait. Once your singing took backstage to a battle between two gladiators, Geta asked you to meet him in the gardens. He was already there when you entered the gardens. You two were the only people there. "I never thought I was ever gonna meet you."

Geta moved closer to you, gently grabbed your wrist and turned it so your palm was facing upwards. He saw his name written on your wrist. His finger traced the words as he showed you, his wrist. Then for a moment he froze as he was thinking what to do. "We are to get married." He wrapped his hands around your arm pulling you even closer to him. You nodded, agreeing with him. You thought about becoming empresse.

It all seems too daunting now. You aren't even sure where to start or what your duties may be. Is it just being there for the emperor or something more? He placed his hand on your cheek, pulling you away from your thoughts. "The people will love you and you are to live here. I must introduce you to my brother."

Thanks for reading & requesting! Sorry for it being short.

#emperor geta x reader #gladiator ll #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #geta x reader #geta x you #emperor geta #x reader #x gn y/n #x gender neutral y/n #x gn reader #x gender neutral reader

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mockerycrow · 2 years ago

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Love your works! May I please get a "don't worry, i'm not going anywhere." with Ghost? Take your time, I love what you write!

400 Follower Celebration

—“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”— With Ghost

Summary: You’re apart of the 141 and Ghost recently had a near-death experience. You’ve been plagued with nightmares about the situation, but you try to hide it from him, feeling selfish about your night terrors. One night, you’re thoroughly convinced Ghost had actually died.

A/N: THANK YOUUU I KEEP BLUSHING ILY AND TYSM FOR 500 FOLLOWERS

[WARNINGS: vomit, detailed nightmares, panic attack, gore, fake-death, angst, hurt/comfort.]

It was always the same nightmare. It was a repeat of that one mission months ago—nearly a year ago by now, where you and your team went to grab some important intel about a new uprising cartel that was showing some dangerous potential. It was a large compound, four floors including the basement, wide rooms with many blind-spots. Using your rifle equipped with a heat signature sensor, you swept room to room, leading your team through the building, putting anyone down who dared fired a bullet at you or your team.

You turn that familiar corner and your heart sinks. You’ve tried many times to change the course of this dream, but no matter how frantically you try to scream about what is waiting on the other side of that door, your mouth refuses to work until Ghost rumbles out, “I’ll take point.” You try to fight every muscle in your body to stop this, but it’s like the dream freezes until you continue down the.. “right path”. Quite literally is a living fucking hell for you, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop it except do what it wants you to do.

“Roger.” You mutter, backing up behind Ghost instead of staying in front of him and leading him the others. The others are always blank faced soldiers in this nightmare, but you know who is who. You pat his shoulder, aimming over him as you walk down the hall close together, hugging the wall. You’ve been through this so many times, you know to eye the floor and you watch the moment happen—Ghost steps on a pressure plate and—BOOM.

You’re always forced to watch it in slow motion; the wall being blown open right next to Ghost, watching the debris scatter everywhere, scraping yourself up as well as Ghost. He raises his arm to shield his face from whatever is happening, unable to process in time that a man wielding a sharp combat knife is pulling his arm back and comes down with it.

You watch the way the knife so easily slides into his rib cage, and it’s almost like you could hear it penetrating his lung like it did—but this time, the man rips the knife out and does it again and again and again—this has never happened before—Ghost’s falling to the ground, his blood splattering everywhere, fuck, it’s like the guy is trying to gut him—but you can’t move. You have to sit there and watch this man. plunge a knife in and out of Ghost’s chest until he finally decides to stab him deep and yank downwards, spilling his intestines and stomach—yet, his lifeless eyes keep eye contact the entire time.

Your eyes fly open, dizzy from your heart pounding and unable to focus, you throw the blanket off of you and you make your way out of whatever room you’re in—you’re too freaked out to know. Your chest aches and feels like there’s a hundred tons sitting on your rib cage, restricting your breathing. You keep walking until you bump into something and you manage to focus enough to notice it’s the bathroom door. Your hand shakily grabs the doorknob and opens it, and you already feel the vomit traveling up your throat.

You end up bent over the open toilet, body heaving with every exile of the contents of your stomach, which by this time of night is mostly just bile. Your head is spinning and your hands keep shaking and by this point, you really don’t care how clean this bathroom is. You lean your elbows on the toilet rim and hold your head in your hands, trying your best to stifle a sob, even though all you can smell and feel is his blood on your fingertips. Your tears drip down your cheeks and collect at your chin before dripping off.

You keep one arm on the toilet seat to keep your head propped up and the other goes around your stomach, which is twisting painfully inside of your gut, ripping another sob from you. You gag into the toilet, but you’ve already thrown everything you had inside. Your throat and nose burns from the stomach acid, but it doesn’t compare to the emotional pain of losing Ghost. You just stood there and watched him get gutted—why do you deserve to grieve when you could have prevented it in the first place? Someone killed the Ghost, and you let it fucking happen.

A large hand sprawls across the flat of your back which is accompanied by a low, gritty voice. Whoever it is says something, but you don’t quite hear them. It’s probably Price, trying to comfort you, trying to say there’s one thing you could’ve done to stop it, but you know there was something you could do, anything you could’ve done.

Price calls your name and you go to shove him away, but his hands wrap around your wrists, and the voice is more insistent. You choke on a sob and shake your head, struggling against him until you hear it—his voice. “Fuck, [Name], can you hear me?” Ghost’s voice. It’s his voice.

No. Your mind is playing tricks on you and you won’t fall for it, you won’t let yourself go through this horrendous grief for a second time. You try to curl up into a ball, wanting to grab at your hair or your clothes, just anything but be here. “Look at me.” His hands grab your face and force your face to look at him and..

It’s him. It’s Ghost.

All of your noises stop for a moment as you stare with wide eyes that are full of unfallen tears, eyes full of grief, all for him. Ghost stares back at you with uncharacteristically wide eyes, and you can see the way his hands are slightly trembling—he’s worried about you. Ghost’s eyebrows furrow when he sees your expression of anguish. “Hey—hey, what happened?” Ghost’s voice is so quiet, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he speaks any louder. Your hands come up to his mask and touch it and you burst into a harsh sob again, throwing your arms around him.

Usually, Ghost would hesitate. He would be reluctant to reciprocate such personal touch, such desperation, but he pulls you close into his arms without a second thought. Your hands grab his shirt and you breakdown into his chest, wetting the fabric with your tears. His heart slipped a beat because he’s never seen you like this—has never seen you break down this horribly.

He’d be here when you were ready to talk about it, but for now he’ll stay to hold you until your shoulders stop shaking. Ghost moves to sit on his bottom and you whimper in fear, like he’ll leave. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

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