Hello, hello! I'm Ghoul(they/them) and I write fic, like a lot of fic. This is my Directory
I write in second person(you) so all of my fic can be read as x reader, and you can think of any callsigns/nicknames as your own. However, my fic is technically x oc, if that's not for you no problem! I don't include descriptions or names in any of my fics.
I am an adult writing stories about adults for adults, and so Minors and Ageless Blogs Do Not Interact
I do not give consent for my work to be used in ai, be that ai chats or ai writing. This is a hard boundary I will not budge on.
Buy me a Ko-fi! And check out my ao3
Here I am on bluesky!
COD AUs
Cowboys
Fae
Demons
Ballet
Historic Aus
Sin Summer
Ghost!Ghost
Regency Au
Cyberpunk Au
The Ghost Distribution System
Professor Au
I want the Darlings
Sugar Daddy!Hesh
SCP-141
Shining Au
The Price of Fire
Alone on the Holidays?
Hephaestus!Nikto
The Doll Au
Cult Au
Monstober 2025
FAQ:
Can I write Fic with your OCs?
Yep! Just tag me in it if you post it.
Can I tell you about an OC I have for [insert au]?
Of course! OC talk is always open, but posting is contained to the morning.
Can I draw you OCs?
Yes. BUT I try to keep their descriptions vague so people can use them as Reader inserts, so I might not post/reblog it if you submit/post the art.
Do you take requests?
Sort of. If you have thoughts I'd love to hear them and if they inspire me I'll write something, but it might not be exactly what you requested. I tend to use asks as jumping off points rather than direct requests.
Do you cross post to anywhere else?
Yup! My ao3 account is actualPrincess
Could you make a character AI for [insert character or au]?
No. I absolutely abhor ai and hope it crashes and burns before it does any more damage to art and creativity. Role-Play in a discord server like an adult.
Do you have a list of your OCs anywhere?
Yup. Here you go!
Ghoul's Hozier Bullshit
Pillow Princess Ghost
those who plagiarize my work or harass me will be met with misfortune :)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I'll be honest, I did the rounds before settling in. I tried a couple of the names everyone mentions, candy.ai and ourdream.ai among them, and they're fine in their own right. But when it came to actually designing a companion who felt like she came out of my own head, SweetDream was the one that kept pulling me back. The character creation just goes further.
On sweetdream.ai you're shaping everything that matters, the appearance, the personality, the little quirks, the voice, the backstory that gives her context. And it doesn't stop at setup. The chat is remarkably natural and emotionally tuned, it remembers what you've shared, and the AI-generated photos and videos look beautiful. There are even voice messages and human-sounding calls when you want to hear her.
What sealed it for me was how private and discreet the whole thing stays. Building an AI girlfriend feels personal, and it should stay personal. If you're weighing your options for an AI companion, do what I did, try a few, then build something on SweetDream and see why it's hard to leave.
Of the many things you've said about your lieutenant, ghost, never once would you have expected to say he's...shockingly good with babies.
"Hey lil' man," ghost coos to the baby sat in his lap, happily chewing on the ear of a snoopy plush with a tiny fist wrapped around ghosts pinky. "Having fun? Thinking up some big things, I'm sure."
It looks comical how small a normal, healthy baby looks in his lap. Little arms waving absolutely while it turns to look at ghosts unmasked face. Baby doesn't cry, only stares up at ghost before exclaiming "ahh!! Babbfaaahh!!"
Ghost, he only laughs and holds baby up in his palms so baby can touch all over his scarred face. Little excited "ah ah ah"s and random giggling interspersed whenever ghost pulled a funny face.
"Smart fella, ain't you?" Ghost snorts, sets baby back down to chew on snoopy. He's got this soft, sappy expression on his face. Looks so natural with a baby in his arms. You can't help but snap a few photos.
Next time you baby sit, you'll ask your cousin about letting the twins stay over. You have a strange feeling ghost would love a princess fairy teaparty.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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john price who buys a plot of land and moves west, only to arrive after weeks on the trail and find a ramshackle little cabin already squatting on it. the whole place looks abandoned. reeks of neglect. he draws his gun and ventures in for a look anyway, see if he can’t at least salvage the place to build his own—and scares its lone resident, a woman armed only with a knife.
though it takes some time, skittish as you are, he talks you down. learns who you are and what you’re doing on his property. apparently, you’ve been fending for yourself for months after your new husband took your horse into town for supplies and simply never came back. no letter or body, nor word from anybody who might’ve seen him—just a house that’s falling apart and a garden you depend on to keep you alive.
price shows you the deed and bill of sale to convince you he isn’t some drifter or swindler trying to trick or rob you, and watches the fight go out of you when you realize what the papers actually mean, that the land was never your husband’s to begin with. that this stranger has every right to put you out.
you were frightened before, but now you’re looking at winter coming on with no horse, hardly any money, nowhere to go, and truly no one left in the world. and price, who’s spent his life living hard and thought that he’d spend the back half of his life alone, finds he can’t stomach the sight of you standing there trying not to beg him mercy.
he looks at the growing calluses on your palms, the dirt under your fingernails, and the dried mud caked along the hem of your skirts, and he is struck. all those violent, bloody years he survived when better men did not? this must be what he’s been kept alive for. to come all this way to this slice of heaven and find you here.
so he strikes a bargain instead: you can stay through the next month while you decide what you want to do. in the meantime you’ll help him make the place livable and he’ll teach you what he knows.
you’re not stupid. you know exactly how lopsided a deal it is, how little you have to offer compared to what he’s putting on the table—besides the obvious. he gives you the night to think it over, you toss and turn beneath for hours trying to invent a better alternative, but there simply isn’t one.
in the morning, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, you tell him you accept. john just grins and drains his coffee. to him, the matter was never in much doubt. he puts the two of you to work immediately.
the first few weeks are hard. john tackles the roof and walls first, making you his little helper, calling down for whatever tool he needs next or sending you to fetch whatever materials you can manage. you go to bed and wake up sore, palms blistering in a pair of his old gloves. all the while, john, strong as an ox, seems capable of working from dawn until dusk.
in the afternoons, when the heat makes repair work miserable, he puts you both on his horse and rides double to the nearby lake to teach you to fish. you squirm the first time he makes you gut a trout, nearly retching when the knife opens its belly. john only laughs when you try to shove the whole bloody business back toward him. his big hands close over yours instead, guiding the blade while his chest glues to your back, his voice rumbling in your ear as he chides you for trying to worm your way out of it. can’t live on good intentions, love. go on. get your fingers in there.
he teaches you to shoot next and that’s when you get your first inkling of whatever life he led before he found you. he’s an excellent shot, on foot and horseback. he’s also a good teacher. hands-on. correcting your stance, one wide palm at your waist and the other on your elbow, enduring every flinch of yours until you can fire without shaking. he shows you how to set basic snares and read the ground for tracks. in return, you teach him what grows best in the garden and what you’ve found foraging.
and during those early weeks, you live on edge, waiting for him to ask for more than just a second helping at dinner. because you know enough of the world to know what sort of bargain a woman in your position might ordinarily be expected to make, whether the exact terms are spoken aloud or not.
you hold your breath whenever he squeezes past you in the kitchen and go stiff when his hands squeeze your sides while shooting, steadying you against the recoil. more than once you’ve lain awake listening to the floorboards creak beneath his weight while he stays up late, waiting for him to appear at your bedside. when you bathe in the lake, he stands watch on the bank with his back turned, and though you wait to catch him looking over his shoulder. but, to your honest shock, he never does.
he’s refreshingly gentlemanly. you can’t tell whether he’s honoring the existence of your husband, suspended somewhere in that awful limbo between living and dead, or whether john is simply a patient man biding his time. waiting for the right moment.
whatever the reason, each day that passes without him demanding that certain kind of tender as payment relaxes you just a bit more. your vigilance eases and you stop keeping track of where he is in and outside of the cabin. for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.
