The Years - Ghost X Reader

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Twelve: apple pie

tw: minor violence

You remember the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter well—very well.

Plastered over the front page of every newspaper in the nation, it’s hard to forget the event and the harrowing accounts of survivors and the family members that were left behind in the wake of the tragedy. Over thirty men were massacred that day. Nothing but lifeless torsos without hands to stop the bleeding, limbs too far out of reach to retrieve. Twelve more were injured. You remember the paper retelling a story of one of the workers, now rendered blind from the explosion that rocked The States, rippling through the population. 

Confusion kept everyone stupid for some time—it was widely accepted that this was an accident. Natural gases within the earth that ignited when explosives were detonated in order to carve deeper into the earth’s surface. When this take was first published and traveled down the wagon trail to Penmosa, you remember your father huffing at the words, fist clenched tight around the arm of his chair. 

“Serves them right. Desecrating God’s green earth like that. Bastards, every one of them. You hear me, girl? This is what human greed does. It makes you a corpse.” 

You suppose that, in the end, he was right. 

Weeks later it was confirmed that this was no accident, but rather intentional. Workers came forward with stories about strange men in masks wandering into the worksite towing obscene amounts of TNT. Many men fought back, only to be shot. Others couldn’t quite escape before the earth caved in on them, burying them beneath mounds of rubble. Even to this day, they still find pieces of them. Shattered bones and dusty work boots, never to be lacquered again. 

Last you knew, the criminals were still on the run. Some uncouth hit and run. Nothing but a slimy act of terror. The old company went out of business, unable to make up for the lost workers and the compensation that was owed, and a new one moved in, still putting the site to use. A memorial was erected in honor of the lives lost. The day has been lost to memory and grief. 

Now, you know otherwise. 

Dead or Alive: for the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter. 

Your stomach twists as you travel down the winding roads of Grand Hollow, but the nervosity chewing on your neurons makes it impossible to enjoy the otherworldly beauty presenting itself before you. When Mr. Beckett had warned you about John Price and his posse, you had never expected violence in a magnitude such as this. You’ve broken bread with these men. Fished in the same waters. Laid on the same dirt. 

Now you understand his secrecy. All John’s hidden motives and dodged questions, answers given with vicious snark and a half lidded glare. What terrors does he expect to rage now in Blackpeak? Was his slaughtering of those working men not enough? Must he now steal from their grieving families, too? 

Guilt spears through you like a freshly born knife still hot from the furnace. How dare you have the audacity for such emotions? Had you known John Price was this much of a monster, you would have let him spill your blood next to the campfire the night you fled from your father. 

“Pecora.” 

The driver’s rough voice pulls you from your nightmarish anamneses. You glance up from your worn, tattered nails and stare at the back of his head where his wiry, white hair greets you. He does not look at you, but you’re certain you were the one he spoke to. 

“Pardon?” you ask. 

He looks over his shoulder and stares at you blankly for a moment before pointing to something on the cart’s right. “Pecora,” he repeats. 

Following the crooked curve of wrinkled his finger, you spot an ewe and her lamb. They’re terribly out of place, fresh white wool contrasting against the darkened grey cobblestone of the streets, but the ewe does not fret. She trots through the foot traffic, splitting pedestrians who gawk at her and her child with coos, all while stopping to chew on the weeds that spring up between the bricks. 

Her lamb, however, stumbles behind her on jelly legs with wide eyes and a mouth that knows nothing other than to cry. Its voice is strident as it weaves through its mother’s legs, eyes anxiously gazing at the tall creatures that surround them. Utterly lost and out of place, you hum as you watch them find a patch of grass to lay and bask in. 

“Oh, sheep,” you realize. “How cute.” 

“Cute,” the driver repeats with a nod. 

Proud, baronial buildings slowly dwindle into something quieter the further you’re taken away from The Twin Rose. At first you passed them off to be more stores and places of interest for citizens and travelers alike to visit, but you come to the realization that these are houses when you catch a woman throwing bed linens out onto a clothesline. 

