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O King of Brass and Burning Flame,
Lord of the Furnace where the skies shiver,
Your name rolls through ages of ash and iron.
From the hearts of mortals rises your embered call,
Each spark a vow, each breath a covenant of fire.
Your throne stands where ambition meets offering,
Your dominion carved in the marrow of kings.
All empires whisper your hidden law—
That creation demands its price,
And power is shaped in the forge of surrender.
Great MOLOCH, hear the trembling chorus,
Not of fear, but of awe—a hymn for your eternal blaze.
May your fire consume doubt and kindle will,
May your glory burn unending,
In the hearts of those who dare to seek your flame.
AVE REGE MOLOCH EXCELSI
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Summary: He had spent years alone, he was quiet, efficient and solitary by nature. He never needed anyone, he was fine. Comfortable in his solitude. And if he ever needed anyone there was his team, watching his six. He never felt like anything was missing until she walked into the room like a breath of fresh air. It was like the world had been dull until then, and he found himself seeking out her light until he wanted her light to be his and his alone and heaven help whoever got in his way.
Trigger Warning ⚠️: Mentions of past abuse, Stalker Behavior, and obsessive tendencies
Word Count: 1068
Ao3 Link
Chapter 3
He's not sure when it changed, but things shifted. Somewhere between shared missions and shared silence, the distance he had once kept, began to vanish. Crow hadn’t moved. He had.
Little by little, like the tide wearing down stone, he inched closer. Now he could hardly breathe properly when she was too far, it was worse when she was out of sight. Her absence pressed into his lungs like a weight, pulling him into the undertow.Â
It’s time for another mission, another chance to be close and he needs it.
It’s the only time he allows himself to get this close. Close enough to hear her breath hitch, to feel her brush his arm when they passed in a narrow corridor, or marvel in her light when she had a rifle in hand–like she was his personal goddess of war.
He lived for those moments.
Hoarding them like sacred relics, always chasing the next; a brief glance, their hands brushing while passing a mag, her fingers against his gloved hand. They were never enough. But he made them last a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Steady hands. Steady eyes. Â She was calm in a way that makes his stomach tighten.
He was starving for her.
The team was checking their gear in the hangar. Gear being loaded, helicopter prepped, chatter low. It’s routine–another op, another country, another dead target waiting to happen. The others are talking–Gaz, Soap–light banter to keep the nerves down. But Ghost isn’t looking at the mission board, he’s watching Crow. She moved like she’d been born for the field. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation. Her fingers ran clean checks over her rig, confident and precise. He’d memorized her process. He could recite her loadout better than his own, cataloging her gear and equipment like it were his own, just to make sure she was prepared. Because he needed to know.
It had become a quiet, unrelenting religion.
He knew her schedule. Hadn’t meant to learn it–at first. But then it became a habit. Then a comfort. And then a need. He started showing up early to training–because he knew she would. Started volunteering for ops she was assigned to. He replaced knives before she noticed the hilt was cracked. Kept extra protein bars she liked, in his ruck, just in case.
It was for her safety.
But it tasted like a lie.
He was good at hiding it. Hiding the interest that had turned into need and longing. He’d been doing it for years now. Time didn’t make it easier. In fact, it made it worse. Silent devotion, cloaked in discipline and waning restraint. No one sees it. No one suspects how quickly he would turn for her.
But he sees everything.
She turned to him, catching his eyes, and smiles. Its just the slight uptilt of her lips, but it sinks into his ribs like a knife. Not flirtatious. Not anything intentional. Just human but it makes his breath catch in his throat all the same.
He turns away first.
Fuck.
What are you doing? Smiling at me? You don't even know me. Don’t even know what I’m capable of just to keep you looking my way. To keep you alive.
Ghost was good at being just that. A ghost. It had never been a problem, not until her, not until he felt like a ghost passing through her life. He told himself, it was better this way. To be a ghost in her life, then not be in it at all. But he felt like a ghost trapped in her life–always watching, never in it.Â
He knew everything, noticing every seemingly insignificant thing, like it was sacred. How Crow breathes and finger drum against her thigh when stressed. How she muttered under her breath when thinking through a problem. Worse how she never complained, but would wince slightly when the pressure changes and that old shrapnel wound aches.
He’d memoried her voice. The rhythm of her boots in the hallway. The soft lilt she used when teasing Soap. The tired sighs when she thought no one was listening.
He needed her like he needed air. And he made sure no one could take her away. Ever.
Of course there were others drawn into her light like a moth to a flame. Who smiled too long. Laughed too hard. Touched her like they had the right. They could never be what he was for her.
And all those men found themselves sidelined. Transferred. Injured. They disappeared.
Not because of him–officially.
But Ghost has always been surgical. Precise. Untraceable. A ghost.
He goes through his gear because he needs to move his hands. He’d already checked it, three times now.
His hands went still, and eyes snapped up to Crow, looking up and across the hangar.
She was laughing.Â
It stole his breath away. She looked like the sun, glowing, eyes bright and lips pulled back in a smile. It felt like someone had wrapped his chest in barbed wire.
That sound. That laugh. You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.
Her voice–he hears it even when she’s gone. He can only sleep when he knows she is safe, and she’s only safe when she’s close.
At first he had this delusion that he cataloged her habits, wants, needs, history, because it meant he could protect her.
But that was a lie, that he could barely admit to himself.
It’s not enough to protect her.
He wants more.
He’s good at waiting.
But not when she laughs like that. Not when she smiles so easily.
It makes his patience wane as the serpent is his gut slowly eats away at it.
She doesn’t see it. Not yet. Crow still see me as her lieutenant. The ghost. That's fine. She’ll see, eventually. And she’ll understand.
His head tilts slightly as Crow looks his way again. Their eyes meeting. Just for a second.
Maybe she was starting to notice. Maybe she had begun to feel the weight of his stare. And if so, it too late.
He gave her a nod, and she a polite smile.
His chest tightens.
Still smiling. Still mine. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
He rose with the rest of the team. Quiet. Professional. Efficient.
But underneath?
Ghost is already planning. To make that space between them disappear. And to pull her into the undertow with him.
wolfYLady: Here is chapter 3. I love writing his twisting descent into obsession. But his love will be more manipulative than toxic. Making her love him and need him, making her think she fell for him willingly instead of knowing that he had planned it, and she will never know. Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think!
Also, I just posted Chapter 17, Part 1 of Salvation. There is a poll if you like. Chapter 1 of Consecration is also available.