as a consequence, the whole situation grows domestic. his razor appears beside your washbasin. his coat hangs beside yours by the door. you start setting two places at breakfast and supper. at night, when there’s oil or wax to spare, you read aloud to each other.
so it comes as a surprise when, near the end of the month, john tells you to put on your best. you’re going into town.
today, apparently, you’re going to finally buy a horse of your own.
you start protesting immediately—you haven’t the money for a horse, your husband carried the bulk of it, you certainly don’t have enough a good one—but john waves all that away. you need one, he insists. can’t have you stranded. and while you’re in town, you can make some inquiries after your husband.
that shuts you up. almost makes you petulant. worse is the stab of shame when you realize you’ve barely thought of the man in weeks. for months, his absence had occupied every waking hour. you would daydream and imagine hoofbeats or footsteps and fly to the window, searching. then john arrived, and at some point, your husband became an afterthought.
in town, john waits patiently while you ask after your husband at the general store, the barber, the blacksmith. he accompanies you into the saloon, standing a few paces behind while you question the bartender and whatever regulars might have been there around the time your husband disappeared. john doesn’t say a word. he watches their faces, thick arms folded across his chest, eyes jumping from face to face beneath the brim of his hat while you explain when your husband left, the horse, and what he looked like.
nobody knows a thing.
in the end, you wilt dutifully. resigned to the fact that he either ran off or that his bones are bleaching in a ditch somewhere on the road. the thought ought to devastate you more than it does, and that brings another little stab of guilt.
john simply plants a hand between your shoulder blades and steers you toward the livery.
there, at least, he manages to cheer you up. he helps you choose a pretty chestnut gelding with a blaze on his forehead and a friendly disposition. john pays for him while you’re busy cooing at the creature, along with a saddle and tack, and when you claim that you’ll pay him back, he merely smiles and says, ‘m sure you will, love.
back home, neither of you mention that your agreement is nearly up. and when the month comes and goes, and neither of you mentions that either.
the timeline simply stretches, one day passing into the next. any sense of urgency gets lost. there’s still work to be done on the cabin, after all. you’re getting better with the rifle but john reckons you’ve plenty left to learn. you’ve only just got your own horse and ought to become a better rider before setting off anywhere alone. then the sun starts setting earlier and the leaves start to change, and really, leaving now would be foolish what with winter so close. you better to stay until spring.
john lays all this out over dinner one night. says it so plainly.
you agree, a mite too eager, and hide your smile behind another bite.
that night, while you sleep curled beneath your blankets, john eases your door open enough to look in on you. he stands there for a long while, listening to your breathing, before slipping a hand into his pocket. his thumb finds the worn band of that wedding ring he picked off a dead man on the road west and toys with it.
he wonders if he ought to pray. john never put much stock in faith or fate before. but what could he call this? finding that failure of a man, then finding the home he’d abandoned and the wife he’d left behind? what else is john supposed to understand it as, if not a series of signs pointing him precisely where he was meant to go? of all the land he might have bought, all the roads he might have taken—what are the chances?
the next day, he takes that dead man’s ring down to the lake and tosses it in. he will buy another the next time the two of you ride into town.
and that night, after weeks of patience, of sneaking off to see to his own wants in private, kicking dirt over his wasted spend, he will finally make his move. he will employ that same slow tenderness he’s shown you from the beginning. he has no reason to believe you won’t welcome it. you won’t shy away. you’ve been alone so long, starved for company, and he’s taught you to reach for him when you need something, hasn’t he?
no, you won’t fight him one bit. you’ll understand better, too, when he’s got you on your back, cock buried deep, drool hanging off your lip—you’ll know that you’re both right where you belong. where you’re meant to be.
and with luck, by the time spring returns, there’ll be more reason for you to stay. maybe his baby in your belly and a new ring on your finger. that bargain of a single month so far behind you both that neither of you will remember there was ever supposed to be an ending to it.
at first you thought he was just out for the day- running errands, meeting friends, buying more spy equipment to hide in your flat- but when he didn't come home that night or even early the next morning, you realized you'd been given an opportunity-
-and you took it without hesitation.
in your mind, you deserve an oscar for the little private performance you gave in your flat. after all- if you're being recorded, there's a likelihood that whenever kyle comes back, he'll want to review the footage. so you went about your day as normal, pretending to stumble upon the camera he'd set up in a light fixture, gasping and acting shocked and terrified when you 'realized' what you were looking at. you made a big show of packing things up in a hurry, calling rental trucks, and breaking your lease with your landlord.
it's not until a day later when you're sitting across the poker table from big d, still buzzing in excitement over getting a clean break from kyle, that you even find out about the austrian.
"been meanin' t'ask," d rumbles around his cigarette, casually tossing a chip into the pot. "is it you we owe thanks to f'solvin' our little kraut problem?"
"what?" you ask vaguely, only half-listening. across the table, elizabeth is trying to decide if she's going to shoot for a full house or settle for her three of a kind, and what you do next depends on her.
"oh, you didn't 'ear?" he asks, wicked grin spreading across his face, and it makes your blood run cold. you know better than to say anything, so you keep staring at your cards like they're going to save you somehow. you're just one card away from a flush, which, depending on what elizabeth does, could help pay the next month's rent in your shiny new flat on the far other side of london.
"gruesome shit." cora mutters beside you, shaking her head- more so at her single pair than the newsreel playing in her head about an austrian immigrant being pushed onto the tracks in the underground. the shock of it steals your breath from your lungs, but you don't show it. you've got far more practice than any of these people when it comes to perfecting your poker face, after all.
"mhm. real nasty shit. 'ard t'say if 'e was pushed or jumped or if the knob'ead just slipped an' fell." d says, audibly pleased about the whole terrible turn of events- although the straight he's working on is definitely contributing to his good mood. he stares at you over his cards, hazel eyes under thick eyebrows locked onto you in a way that you'd find more intimidating if you knew less about what goes on in his head.
go on, birdie. say somethin'. was it you? gimme a tell f'once.
but you don't. instead you stay silent and keep your face schooled into the bored mask that you've perfected at these tables, silently celebrating when elizabeth resigns herself to her three of a kind. it's been a long night already, and you've already decided to leave with your winnings as soon as this round is over.
the call is made and cards hit the table- elizabeth's three of a kind, big d's straight, mitzi's two pair, and your flush. beatrice shakes her head, having folded ages ago with a pitiful single pair, mentally chiding herself, swearing to a god she doesn't really believe in that she's never coming back as you scoop up the chips.
"well, this has been fun, but it's a school night." you tell the table as you make your way to cash out.
"done olready?" d teases, taking one last drag on his stumpy cigarette. "was it somethin' i said?"
you don't bother responding, handing your chips over to be cashed out as you ignore d's rumbling laugh and the nervous thoughts of everyone else at the table.
wait, did she really kill him? was it not an accident? the bloody git seemed upset about being kicked out, i'd assumed he'd up and offed himself. what does big d know that we don't? did they kill him together?
their silent questions follow you up the stairs and onto the main floor of the restaurant you played under tonight, the diner's thoughts eventually drowning them out with complaints about overcooked chicken and gristle in the stew as you make your way to the front door and out onto the street. the air is cooler out here, fresh against your face, and it helps you think as you spiral out a bit about the austrian's fate. you watched the news report in cora's head, but she'd forgotten some details already, and it made everything muddy, blurry, and borderline incomprehensible. you decide to take a taxi home, uncharacteristically avoiding the tube tonight.
you try not to think too hard about why.
it doesn't take too long to get to your lovely new flat with the lovely security guard in the lovely lobby and a lovely series of thick deadbolts on your door. as soon as the last lock is slid into place, you immediately go for your computer and pull up every news story you can find about the austrian immigrant that died in the underground just a few days ago.