Wide lawns stretch out like royal carpets before two story houses with large windows and porches sporting long sunroofs. If your father witnessed the white paint that decorates the wood, you’re certain he would keel over in the dirt of the streets, scandalized that simple homes would bear the same pure milky sheen of his church. It’s quieter here without the hustle of the deep city. Fewer pedestrians, sparse horses, children laughing in a nearby field as they kick and throw various toy balls around to one another. 

The cart comes to a stop in front of a house at the end of a cul de sac. It’s different from all the others in the neighborhood, sporting a rosy pink rather than snowy white. Several flower bushes line the siding of the house, almost in full bloom, bitterly reminding you of your mother’s lily plants back in Penmosa. From somewhere inside of the house, music bleeds. It’s a quiet crackle with a canorous melody soaring over compressed violins, trumpets, and pianos. It sounds wrong. Nothing at all like the warm tones you’re familiar with from the church choir. 

Your driver hops out of his seat, worn boots scraping on the stone at his feet, and offers you a hand. “Here. Laswell home.” 

Placing your hand into his worn palm, he helps you out of the cart and gestures to the front door with a wrinkled, lopsided smile. You give him a quiet thanks as he loads back up, reins flicking and prompting the horses into action where he turns around and slowly trots back down the street. 

Each beat of your heart threatens to drown out the music as you trot up the steps to the porch. The sillage of rose and lavender bleeds from the flower bushes at the base of the stairs and mixes with the warmth bleeding through the open windows of the house. Swallowing, you approach the door and knock. 

There is no answer. 

Someone obviously is inside the house. You can hear chirpy humming and various utensils being knocked around, so you try again only to have the same luck. After a few minutes, you muster up the courage to open the door and peek your head inside. 

The foyer is small with shoes lined up against the floorboards and various coats and hats hanging on hooks drilled into the wall. Just past the entrance you can see a staircase that leads up to the second floor with a rich vermillion runner along dark stained wood, but there is no sign of the woman you were sent to help. 

“Lottie?” you call out as you close the door behind you with a shaky hand. 

Still receiving no response, you exit the foyer and begin to wander where the noise is loudest. You travel down wide hallways with open windows, sunlight bleeding through wispy drapes like mist on a cold autumn morning. Various paintings catch your attention as you walk, hung up high and proud, displaying scenes of nature and animals and captured with a keen eye. Other hallways split off like a burrow of tunnels, like a warren lurking in a field, but you keep your feet steady until you reach the kitchen. 

The woman you’re assuming is Lottie stands with her back faced toward you as she sways her hips in front of the stove. A phonograph plays on the counter, spinning a waxy cylinder and playing its music loud and proud. A rosy pink skirt twirls around her legs as she wipes her hands off on her apron, then toys with the frizzy curls of her bright blonde hair as they fall from her disheveled bun. She’s humming along to the music—some upbeat tune you don’t recognize—as she hops on her feet, hips twisting as she reaches for a large wooden spoon. 

“Miss Lottie?” you ask once more. 

The woman squeals like a bird caught in the maw of a barn cat as she spins around, spoon waving as if she wields a knife. She’s rather pretty, you think, even with this look of terror on her face. Pale brows rising as her teal eyes widen, free hand pressed against her collarbones as if to still her fluttering heart. She looks you up and down and then sighs before wiping her brow. 

“Oh, darlin’ don’t do that to me. Damn near scared me half to death!” Her voice is saccharine and slow, accent drawing long vowels and dropped consonants. Southern, you think—Georgia, if you had to guess. 

“I’m sorry, miss,” you apologize. You raise your hands as a sign of good faith before you glance at the items behind her on the counter. Fresh meat, a mason jar of white, bubbly liquid, a fresh block of cheese. “Laswell sent me here. I’m supposed to help with dinner?” 

“Did she now?” Lottie asks. Her face melts. All tension vanishes back into the depths of her skin as a smile pulls at her lips. “Reckon we have guests to cook for, then?” 