it's not sadness that makes your eyes go water or your hands shake. fuck 'hans arschegeige', it's not his death you're emotional about. instead it's the inexplicable system glitch that seemingly turned off all the security cameras on that particular platform at the exact right time that allowed his demise to go completely unrecorded that has you on edge. there's no way to prove it was kyle without getting close to him again, but your gut instincts are screaming that this was his doing. the thought alone is dizzying, really- after all, you knew he was connected enough to get his hands on the surveillance equipment that was hidden in your old flat, but getting the cameras cut in the fucking tubes? that's a level of power you hadn't realized he had, and it makes you feel absolutely ill with fear over having that man's obsessive attention turned your way.
except he's gone now, you tell yourself in a vain attempt to settle your own nerves. he's off on a mission or something, terrorizing someone else very very far away from here- and when he comes back, you'll be gone. he won't be able to find you. the flat's been paid for in cash, you've told no one where you've gone, and you haven't had your mail forwarded. you'll be the one that got away for a while, and then he'll move on and find someone new to obsess about. you just have to be patient, that's all. give it a few months, settle into a new routine, and it'll all be okay. you'll see.
it takes an entire pot of chamomile tea and four valarian root tablets to relax you enough to sleep, and even then you find yourself plagued by nightmares about dark eyes watching you through crowds, unseen and unwanted, as a familiar voice rings out in your mind about how it's only a matter of time, babes. i won't be long now. just wait for me, i'll be there soon.
~
it takes three months to get into a new routine. the new neighborhood takes some time to get used to, but soon enough you find a new favorite coffee shop, a new favorite bookstore, and a new favorite chinese place. the neighbors are quiet enough, their thoughts blissfully mundane, and it almost feels like you can live your life again. no longer do you keep your 'inner ear' open for him when you go out in public, and the panic-induced at-home dye job you gave yourself when you moved into your new flat is starting to show signs of grow out. the mental and emotional terror kyle put you through is nothing more than fodder for your bad dreams anymore- a mere memory of a time when everything was oppressively bad.
every day your paranoia and guilt over the austrian's death grows fainter and fainter, and it almost feels like you can breathe again. sure, you probably should've moved further- to scotland, perhaps, or even america- but breaking into new backroom poker tables is difficult, especially with no one local to vouch for you. and since a regular nine-to-five doesn't appeal at all, so you stick to big d's games, meeting in the backs of laundromats, the cellars of restaurants, the occasional vip suite of a nice hotel. you win just enough to keep your bills paid and accounts fat, and lose just enough to keep from being suspicious- but now it's a little more nerve-wracking, with big d's attention always pointed your direction.
he hasn't said anything to you since that first game after hans' death, but he doesn't need to. you hear it all in his head, the idle curiosity whether it was or wasn't you that pushed the big lunk to his death. the police officially ruled it a suicide, but neither of you buys that. it's just the easiest way to close the book on the case and move on, and you both know that the bobbies are notoriously lazy, especially in cases of immigrant deaths. so d watches you, wondering silently to himself if the big soft card shark sitting across from him really has a killer instinct, or if it's just a coincidence that you'd had a public run-in with the man mere hours before his death.
one night you come home after a series of strategic losses, antsy and unable to sleep. you allowed finn to go on a roll tonight after listening to him worry about paying off his mechanic for some extensive repairs. poor man's been put through the wringer lately, and you figured it was the least you could do, considering that you cheat at every game you've ever played against him. but now you're left with too much pent-up energy, so you do the only thing you can think of- you start to clean.
dishes get done, floors get swept, and you finally tackle the boxes you still haven't unpacked since you moved in, just sitting in the corners, gathering dust. books find homes on shelves, clothes you'd forgotten you owned are moved to closets and drawers, and knick knacks are placed wherever the vibe feels most correct.
it's not until you're sorting through the contents of your go-bag that you find it- your old burner, the one you forgot to dump months ago, with one single contact listed in it. the battery died a long time ago, but a niggling thought raises a small panic: you don't remember if it was turned off when you moved. did it leave a digital trail or tower pings leading right to your new hideout? surely he can't follow a long-dead cell phone to you, can he? is he even home yet? is he pissed? he must be, right? but you were careful, so careful to not leave a trace, to not put anything under your name-
but you still forgot to ditch the burner, didn't you? god knows what else you've forgotten, what little clues and tidbits you left behind in your scrambled panic to run away.
you don't know enough about cell phones or kyle's capabilities to be sure, and the uncertainty sours your stomach as you stare at your horrified reflection in the black screen. you need to get rid of it, you know you do, but there's a curiosity that you just can't shake- if he's back, he'd have texted you, right? and you'll need to know if he's back, won't you? for your safety's sake? but your most paranoid thoughts tell you that you can't turn it on here, that you'll have to take this somewhere far away to recharge.
there's a bar in your old neighborhood that you know has an outlet you can use, and that seems like the best bet. you can plug it in there, check for a message, and then immediately abandon it. the plan is simple enough, but just thinking about it makes your chest feel tight and your palms feel sweaty- but it is, unfortunately, the best idea you can come up with. if kyle's not home, then the last ping of your cell phone will be in your old neighborhood- and if he is back in london, then he'll still be drawn to the wrong neighborhood, plus you'll know to run and stay clear away.
you wait until friday night when the bar is full and it'll be easier to hide in the crowd. you're on high alert, jumpy and paranoid again, nearly startling out of your skin when a drunk woman accidentally stumbles into you, slurring her apologies as she follows her gaggle of friends to the next bar, their heels click-clacking in harmony with each other. you keep looking over your shoulder, listening intently for kyle's thoughts- but there's nothing. not yet.
you're all nerves as you impatiently wait for your phone to get to even 1% battery life, tapping your foot and biting your lip to the point that you're worried you might start tasting blood. a pretty blonde bartender watches you with concerned eyes, and asks you twice if you're all right. all you can do is give her a less than convincing smile, telling her that you're waiting on some bad news and feel silly about letting your battery get so low. she doesn't believe you- she's not stupid, after all- but like any good bartender, she knows when things aren't her business, and leaves you be. when there's finally enough juice to turn on your phone you wait with baited breath for three whole minutes, waiting to see if any missed calls, voicemails, or texts come in.
nothing.
an almost manic laugh bubbles up from the core of you as you leave the bar, abandoning your burner as you slip into the night. there's no messages from kyle, which surely means he's still gone, right? you're safe now. if he has any way of tracing that phone, he'll be lead to a location far away from where you actually live. you're free.
it's not until you're safely home, half a city away and hidden behind a security guard and some very sturdy locks that you allow yourself to cry. it's so cathartic, all of that apprehension and fear sloughing off of you, emerging out of it like a butterfly from a chrysalis. your last loose end is tied up, and now you're finally free. the relief of it is more relaxing than any massage, hot bath, or stiff drink you've ever had in your life, and after a good cry session and a celebratory calippo from the freezer, it finally, finally feels like you have your life back.
~
for the first time in a while, you sleep deeply and undisturbed. no nightmares about dark eyes following you, about cameras in your home, about being abducted by a man that grew instantly obsessed after only a few meetings. there is only the black nothing of a dreamless sleep that swaddles your mind in a comfortable blanket, allowing you to find rest for a solid nine hours. it's only when sleep starts to recede from your mind that the thoughts of your neighbors start to slowly creep back in.
-milk, bread, eggs- jesus, mary, and joseph, how are we out of eggs again? i'd swear i only bought some last week-
-and what do i care who he dates? we broke up ages ago. it's not like it was serious, so why does seeing her on his instagram make me so bloody furious? whatever, she's just a slag, it won't last-
-he's lying to me about that test at school, i just know he is. i swear, if that boy doesn't shape up, i'll send him to live with his father-
-somewhere around here, the cabbie dropped her off at the corner last night. she's got to be nearby. walking distance, at least. that building, maybe? come on, babes, where are you? there's no need to run anymore-
your breath catches in your lungs, drawing out a ragged gasp that sends you rocketing upright, eyes wide and brow sweaty. it's kyle. he's here- or, at least somewhere nearby. within a block, at your estimation. it feels like you've been woken up with a cold bucket of water dumped over your head, and you can't help the shake in your knees and your hands as you scurry to your window, peering through your curtains down at the street. you can't see him, but his vivid memories trickle in unbidden all the same.
a cell phone in his hand, with a notification telling him the signal could not be found. going home to his laptop, only to see the look of terror on your face as you 'found' the camera. the way you packed up in a hurry, leaving a completely bare apartment within just a day. so far as he could tell, you hadn't even seen the headlines about the death in the underground before you started your escape. he assumes that you thought the surveillance equipment belonged to the austrian, that you panicked and ran without realizing he was gone for good.
the way he stared at your contact in his phone, your name saved with a blue heart emoji, unsure what to say after months of silence. the sudden ping of your phone spurring him into action, leading him straight to the bar, where he went to 'bump' into you, finding only the abandoned burner still plugged into the wall.
"she looked really upset, is she all right?" the blonde bartender from last night asks, towel slung over her shoulder.
"that's what i'm trying to find out." kyle tells her. "did you see her with anyone?"
"no. like i said, she came in alone, plugged in her phone, and then left without it. kept looking around, all nervous-like the whole time." the bartender shrugs. "when i turned around for a moment she disappeared."
"when did she leave?"
"not even an hour ago, i don't think."
what had you so scared, babes? your boyfriend's gone now, we took care of it, let us take care of whatever's making you run-
"it's you." you hiss through your teeth into your empty apartment, hysterical with grief. "you're making me run, kyle garrick. go away. just go away!"
shaking knees give out from underneath you, and you collapse onto the floor, chest and sinuses aching from the panicked tears that you're trying to fight off. more flashes of thoughts and memories sear across your brain- hacked surveillance cameras, grainy images of you hurrying out of the bar and into a nearby taxi, hopping from camera feed to camera feed, trailing its journey until you exited and set off on foot. it's what brought him here, what has him peering into the lobby of your building and silently cursing at the obvious security guard.
i'll be back for you, babes. we'll be together again, i'll come up with something, he thinks as he gazes up at the lines of windows on your building, eyes sliding over where you're hunched behind the wall, sobbing desperate, angry tears.
you're trapped again, cornered once more by kyle garrick. he knows your building now, and he'll be keeping too close an eye on you for you to try to move again- unless you decide to abandon everything you own and make a run for it with just the clothes on your back.
fuck. shit! motherfucker! your months of freedom were a sweet, sweet taste of what your life should be like- but potentially never will be again. he's a dog with a bone, you know that now, and so long as he has the resources and free time, he will never, ever leave you alone. all you can do now is seethe and cry and try desperately to think of a plan before he comes back, knowing that every single camera posted on the street could be used against you again, to trail you to wherever you might try to run.
bloody fucking london with it's bloody fucking cameras every bloody fucking where.
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just had to block someone so quick reminder that zionists are not welcome on this blog. genocide supporters, apartheid supporters, bigots in any sense, are never, ever welcome on this blog. i will block you when i see that shit. get OUT
Sometimes violence is the answer to your problems- or in this case, Simon Riley’s problems
It’s not as if there had been a particular moment where Simon Riley had sat down and decided that he was done with having sex.
Rather, it was the accumulation of torture over the years that had left damage- nerves misfiring or simply not firing at all beneath scar tissue that had healed wrong.
Then there were the other injuries layered over it across the years: the fractures, surgeries, concussions, medications, chronic pain and the permanent state of low grade readiness his body seemed incapable of leaving even when he was technically safe.
Simon had spent enough time in hospitals to know the human body was less a machine than people liked pretending it was. Things went wrong. Sometimes they healed. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes nobody could tell you why.
His cock, apparently, had decided not to.
He’d noticed it gradually.
Morning erections disappearing first, though he couldn’t have said precisely when- not when his mornings were spent around other people and never actually got the time to wank one out before morning drills or in between dodging gunfire.
Then on the rare occasion he did actually feel enough inclination to do something about himself, it became an exercise in diminishing returns: attraction still existed somewhere in his head, sensation technically existed below the waist, but whatever bridge had once connected the two appeared to have been bombed out.
Simon discovered it through the deeply scientific process of occasionally attempting to masturbate and getting absolutely fuck all for his trouble
He could touch himself and get nowhere. Could want, abstractly, and have his body answer with complete indifference. The first few times Simon tested it, he approached the problem the way he approached most of his failures: with detached irritation, as though persistence alone might force the damaged thing back into service.
Eventually he’d stared down at himself, accepted that nothing was happening, pulled his trousers back up and thought, Right. That’s that, then.
He never mentioned it to anyone, not to a doctor and certainly not to Price, because- contrary to popular belief- there were limits to what Simon Riley was willing to survive and the idea of being waterboarded ranked higher on the list of things he’d want to go through again before having John Price know whether his lieutenant’s cock remained operational or not.
He didn’t make an appointment specifically for it either. Doctors had poked, prodded, scanned, stitched and reconstructed enough of him already, and there was something uniquely intolerable about volunteering this particular failure for examination when he had no real intention of actually doing anything with the equipment even if they did manage to fix it.
Casual sex had never really held enough appeal to justify navigating the humiliation of his body refusing to cooperate halfway through. A relationship sounded worse. Relationships required trust, trust required vulnerability, and Simon had never understood the fascination people had with handing another human being that kind of weakness so openly.
So celibacy became another practical adjustment. Fine. Good, even. One less thing to worry about, one less chemical urge trying to convince him another person was necessary.
Simon’s body already demanded sleep, food, medication, physical therapy and the occasional begrudging acknowledgment that he was not, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, composed entirely of out of spite.
He didn’t particularly mind losing one more demand and eventually he stopped checking whether anything had changed. He stopped noticing attractive strangers beyond the detached recognition that, yes, objectively, they were attractive. He stopped wondering whether there might be some circumstance under which his body would respond differently.
It had been years and whatever part of him had once wanted sex had either been damaged beyond use or buried beneath too much other shit to reach daylight, and Simon had made his peace with that.
Then you arrived and immediately became the most irritating person he had met in recent memory.
Not because you were cruel. Simon could deal with cruel; cruelty was straightforward. You simply possessed a spectacular disregard for the strange force field that usually formed around Ghost.
New recruits tended to give him space. Experienced operators might not fear him, but they understood him well enough not to poke unnecessarily at whatever lived behind the skull mask.
Even Soap, who had elevated testing Simon’s patience into a recreational activity, possessed enough survival instinct to recognize certain lines.
You, however, seemed unaware there were lines at all.
The first time Simon deliberately crowded your space during a disagreement, expecting the usual subtle retreat people made when six-foot-something of masked lieutenant invaded their breathing room, you merely tipped your head back farther and continued arguing. When he leaned down, you leaned forward. When he blocked the doorway afterward because you’d been getting on his nerves for the better part of twenty minutes, you stared at him and asked, “Are you finished?”
“Finished what?” he’d replied, because sometimes Simon could be every bit as juvenile as Soap accused him of being, even if he’s deny it until the day he died.
“This.” You waved vaguely at all of him. “Whatever weird intimidation ritual you’ve got going on. Move.”
He hadn’t and you responded with putting both hands against the center of his chest and shoving him instead. He barely shifted if course, which only seemed to annoy you further.
Your mouth tightened, your boots planted and you shoved again with genuine intent this time while Simon stared down at you in profound disbelief.
Somewhere behind him Soap made the distinctive strangled sound of a man swallowing laughter, and when Simon turned his head just enough all he saw was the sergeant suddenly studying a patch of wall with extraordinary concentration because he valued his continued existence.