You nod. “Yes—erm—myself and a few others. Four men.” 

“Sounds like we have half a battalion to feed,” she muses. Tapping the spoon against the side of her hip, she seems swept away by the chorus of the song crackling from the phonograph, melody bleeding from the speaker like a warm campfire in the midst of the boonies. “Awfully kind of Katie to send me a little helper, then. Why don’t you grab one of those aprons darlin, we can’t have you mucking up that dress of yours!” 

She points over her shoulder to a small rack of off-white aprons long stained by home cooked meals. Each of them are embroidered with little flowers. Some sport roses, others daisies, and what you think is an attempt to do forget-me-knots. You snatch up the one with lilies before tying it around your waist and hopping in line next to Lottie, who isn’t afraid to throw work your way. Handing you a knife, she orders you to peel potatoes and cut them into cubes while she works on heating the stove up enough for the meat. 

When she asks you what your name is, you tell her the truth, though it’s overshadowed by the mention of your nickname. Lamb. It makes her giggle something sweet and bubbly like champagne. 

Lottie is a beautiful woman—it’s difficult not to find yourself starstruck by her. Rosy cheeks flush in the heat of the kitchen, illuminating the sweet and sparse freckles that spot her face. Her lips are painted a matte cherry red, though it slowly fades each time her teeth dig into the tender flesh as she mutters to herself about the next steps for her meal. Then, there’s her bosom. Your eyes burn when you notice the swell of her breasts and how her corset can hardly keep them from spilling over the blushing fabric of her dress. She’s any man’s dream. 

“So,” you speak up. Small talk is not a strong attribute of yours, and Lottie and her phonograph are doing plenty of conversing for the both of you. Still, you are a stranger in this home, and the acrimonious bile in your stomach urges you to make something of yourself. “You live here, then? With Laswell?” 

“Well, of course,” she Lottie giggles. She’s got flour smeared on her face, dusty eggshell staining a line across her forehead. “Certainly wouldn’t be doin’ all this good cookin’ for free.” 

“Are you and Laswell sisters, then?” you ask. 

Lottie’s in the middle of placing a thinly rolled piece of pastry dough on top of her sheet of pot pie when she freezes. Her gaze is quizzical as she turns her attention to you, eyes studying every line in your face. For a moment, there’s something malicious that lurks in her gaze. An incensed flicker that leaves your spine tingling. It quickly vanishes when her eyes drop to the necklace dangling around your neck. 

“Oh, bless your heart. Aren’t you just as sweet as a peach,” she says with a quiet smile before returning to her work. 

Unsure of what else to say, you continue to do as you’re told. Chopped potatoes. Rolling dough. Making bread—sourdough. Slicing apples. Warming sugar until golden brown. You’re grateful for the work. It’s been a long time since you’ve cooked a proper meal, and you’re hoping you’ll actually be able to get a taste of it this time around. 

Neither you nor Lottie take a break until her apple pie is cooking in the oven and her pot pie is staying warm atop the stove. She fetches you a cup of water from a valve in the kitchen, leaving you slack jawed, and corrals you out onto the porch where the two of you sit next to one another on a thatched bench.

As you drink, you can’t help but realize that even the water tastes different here. It’s strange. Tangy, like blood from a split lip. You hold the glass up to the setting sun where amber light refracts through it, illuminating the bubbles that swirl through the liquid. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” 

When you turn your attention back to Lottie, you realize she’s staring at you, bright eyes piercing through you like cold rays of sun. Pressing your lips together, you place your hands into your lap, fingers clenching around your glass. 

“No, I just got here today, actually,” you explain. 

She nods. “Where’re you from?” 

“Penmosa.” 

“I’m not familiar.” 

“It’s… well, it took us a fair bit of travel to get here.” 

“Us?” 

Blinking, you realize the slip of your words. John’s name rattles through your brain like dark ink on parchment—pinned to a board, face on display for all to see, a call for violence; for vengeance. 

“Yes. I’ve been traveling with… a man named John.” 

“John Price?” Lottie confirms. 

Solicitude seeps deep into every bone in your body at her recognition. “Yes. Him and the others will be here for dinner tonight. I… I hope that isn’t a problem.” 

“Oh, not at all!” she beams as the tips of her feet tap against the porch. “It’s been quite a long time since I’ve last seen John and his boys. Didn’t think he’d be comin’ back to Grand Hollow so soon. Last I knew he was out wandering while tryin’ to wait for things in Blackpeak to cool down.” 

The more she speaks, the more your brows draw together. “You know him?” 

“Of course I do! Him and Kaite have been doin’ business for a little while now. He’s a fine man. A little strange, but I think all those English folk are, if you ask me.” 

A subtle discontent stirs at the base of your skull leaving your mind spinning. A dissonance screams. It burrows deep and roots. You’ve been warned that John Price is not a good man, and you’ve seen the very proof of it yourself. That man he shot and killed. The clothes he ripped off of your body. The wanted poster with his name and face plastered on it. 

Yet, he saved you from your father, and Lottie spews about him as if he were a disciple. You know it is ungodly to cast judgement on another person, but you can’t shake the discord of the situation. How thin is the line between salvation and betrayal? 

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” Lottie murmurs. 

There, just down the road, trots a line of horses. Bear’s familiar head rears while his tail flicks, shooing off flies attempting to nurse on him all while Kyle pats the side of his head. John lazily looks around at the houses, shoulders squared as he seems to chat away with Laswell, who leads the pack on her own horse. 

Swallowing, you prepare for what you’re sure is about to be the most painful dinner you’ve participated in for quite some time. 

Laswell is the first to dismount, leg easily swinging over the side of her horse without a dress to get in the way. She trots up the porch and greets you with a polite nod before her hands reach for Lottie. The woman grins, bright, pearly teeth flashing between the blood red of her lips, before she allows Laswell to help her off of the bench. Then, their lips meet. Soft, chaste—enough to stain Laswell’s mouth with color. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare. Two women, embracing one another in such a way. Heat simmers from your core for only a short moment before it’s boiling, splashing bubbling water all up your insides until they’re searing and raw. You can hear John’s chuckle haunt you from somewhere along the staircase. 

“Come on, Lamb,” Lottie urges with a wave. “Let’s go set the table.” 

The distance you sow between you and John is appreciated and welcomed, but it only lasts for a few fleeting minutes before God has brought the two of you together again. Palms flat in your lap, eyes staring at the long table as you’re squished between Kyle and Riley, John’s eyes flickering like a lone candle flame across from you—the weight is nearly unbearable. Crushing. Bones fracturing. Splinters sticking in the raw, fleshy parts of you. 

Thick fingers curl around his fork, dark hair lining the space just below his knuckles. You watch as his tendons dance just below his skin as he cuts into his food before he shoves it into his open maw. As he eats, you wonder how many men he’s murdered with those very same hands. How much blood the earth has had to swallow because of him. How many children weep over rotting fathers because of what those hands have done. 

As he cracks his knuckles, you’re reminded of the first time he ever taught you how to shoot. Trigger finger trembling, he told you a gun is nothing more than a tool. Something to protect yourself with. It’s a similar mentality he barked at you when you dared to challenge him over his slaughtering of that farmer who threatened to soil you. Protection. Saving. Family. 

What honor was there in slaughtering those coal mine workers? 

“I can see why Laswell’s tied you down with a ring, Lottie,” John hums. His thumbs graze over one of your sourdough rolls, nails biting into the crisp crust as it caves in beneath his pressure. He places a fluffy piece against his tongue and offers a tight-lipped to the woman. “With cooking like this, I reckon you had her ensnared.” 

Lottie’s giggle falls like a sheer blanket over the table as she shoos John off with a wave. “Oh, I can’t take all the credit. Your little lamb was quite the helper. Pretty much did everythin’ for me! And, as far as I know, she ain’t taken quite yet.” 