By the time Simon looked back, you were already shouldering past the narrow gap you’d created, muttering something about oversized fucking roadblocks.
Deeply irritating. That was Simon’s assessment, and it remained his assessment over the following weeks while you developed an increasingly casual habit of putting your hands on him whenever he was being difficult.
Not affectionately. Never anything he could easily categorize as flirtation.
Rather, you slapped his hand away when he reached for things you were using, nudged his boots aside when he stretched his legs into your path, drove your shoulder into his arm rather than walk around him when he occupied too much corridor.
One afternoon he reached over your head for the exact mug you’d been reaching toward despite three identical ones sitting beside it, and you promptly elbowed him in the ribs.
“Use another one.”
“Wanted this one.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Been told.”
You turned with your mug held against your chest and gave him a look of profound disgust. “Do you wake up every morning and consciously decide to be unbearable, or does it come naturally?”
“Natural talent.”
Something low in his stomach tightened when your eyes narrowed. Simon noticed it only enough to dismiss it. His body produced strange aches, sparks and misfires constantly; one more meant nothing.
The real problem emerged three weeks later over a mission report, largely because Simon had made the decision to edit your wording after you’d already submitted it.
You found him sitting at his desk with the amended copy beside him and launched immediately into an accusation of bureaucratic sabotage.
Simon informed you that he’d corrected inaccuracies. You informed him there had been no inaccuracies. He reminded you that on line of your official report had read, Lieutenant Riley ignored the proposed entry point because apparently God himself whispered a better idea directly into his ear.
“That is an accurate account of events,” you argued.
“Not putting that in an official report.”
“You’re only mad because it makes you sound like an asshole.”
“I am an asshole.”
“Then why are we editing for accuracy?”
You were already moving around the desk while you said it, coming toward him with the particular determined stride Simon had learned meant you were about to invade his personal space as punishment for some perceived crime.
He remained seated though, mostly because standing would have made the whole thing absurd; he was already large enough without looming over you while you complained about paperwork.
You stopped directly between his knees instead, close enough that the fabric over one of your thighs brushed the outside of his. Simon registered it without meaning to and dismissed it.
Then your finger came up and pressed hard into the center of his chest.
“You listen to me, Riley. If you touch my report again without asking, you can take that red pen and shove it so far up your- “
Simon stopped listening.
His body had gone abruptly, impossibly still around one singular point of awareness. There was pressure beneath his pants. Heat. A heavy rush of blood into an organ Simon had, for all practical purposes, considered medically retired.
For several bewildered seconds his brain refused to identify the sensation because it had been absent too long to belong naturally among the catalog of things Simon expected his body to do.
Then his cock gave a distinct pulse against the front of his trousers and every word leaving your mouth vanished beneath one stunned thought.
He was hard.
Not sort of hard, not an ambiguous twitch he could blame on sitting wrong or fabric pressure or some random neurological event.
Simon Riley, who had gone years without getting an erection under considerably more deliberate circumstances, was sitting in his office with a fully functioning cock because you were jabbing him in the chest and telling him to go fuck himself.
You were still speaking, though Simon had no idea what you were saying anymore- although judging by your expression it remained insulting.
He stared at you with such unusual stillness that eventually you stopped on your own, finger still planted against his sternum. “What?”
Simon said nothing.
“What?” you repeated. “Have you gone deaf?”
His gaze dropped to your hand as though it might explain what had just happened. You mistook the look for irritation and removed your finger and Simon waited for the erection to disappear with it. It didn’t.
If anything, the lingering anger in your expression produced another deeply inconvenient pulse.
“No,” he finally said.
“Then say something.”
There were probably several sensible options but Simon chose, “Finished?”
Your whole expression sharpened. “Oh, fuck you.”
You snatched the report from beside him and stormed away, leaving Simon alone in his office with the door swinging behind you and his body apparently celebrating a resurrection.
He sat there for another several seconds before slowly looking down at himself.
The erection remained as undeniable as it was inexplicable. After years of absolutely nothing, his nervous system had apparently located a bypass around the damage because you had yelled at him over paperwork.
Simon stared until disbelief curdled into suspicion, then muttered, “Tha’s fucki’ inconvenient.”
By the following morning, he had explained it away. Bodies were strange. Blood pressure changed. Anger raised adrenaline. Perhaps poking his chest had compressed something in precisely the right way. Perhaps a damaged nerve had fired randomly for the first time in years.
After much deliberation, Simon decided one isolated event proved nothing, and there was absolutely no reason to investigate further.
So it was a completely coincidence, of course, that Simon happened to be standing directly in front of the cutlery drawer the next day, when you needed it.
You’d made tea, reached for the drawer and found approximately two hundred and forty pounds of lieutenant in the way. “Move.”
“Comfy.”
Your hand paused on the mug. “You’re blocking the spoons.”
“Plenty elsewhere.”
“No, there aren’t. They’re in the drawer behind your ass.”
“Sounds inconvenient.”
You stared at him. Simon leaned against the counter with studied indifference, though somewhere beneath that indifference his attention had become embarrassingly focused.
Nothing happened. No stirring. No heat. Simon experienced an emotion dangerously close to disappointment and immediately resented himself for it.
Then you stepped forward, caught a fistful of his shirt at the chest and yanked. “For fuck’s sake, Riley, move.”
His cock went hard so quickly Simon nearly inhaled his own tongue.
There was no ambiguity this time. Your knuckles dragged against his sternum through the fabric, your body crowded directly into his as you tried to haul a man significantly larger than yourself out of the way, and apparently this combination constituted the precise password required to unlock Simon Riley’s long dormant reproductive system.
You succeeded in shifting him half a step, reached around him for the drawer and retrieved your spoon without noticing that Simon had gone rigid for an entirely different reason.
“What’s wrong with you?” you asked when you turned back.
“Nothin’.”
“You look weird.”
“Always look like this.”
“No, you’re acting weird.”
Simon left without making the tea he’d ostensibly entered the kitchen to prepare.
Still, twice could still be coincidence. Simon clung to that argument for roughly forty eight hours before curiosity overwhelmed dignity and the entire situation deteriorated into an experiment he refused to acknowledge he was conducting.
He began noticing variables with the clinical attention he would normally reserve for surveillance. Ordinary proximity produced nothing reliable. Sitting beside you during briefings didn’t do it. Your shoulder bumping his in a crowded transport didn’t do it. You once passed him a weapon and your fingers brushed his glove, and his nervous system remained entirely uninterested.
There was something reassuring about that at first. Perhaps the episodes really were random.
Then he ignored you while you were trying to ask him a question.
“Riley.”
Simon continued inspecting the rifle in his hands.
“Riley.”
Nothing.
“Simon.”
There it was: that warning woven through his name, irritation sharpening the edges. Simon looked up and caught the full force of your glare just as warmth tightened low behind his belt.
“Wot?” he asked.
“I’ve been talking to you.”
“Have you?”
Your eyes narrowed further. His cock stirred harder.
Simon turned back toward the weapons bench before you could notice the slight adjustment in his stance.
Three times constituted a pattern.
After that, his behavior became indefensible.
He discovered that if he deliberately moved one of your things, you would hunt him down to complain. If he blocked your route, you would put your hands on him rather than politely ask twice. If he took the pen nearest your fingers instead of any of the other four available, you would slap the back of his hand. If he walked away while you were talking, you would occasionally grab the back of his vest and yank him to a halt, which produced such an immediate response the first time that Simon had needed to invent an urgent reason to leave the room before you noticed.
He tested other possibilities privately because, despite what his increasingly deranged behavior suggested, Simon was still attempting to establish whether you were actually the variable.