John’s eyes settle on you, and though you know better, you can’t help but return his gaze. Sticky like tree sap on fresh logs, you can’t look away. You hold his gaze, jaw tense and aching, he hums. His lips quirk into a smile and for the first time in your life, you find yourself wanting to slap it from his face. 

“Maybe we ought to keep you around after all,” he muses. 

Scoffing, you glance back down at your plate. There’s hardly anything left for you to eat, yet you poke at it with your silverware anyway. “Awfully rich coming from the man who considers me a right nuisance. What did you call me again? Cargo?” 

Enmity soaks your tongue so much that it does not feel like your own anymore. This is your father’s tongue that rots your mouth—bitter and swollen from long standing annoyance, ever petulant. Even John seems to recognize this change within you. Eyebrows rising, he shakes his head and chuckles. 

“Right,” he agrees. “The most headache-inducing cargo I’ve ever laid hands on.” 

A hush halts the table’s conversation leaving you to face the white hot anger brewing in your chest all by yourself. You note the sideways glances. The way Kyle turns away from you. The way Soap’s lips press together. 

Look at you, once again, the prodigal daughter. 

“Well, how about some dessert to offset all this bitterness?” Lottie suggests, voice gentle like honey, blunt humor pulling at her words. 

Laswell pushes her plate away before looking up at her wife with a nod. “A perfect idea, love.” 

Apple and cinnamon dance in a waltz on your tongue but their feet are numbed as the rest of the feast is finished in choppy conversation punctuated with long bouts of silence. Fatigue pulls heavy at everyone’s eyes, but your anger keeps you wide awake. Fork clutched in hand. Metal scraping on porcelain. When everyone is finished, John attempts to have everyone stay behind to help clean up, but Laswell waves him off, saying that he ought to get everyone back to the hotel to rest. 

Before you leave, Lottie bids you farewell with a soft hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome to Grand Hollow, darlin. I hope it’s everythin’ you need.” 

You ride on the back of John’s horse. You’re much too close for comfort to him, and your skin tingles as if there were a million small beetles dancing on your body. He at least offers you the courtesy of not talking to you, allowing you to stew in your thoughts as your eyes glaze over and focus on the dusty stones that crumble beneath the horse’s hooves. 

Still, you are incensed that you missed all the omens. Vague warnings from Mr. Beckett. The bursts of anger that seemed to seep from every pore in his body. The way he never flinched when enacting violence upon others. 

You spent so long attempting to find humanity in the eyes of the wolf that you failed to notice the fresh blood staining his teeth. 

“Ever been to a theatre before, Lamb?” 

It’s the first thing John’s said to you for the entire ride, and it’s enough to get your ears to quirk. Gaze shifting upwards, you notice an unfamiliar sight that you’ve only heard about from word of mouth. Fat bulbs light up the street as they line a marquee board listing off show names and times. Stories you don’t recognize, with actors and actresses from a whole other world. Behind a glass window sits a man selling tickets, who looks as if he’s about to fall asleep face first into the palm he rests his chin on. 

“Can’t say that I have,” you reply tartly. 

“They used to be shows of just actors. People dancing on stage, things of that sort,” John explains, head leaning back in active conversation. “Used to have women hiking their skirts up, too. Would probably send your daddy into a proper fit if he ever saw it. Now they’re showing moving pictures. Films, I think they call it.”

“Is that so?” Short. Dull. The theatre passes you by and you’re back to staring at the ground. 

John’s hips shift in his saddle, fingers tightening on the reins. “The boys and I were thinking about seeing one tomorrow.”

All you do is hum in reply. You watch as John’s shoulders tense and rise before falling with a huff. The horse begins to slow, its proper trot dwindling to a lazy meander. 

“You know Lamb, I can’t say I’m too overly fond of this new attitude of yours. Picking fights at dinner while we’re guests wasn’t too godly of you,” he bites. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re getting rid of me soon, isn’t it?” you retort. 

His body stills. Not even the swaying of his horse can move him. 

“You might be right about that, little lamb.” 

With Laswell tucked away at home, John is the only one left to show you to your room. He bids the boys a goodnight before leading you up to the second floor, key pinched between his fingers as he unlocks the door for you. You find your carpet bag waiting for you on the foot of the largest bed you’ve ever seen—big enough to house six swine comfortably, if you had to guess. Another vanity sits shoved against the far side of the wall, along with several complementary products of soap and oils, but the wonder is lost on you now. 

Sighing, you take the key from John’s hand and busy yourself with sorting through the items in your bag. John’s gaze sears your skin. Shoulder tucked into the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, he stares at you. Through you. Piercing your body as if his eyes were knives. 

“You’re not still upset at me for earlier, are you?” he suddenly questions. 

“Earlier?” you repeat. You’re still turned away from him. Shoulders hunched, hands busy. You know it’s not smart to face away from wolves but you can’t bring yourself to be scared of his bite anymore. 

“When I interrupted your bath.” 

“Whyever would I be mad about that?” you reply bitterly. 

While John’s chuckles are usually warm, earthy things, the one he gives you now can only be described as sour milk. Thick and clumpy, noisome and in desperate need to be thrown out. “Full of fire today, aren’t you? Did you ever talk to your daddy like this?” 

Your fingers have just wrapped around your comb when he asks you this, and the unfamiliar choler it fills you with nearly suffocates you. Tossing the item onto the comforter, you whip around to face him, head tilted to the side and teeth grinding like eroding stones. 

“No, Daddy beat me whenever I opened my mouth out of turn,” you snap, stating the obvious with so much vitriol you nearly choke on it. Still, it propels you forward, feet sliding across the floor as you approach him. “Is that what you wanna do to me, John?” 

“You better slow down, sweetheart,” John warns. 

Ignoring him, you stalk closer on wobbly legs. Nothing but a freshly jellied lamb. 

“Gonna take off your belt and beat me the way your daddy did to you?” you challenge. You’re within biting distance now. John’s no longer leaning against the doorframe, but instead standing with his feet wide and firm as if ready for a blow. “Gonna make someone pay for your pain? That’s all you wan’t, isn’t it? Vengeance? You’re no better than the man behind the belt, John Price, you’re-” 

All it takes to shut you up is a hand on your jaw. 

Thumb and fingers curling into the fat of your cheeks, John Price is close enough to your face that you can feel his breath fan across your skin. His grip is firm enough to get your lips to part, but not enough to ache—not yet, anyway. Your pounding heart quivers against your sternum, making it impossible for you to swallow properly as you stare at him. 

Tobacco pairs nicely with the hue of his eyes—dark like a lake rippling during a storm. You want to be scared. Everything within you tells you to be scared. These are the hands that slaughtered innocent lives. Still, the way his thumb brushes across your bottom lip is the most gentle thing you’ve ever felt since your mother’s last parting kiss to your forehead, and you’re not sure why, but it feels worse than any slap you’ve ever received before. 

“Dunno what’s gotten into you sweetheart, but I’ll just assume you’re in desperate need of some good rest.” John huffs when he releases you, hands falling to his side before his fingers wrap around the doorknob. 

For a moment, he stands there like this. Gaze wandering up and down, his pupils soak up the narrowing of your eyes and the shaking of your knees before he swings the door shut. 

“Goodnight, Lamb.”

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I’m so sick of pretending x reader isn’t peak

fun date idea: you come over and we watch a video essay about saltburn and i pause it every 5 seconds and explain in excruciating detail why i disagree with everything the video is saying 😄

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ Daddy kink, spanking, anal fingering, cum play, whiff of breeding kink.

Days turn into a week, and then two, but you were fine. 

Everything was fine. 

Until you got your period. 

You woke up to blood in the sheets a day early, underwear and pajama bottoms ruined, the only saving grace being that the mattress didn’t stain. The cramps kept you in the shower longer than normal, and you were late to work because of it. Everything went downhill from there. 

You drank more coffee because you were behind, you skipped breakfast, you didn’t touch a glass of water until well after dark. You stayed up well past bedtime, your meals became inconsistent, you essentially forgot your glasses existed.