A woman flirted openly with him during leave; nothing. He watched pornography one evening and experienced such profound indifference that halfway through he became distracted wondering whether he’d cleaned the knife he’d used on a security guard earlier. He tried touching himself without any outside stimulus and got little more than the same sluggish response he’d become accustomed to years before.
The following afternoon you stormed into the common room because he’d eaten something with your name written very clearly across the container and jabbed him in the chest, snarling. “I swear to God, Riley, I’m going to kill you.”
His body responded like somebody had thrown a switch, cock harder than diamonds.
Simon stared at you as heat settled heavily between his legs. You stared back, waiting for remorse that was not forthcoming.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
A profoundly defective impulse surfaced. Simon leaned slightly closer. “Gonna have to try harder than that.”
Your mouth fell open before outrage filled the space. “You absolute fucking bastard.”
You attempted to leap at him, spitting profanities and attempting- Simon assumed- to claw his eyes out but Gaz intercepted and kept you off of him. Still, you managed to shove his shoulder and his cock throbbed in response.
Simon stepped back immediately, which only made you look suspicious. “Stay away from my food,” you snapped, throwing Gaz’s hands off of you, before walking out.
Gaz lowered his hands and looked toward Simon.
Simon turned his head very slowly.
Gaz’s eyebrows rose.
“Wot?”
“Didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Gaz gave him a deeply searching look- perceptive bastard- before finally settling on. “Not a conversation I’m looking to have, mate.”
Simon went upstairs, shut his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his mattress with both hands dragged over his mask.
It should have been good news. That was the part he could not reconcile. For years he’d assumed the damage was permanent, another small theft committed by men and circumstances that had already taken enough from him.
He had accepted it because Simon understood loss better than he understood recovery; there was peace in declaring something gone and never hoping for it again after all.
Now, against every expectation, his body was proving that some pathway still existed. Something beneath the scar tissue and damaged nerves still knew what to do. Under any reasonable circumstance, that should have felt like getting a piece of himself back.
Instead, Simon was being forced to confront the humiliating possibility that his cock was not broken so much as catastrophically selective.
Apparently lingerie did nothing for it. Flirting did nothing. Attractive strangers did nothing. Pornography had nearly put him to sleep.
But you glaring at him like you were three seconds away from committing an indictable offense? Excellent. You hauling him around by his clothes? Evidently irresistible. You shoving him because he was deliberately standing somewhere inconvenient? His nervous system seemed to consider it practically erotic.
It got worse because Simon genuinely enjoyed irritating you even without the increasingly inconvenient physical reward attached to it. There was something satisfying about the immediacy of your reactions.
Most people behaved differently around Ghost. They measured their words. Watched his hands. Gave the mask more space than it physically occupied. Even people who knew him eventually retained some instinctive awareness that he could become frightening very quickly if circumstances demanded it.
But you treated him like an enormous nuisance.
Simon could stand silently behind hardened soldiers and watch their shoulders stiffen; but all you would do is look over, discover him hovering there, and tell him his breathing was annoying you. People feared monsters but you only responded with irritation at the one who stole your mug.
Simon did not examine why that distinction mattered to him. Instead, he moved your mug again.
The situation finally collapsed when he blocked you in a corridor for no reason beyond the fact that he knew exactly what would happen.
You stopped in front of him with immediate suspicion. “Move.”
Simon remained where he was, arms folded.
“Riley.”
“Hm?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” You gestured at the width of him occupying nearly the entire passage. “Standing exactly where I need to go.”
“Small corridor.”
“Exactly and you’re somehow taking up all of it.”
“Skill.”
You stepped left. Simon stepped left. You stopped and stared at him. He could see realization beginning, he dawning certainty that his obstruction was deliberate. You moved right. Simon mirrored you again.
“Are you twelve?”
“Could ask you the same.”
“Oh, my God.” You tried left one more time. He blocked you, and now your patience broke visibly. Your shoulders squared, your jaw tightened and when you spoke again your voice dropped into that particular warning register his body had inexplicably decided it adored. “Move, Riley.”
Heat tightened beneath his belt.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He should have stepped aside then. He had his answer. He had, in fact, accumulated an absurd quantity of answers over the previous week and required absolutely no further data.
Instead, despite being a grown ass adult, Simon leaned one shoulder against the wall and heard himself say, “Make me.”
You went very still.
There was a small part of Simon’s brain, the portion apparently not currently occupied by destroying his own dignity, that recognized he had pushed this into ridiculous territory.
Then you planted both hands against his chest and shoved hard enough to drive his shoulder into the wall.
The response was immediate and vicious. His cock surged against the front of his pants, balls tightening instinctively, breath catching just enough that you noticed. Your hands remained spread over his chest while your expression changed from irritation to confusion.
Simon looked down at them.
You followed his gaze, but this time your attention continued lower.
Silence settled between you.
Simon felt the exact moment you understood.
Your eyes lifted slowly back to his.
“No.”
He said nothing.
Your mouth began to twitch. “No fucking way. Is that why you’ve been fucking with me?”
“No.”
The denial came far too quickly.
Your expression transformed. “Oh my God.”
Simon pushed away from the wall. “Don’t.”
“You have been deliberately pissing me off.”
“Have not.”
“You moved my boots yesterday.”
“Safety hazard.”
“They were under my bed.”
“Could’ve tripped.”
“In my sleep?”
“Dangerous business.”
You stared at him for a long second before laughter broke through. Not polite laughter either. You actually bent slightly with it, one hand still braced against his vest while Simon considered every decision he had made since entering military service and wondered which one had placed him on the path toward this precise humiliation and whether he could go find his enemies and beg for the west release of death.
“You ate my food,” you accused between breaths.
“Was hungry.”
“You stole my pen out of my hand when there were three sitting next to it.”
“Liked yours.”
“You stood in front of the spoon drawer for five fucking minutes.”
Simon’s silence convicted him more effectively than anything he might have said.
“You’ve been fucking with me because it gets you off.”
“Wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
He had nothing.
Your laughter returned, softer now but infinitely more dangerous because amusement was giving way to curiosity. Simon recognized the shift immediately. You looked down again, not long enough to be crude, merely long enough to confirm the evidence remained present, then back up at him. Something in your expression sharpened with wicked understanding.
“You’re a fucking freak, Riley.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“That do it too?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Simon caught your wrists when you pressed both hands to his chest again, intending only to remove them. The movement changed your expression instantly. Amusement flashed into irritation at being restrained, your weight shifting toward him instead of away.
“Let go.”
His erection throbbed so hard Simon nearly swore.
Your eyes narrowed.
Simon shut his own for half a second because apparently there were indignities even he required time to process. When he opened them, you were staring at him with a new kind of fascination.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
Simon released your wrists.
You didn’t move back.
Neither did he.
The corridor had somehow become smaller around you both, the joking edge thinning into awareness. You watched him for a second, then reached forward with deliberate slowness and hooked one finger beneath the edge of his pants. Simon knew exactly what you were doing now. More importantly, so did you.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“Bullshit.”
You tugged him half an inch closer.
His jaw tightened as his cock reacted instantly.
That awful, delighted grin spread across your face before cupping your palm around the hard, obvious shape of his cock through the fabric and closing your fingers.
Simon’s entire body betrayed him at once.
His head tipped back against the wall with a dull, undignified thunk. His eyes rolled upward so hard he briefly saw the inside of his own skull. A sound escaped him that could generously be described as a groan and less generously as a whine.
He stayed like that for a second- head thrown back, eyes somewhere in the rafters, cock throbbing shamelessly in the warm curve of your hand- while his brain attempted to process the sheer fucking audacity of the situation.
You gave a small, experimental squeeze.
Simon’s hips jerked forward of their own accord- traitors- and he locked every muscle he still had control over, forcing himself still, which only made the next pulse against your palm more obvious.
“Christ,” he muttered at the ceiling, voice strangled.
You didn’t let go. If anything, you adjusted your grip with the calm curiosity of someone who had just discovered a particularly interesting malfunction and intended to poke it until it made more interesting noises. Your thumb stroked once along the ridge of him, and Simon’s breath left him in a short, punched out sound that was deeply unhelpful to whatever remaining dignity he was trying to cling to.
You tilted your head, still cupping him, and watched the way his throat worked under the mask.
“So,” you said, far too conversationally for someone currently holding a lieutenant’s previously non-functional cock in her hand, “this is the bit where you explain yourself, or…?”
Simon dragged his eyes back down to you with visible effort. The mask hid most of his expression, but the set of his shoulders suggested a man who had just realised he had spent the better part of two weeks engineering his own public humiliation and was now living with the consequences.
“Not explainin’ a fuckin’ thing,” he managed, voice rough. “While you’re still holdin’ my cock in your hand. You’re becoming a problem.”
“I’m becoming a problem? You’ve spent the last week acting like a primary school boy pulling someone’s hair because apparently your dick needs interpersonal conflict to function.”
“Tha’s not what’s happening.”
“You got hard because I shoved you into a wall.”
“Coincidence.”
“I can test that.”
“You fuckin’ will not.”
Your grin widened and your palm pressed down and Ghost nearly saw God long enough to ask why after nearly thirty years of suffering, this was apparently the punchline.
Before he could ask, God apparently decided to throw the poor suffering bastard a bone because Soap’s voice sounded from around the corner. “Ghost, ye seen- “
Simon stepped away from you with enough speed that you nearly stumbled forward.
Soap rounded the corner, stopped and took in the scene. You were suspiciously amused. Simon was standing at an equally suspicious angle with his hands planted on his hips and approximately three feet more distance between you than two people naturally needed. Johnny’s gaze moved from you to Ghost, back to you and then very deliberately refused to travel any lower.
“Aye,” Soap said slowly.
Nobody answered.
He nodded to himself. “Actually, never mind.”
Soap turned around.
“MacTavish.”
His pace increased.
“Johnny.”
“Didnae see anything, LT.”
“You didn’t.”
“Exactly.”
He disappeared around the corner before Simon could decide whether murder was worth the paperwork.
You made it perhaps two seconds before laughter burst out of you again, and Simon dragged one hand down the front of his mask while your amusement echoed through the corridor.
This, apparently, was his life now. He had survived torture, burial, gunfire, explosions and enough bodily damage to permanently alter the way his nervous system functioned, only to discover that whatever remained of his sexual response had crawled out of its grave specifically for the most confrontational person he knew.
The pattern had become painfully specific: you close enough to crowd him, your voice edged with irritation, your hands on his chest because Simon had deliberately made himself impossible to tolerate.
His body had surveyed years of opportunity with complete indifference, ignored every conventional invitation offered to it, then watched you square up against a man nearly twice your mass and apparently made an executive decision.
That one. You need to fuck that one.
The thought arrived so clearly Simon actually glanced upward again as though God might be willizng to throw him another bone.
Apparently he’d used up all this good will because the Almighty wasn’t.
There was only you, still laughing as you pushed past him and deliberately knocked your shoulder into his chest on the way.
“Move, Riley.”
His cock twitched again.
Simon closed his eyes and stood perfectly still in the corridor while the universe continued to punish him for crimes he could not presently recall committing and groaned out. “Fuck’s sake.”
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cw: stalking, minor character death, sexual thoughts, alcohol
the text is simple- a date, a time, and a place. only a fucking idiot would show up- which is why kyle knows konig will be there. he'll also probably show up early, thinking he's being clever by scoping out the area beforehand- as if that will save him from kyle's wrath.
he shoves his phone back into his pocket and watches the screen of his laptop as his pretty, soft neighbor cries herself to sleep, the shaking of her body and muffled sounds of her sobs growing fainter and fainter until she goes still, her white noise machine having apparently lulled her to sleep. poor thing, she must've run into that big ugly brute while she was out and about, he must've frightened her terribly, and kyle can't help but kick himself for being away- too busy giddily hiding the cameras and microphones nikolai's contact had sold him while daydreaming about moving his few personal belongings into her flat.
"i'm sorry, babes." he whispers to the image on his screen, fingers tracing over the exaggerated curves of her ass and thighs. "i'll fix this. i've got you."
it'll take some work to get her walls to come down a bit more, but he's confident in his ability to wear her down little by little. she's clearly been put through the wringer by her shitty kortac boyfriend, but in his mind, that makes her even more perfect- she's already used to the distance and the secrets, after all. kyle knows he can make it better than konig ever could simply by virtue of not being a charmless git- he'll order flowers for her when he's got cell service, have her favorite food delivered to her flat, and make sure that every moment he's on leave is spent by her side (or on top of her, or under her, or pressed up behind her). he'll be everything that big lout isn't; handsome, attentive, caring, and loving.
he thinks back to that meeting in the coffee shop as he shuts his laptop closed, shaking his head in disgust. no 'hello darling', no 'i've missed you', nothing. just a stern 'i have been looking for you' that sent red flags flying in kyle's mind. clearly something is amiss, and he's desperate to make things better for her by any means necessary. god knows how long this poor girl has been trapped in this relationship, but it won't be for much longer. a plan is in motion to set her free, and nothing short of a bullet to the brain will derail kyle's plot.
he pauses as he steps outside of his door, eyes trained on her door number. she's tucked away, sleeping deeply behind a flimsy and a very pickable lock. anyone could get at her if they truly wanted to, and the idea makes him sick to his stomach. good thing he's taking matters into his own hands. god knows what would happen if he left her to fend for herself.
he can just imagine it now- big dirty boots kicking down her door, stomping loudly as that big austrian git chases her around her tiny little flat. screams of panic that would go intentionally ignored by the neighbors who don't want to know, don't want a fuss, are too concerned about protecting themselves against whatever it is that would make her shriek so wildly. the more kyle thinks about it, the clearer the solution is-
the austrian has to go.
he makes his way onto the street and strides down the sidewalk with a pace quick enough to create a bit of a breeze against his face. his pristine chelsea boots stomp against the concrete with intention, unwavering on their journey, all the while kyle's mind churns, spitting out scenarios, what-ifs, potential consequences and repercussions. it muddles his mind, but doesn't deviate him from his plan- if anything, it convinces him that this isn't a solo operation, that it's something he'll need assistance with.
the prepaid cell phone in his pocket feels heavier, as if it's begging to be used, calling to him like a siren's song that he has no intention of resisting. fingers fly across the screen in a practiced motion, tapping out a number long since memorized, and the line only buzzes once before it connects.
"ah, sergeant. so nice to hear from you." nikolai practically purrs, affection ringing clear through his words.
"nik. i need a hand."
"is that right?" nikolai sounds amused, and it nearly makes kyle laugh. he's clearly enjoying being needed, even if on an informal basis.
"found a kortac operative sniffing around my... neighborhood. the big austrian one." kyle explains, mentally kicking himself for nearly saying 'my girl'. god knows nikolai would never let him hear the end of it if he knew this was over a woman. the teasing would be merciless and unending.
"ah yes, the one so ugly valeria requires him to cover his face." nikolai chuckles, and kyle aspirates a small laugh. "still sore about the last kastovia op, eh sergeant?"
the big brute had caught him completely unaware in kastovia, dropping through an open hole in the ceiling and nearly catching kyle in the throat with his k-bar. it was only luck that the floorboards was so weak, dropping the big austrian lunk through another floor- and nearly taking kyle with him. it was close- too close- and ghost had reamed him out thoroughly about being caught off-guard. seems word had reached price, which obviously meant it reached nikolai, too.
no bigger gossip-mongers than soldiers and mercs.
"just being cautious. i'm hoping to take care of things before he becomes an issue. again." kyle can practically hear the gears turning in the pilot's head, hoping his vague response won't earn him a denial.