Going off the rails was only supposed to be one day, but then you couldn’t get back on the tracks.

It all fell apart. 

You unraveled at your already frayed seams. 

You were bad. 

Your phone is buried in the mess of your bed. 

When it starts vibrating, you have to dig through your blankets to find the sweater it’s in, shoved in the pocket haphazardly after you collapsed, kicked off your shoes and crawled into the middle, eyes already half closed. 

It’s strange how your apartment doesn’t feel quite like home anymore- 

but you don’t deserve to go back. 

A blocked number flashes across the screen of your phone, and you answer it with fumbling fingers. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi baby.”  You clap your hand over your mouth. The rush of emotion is too much, happiness building in the back of your throat as a sob, followed by anxiety that sticks like sludge in your mind. 

“H-hi daddy.” You don’t deserve to say it, guilt curdling in your stomach when it comes out. It feels hopeless, like you’ve ruined it all, and you have no control, sure he can hear everything in your voice.

You don’t know what to say to fix it, you don’t know how to make it better. You don’t deserve him, or this. 

Awful, noxious thoughts bubble to the surface, trying to spill out of your mouth and drown you. Drown him. Drag you both down.

“Hey sweet girl,” he coos, deep rumble contrasted by a lot of background noise, and it’s almost able to quiet the chaos in your head. “How are you doing?” 

“I’m… um, I’m good.” Shut up. Change the subject. “How are you?” 

“I’m okay. We’re about done here, and then I’ll be home.” Your excitement burns to ash in the face of dread. You don’t want him to know, to see you, to realize how far you fell. You didn’t follow your rules. You let him down. 

“T-that’s… great.” An engine is the only noise on the other end of the line for a minute until it starts to fade, and a door slams. 

Then there’s only his voice. Pitched smooth and soothing. “Are you okay?” 

“Me? Yeah! I’m fine.” The fake cheer makes you wince. 

“Are you lying to me?” You swallow the swell of sadness, the threat of a breakdown hovering on the edge. 

“N-no.” There’s muffled conversation somewhere on his end of the line, and he sighs. 

“I have to go, but I’ll be home soon, okay? Be good for me.” Your heart is pounding so hard the blood in your veins is throbbing, ribs caving in on themselves, your lungs struggling to expand. 

“Okay.” 

When the line goes dead, you burst into tears. 

His house is hollow.

He’s talked to you twice since landing, and you didn’t mention being at your apartment a single time, though your absence is no surprise. There was a pitch to your voice, one he recognized from before, when you were unsure and lost, stumbling towards him on shaky legs.

He’s not angry, but he is unsettled. He hates uncertainty, it chafes at his control, thoughts of you alone in your apartment rubbing him raw, and a mountain of blame slowly settles on his shoulders as he grapples with the consequences of both his choices, and yours. 

He knows what the rest of the night holds.

He’ll need to take you apart and put you back together.

He only has to knock once for you to come to the door. 

You fling yourself into his arms, refusing to let go as he shuffles you inside, bringing you down onto the couch, halfway on his lap. You’re rigid, intentionally looking away, gaze focused on your lap where your fingers are threaded together, head bowed like you’re praying, seeking absolution. It’s a heavy weight you’re carrying, one he will wring from your bones blow by blow. 

“Let me see your eyes.” He lifts your chin, finds what he anticipated in them, tears flowing freely down your cheeks. “Oh, baby.” Rattling against him, you hold on so tight like you want to crawl inside his body. 

“I missed y-you, I just… I missed you.” 

“I missed you too sweetheart.” You find your way back into his arms, pressing your face to his chest. “It’s okay,” he murmurs into the top of your head as he rocks you, soothes the shaking, the raspy draw of each breath. “It’s okay, I’m here.” It only takes a little bit for you to come back to yourself, and as you do, your fingers brush against the gauze on his arm. You freeze. 

“You… you’re hurt. You’re hurt? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. It’s nothing, just some stitches, nothin’ to worry over.” 