"and what exactly is it you need from me?" nikolai asks, and kyle can hear the telltale sounds of ice being dropped into a rocks glass, followed by the pour of what kyle can only assume is a paint-thinner vodka being poured over it. nikolai always did enjoy his rot gut liquor, insisting it builds character and separates the men from the boys. probably a mentality he picked up from price.
"i've set up a meeting, but i'll need cameras off for this one." the less evidence, the better.
"getting into freelance wet work on your time off, sergeant?" nikolai teases, and kyle knows immediately it's price that's tipped him off about being on leave.
"just settling a score before it comes to settle me." kyle deflects easily, and it earns him a deep, booming laugh.
"understood. send me the time and place, and i will make things happen. i will need at least one hour to prepare, and the window will have to be small in order to avoid detection. should be easy for a professional like yourself, yes?" kyle can practically hear that cheshire grin over the phone.
"copy. thanks nik."
"any time, my brother." the line goes dead, and kyle can't help but exhale in relief. trying to do this solo would have surely ended in disaster, he's convinced of that the more he dwells on it. getting the giant git out of the way was never in question- but getting away with it was uncertain. but now with nikolai backing him up and taking out the cameras, success seems inevitable
kyle ducks into a nearby pub, forwarding the information he'd sent to konig over to nikolai as he waits for the bartender to serve him. the pieces are settling into place, all he needs now is for his quarry to bite. it's an inevitability, but at this point all he can do is wait for confirmation.
this is the right thing to do, he tells himself as he gives a dazzling smile to the heart-eyed bartender. there was a time not that long ago that he might've pursued her, followed her home and slid into her bed- but those days are behind him now. he's locked in and focused, with a clear goal in mind; the woman in number 541.
the slight curve of her hard-won smile from earlier fills his thoughts as he kills time sipping his beer and halfheartedly watching the footie game on the shitty little telly in the corner. men in red and blue kits battle it out on a pristine green field as his mind wanders to the pretty face and big soft body he covets so deeply.
wonder what it would take to make her laugh. bet it's pretty, and that it makes all of her jiggle, he muses to himself, imagining the bounce of her tits. it'll be so much easier once we take care of our little problem- after all, she'll be much more relaxed once that giant git is out of the way. those walls she's built up will crumble when the imminent threat is gone, and she'll let us in. wonder what she'll give us first- her mouth or her pussy? maybe her hand, if she's shy- but i can work with that. we know all the shit girls like to hear, we can talk her into more. we can always talk them into more.
she's not like the others, though, another corner of his mind counters. that's what makes her special. you'll have to truly earn it this time- after all, any other bird would've given in at the coffee shop much more easily. she made you work for that smile, and you nearly didn't get her to agree to see you again. that bavarian git's got her disillusioned- you're going to have to restore her faith in others again.
the pocket of his jacket vibrates, and he can't help the satisfied smirk sliding across his face. he'd taken a calculated risk, calling in the favor o'conor had owed him- but declan came through, it would seem, having provided him the phone number to his brother-in-arms at kortac.
>>i will be there.
the smirk blooms into a full smile as the cell phone slips back into his pocket. in a quarter of an hour he'll meet the big brute, handle his business, and move on to phase two- comforting his poor, grieving neighbor over the loss of her boyfriend. or helping her celebrate his disappearance. either way, he'll be there, ready to pull her into his arms, and with any luck, her bed. his tongue traces over the edges of his teeth as he imagines biting into the fat of her ass, and he has to force himself to think of anything else to keep himself from getting hard while perched on a bar stool and sipping an incredible mediocre porter; wrinkled old nuns wagging disapproving fingers in his face, grenade victim's blown open ribs left still smoking, price's hairy arse in the showers catching and holding bubbles from the lather of his soap.
his libido settled and beer finished, kyle stretches his legs as he saunters towards the meeting spot- the tube. people around him filter in and out of the bisected staircase leading underground, their faces temporarily aglow from the red circle that stretches other the entrance, welcoming them to the underground. in a way, they remind him of ants, filing neatly behind one another, keeping to the left, their movements almost instinctual, never bumping into each other or lingering in the middle of a thoroughfare. he lingers for a moment, fingers idly playing with the edges of his oyster card as he watches the throngs of people moving around him.
with a forced casualness, he saunters down the steps, entering the underground. it's like a different world down here, where every single sound seems to echo off the tiled walls and the smell of burning metal, sweat, and piss commingled into an unmistakable signature scent. there's no transport police in sight- not that he'd really expected them, but it would be his luck to plan this little rendezvous on the same night as a protest or big concert that would bring the bobbies out in droves.
the burner phone buzzes in his hand as he checks the time- one new message from an unsaved but deeply memorized number.
>>they're off. you have two minutes.
kyle rushes to his platform, scanning for the big ugly kraut. it's not hard to spot him- tall, broad, and poorly dressed, loitering by some fenced structure with high walls, put up for some construction project or another. kyle's eyes sweep the platform as he strides forward- there's very few people around, and those that are have their noses solidly pointed towards their phone screens. it's late, likely they're texting loved ones, checking schedules, or killing time scrolling through social media. they're not looking around, aren't aware of their surroundings-
just like konig isn't. there's no time to waste, so kyle bee lines for konig, tapping his shoulder and leading him behind the fencing, away from prying eyes.
"you." the austrian says, accusation dripping off the single syllable as he steps behind the fencing.
"yeah, me, arsehole. we need to chat." kyle snaps. he's allowed to be short to a man who's shot at him, he justifies to his wincing sense of propriety.
"about?"
"the woman i was with earlier- what do you want from her?" kyle demands, crossing his arms over his chest.
"it isn't your business." konig replies, monotone. "what is she to you, anyways?"
"it isn't your business." kyle echoes, enjoying the flash of annoyance on the other man's face. "but what is my business is that you've upset her. i can't be having that."
"she's a silly woman. there is no reason to be upset, and no reason to bring you into this. i just need her to do as i say-" konig turns his head to watch the incoming train, like the fucking tourist he is, and kyle takes his opportunity. with one sharp shove with both hands between his shoulder blades, he sends konig tumbling onto the tracks mere moments before he's run down. there's barely enough time for him to scream like a frightened child before it's cut off and then drowned out by the squeal of the braking train. a woman screams, a man yells and points, and several people have their phones pressed to their ears as they call for help- but none of them seem to notice the young man with the blue baseball cap joining the throng of panicked people striding towards the exit, with his head down, moving at a quick and purposeful pace.
you had to. for her. now she'll be able to sleep without crying, be able to go get coffee without being harassed by him. it's for the best. you saved her. a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like price consoles him. and besides, it's for the greater good. you've seen the things that man would do for the pittance kortac pays him. whatever he was in england for, it certainly couldn't have been any good.
the thoughts console him all the way back to his flat, where he immediately pops open his laptop to watch the his neighbor sleep. she's rolled onto her side, curled up in a round little ball that inspires his imagination to run wild with what it would be like to wrap himself around her, having that big fat arse cradled up against his hips, hand draped over her to better play with her tits. she looks so peaceful like this, it'd be fun to see if he could fuck her in her sleep, something slow and gentle, maybe, so she would wake up until she came on his cock.
as he settles back on his couch, kyle fires back a quick thanks to nikolai, and barely has his phone back in his pocket when it starts to ring.
"is there a problem?" kyle says in lieu of hello.
"yeah. a big one." ghost's voice says, and the surprise of it makes him check his phone to look at the contact number. he'd expected nikolai, or maybe price- but this is a shocking development. he can tell already that his plans for his pretty, soft neighbor have been blown to fucking hell in less than ten seconds.
"makarov is on the move. get your arse back on base asap- your leave's suspended until further notice." ghost continues, and kyle curses under his breath.
"copy." kyle replies through grit teeth, jabbing at the call end symbol harder than strictly necessary.