“Just some stitches?” You squeak, eyes wide with alarm, concern tightening their corners. “Wh-what happened?” What didn’t happen. He’d never tell you, he can’t, but your worry burns a flame inside a deeply shuttered piece of his heart, and he kisses your forehead. 

“I’m okay sweet girl. I promise.” He waits a beat, giving you silence, hoping you’ll come forward with it once you find your words, but when there’s nothing, he knows he’ll be pulling it out. Rip the bandaid off then. “Are you goin’ to tell me what’s going on?” You shake your head and stare at the floor. 

“I can’t… I- I’m sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?” He knows, of course, but he needs to hear you say it. 

“I… didn’t follow my rules.” He folds his hand over yours, maintaining the connection while carving out your space. You’re a tangled, jumbled snare right now, and if he’s going to fix it, he needs you to take the first step. 

“Tell me what happened.” Your shoulders slump-

 and then you start. 

He makes sure you’re physically okay first. 

You’ve managed to eat dinner tonight and drink some water, which is all he really needs right now. Food, and water. The rest, the mental and emotional strife, the pain, he’ll mend, but punishments don’t sit well on an empty stomach. 

He takes his time. Leaves you on the bed while he showers, face down with your arms bound behind your back, stripped bare. If you were in his bed, he’d have each ankle tied to a corner, fully opening you up, teasing and toying with you, but this is adequate, and it can’t wait. 

The mess in your mind is dark, and dangerous. It’s consuming you, hurting you, and he has to draw it out, suck the poison from the wound. 

“Do you know why you’re being punished?” 

“I w-was bad.” He pauses. He went over this earlier, but it’s a tough one to stick. 

“No, baby.” 

“But… I didn’t follow my rules. You t-trusted me and I-I let you down…” He squeezes the fat of your ass cheek, just hard enough to make you gasp, interrupting your train of thought. 

“You didn’t let me down. You’ll always be my good girl, even when you make mistakes, and I know you didn’t break your rules on purpose, did you?” 

“No daddy, I didn’t. I swear.” He settles on the bed, pins you down with his weight, holding steady as you squirm. 

“I know.” You hiss when he lightly scratches his thumb nail across your skin. “But my girl has to take care of herself, and even after a bad day, she has to keep trying. Do you understand?” You nod. “Words please.” 

“Yes daddy, I understand.” This is only part of it. The festering guilt inside you needs to be released, you need your exoneration.

“Daddy has to make sure you understand how important your rules are, because you’re his priority, and you need to be safe and happy and healthy, right?” 

“Right.” Your brow furrows with concentration, preparing for what comes next. 

We’ll do thirty, and you’ll count each one.” You choke on your breath. The most he’s given you is fifteen and this will be double the sting. He can practically taste your fear. “Do you trust me to take care of you?” Your answer is immediate. 

“I do.” 

“Good,” he swings, your ass ripples on impact, and you grunt. 

“One.” 

“Louder sweetheart.” The second one hits the same spot as the first, and you lift your chin, trying to project your voice. 

“Two!” 

“Good girl.” He brings the third one down on the other side and then starts alternating, two on top of two.

By the time he gets to twenty one, you’re right where he needs you. 

Sobbing. Desperate. Wrists writhing against the bind of his belt. 

“Tell me why you weren’t home when I got back tonight.” He allows a small reprieve as he waits for your answer, arcing over your spine to kiss between your shoulder blades, the fabric of his sweatpants brushing across your aching skin. You whine in protest, feet kicking, trying to absorb the shock of a new sensation, a different kind of pain, and then you jerk when he presses the length of his erection in the cleft of your ass, cock heavy from watching you cry and shriek under his touch. 

“I d-don’t know.” He peppers you with four blows, back to back, forcing you to catch up with your count, the first two coming out as an agonized moan. 

“Tell me.” He pulls back for the next, but you stop him with a panicked bleat. 

“I didn’t deserve it!” There it is. “You trusted me… and I didn’t do it, I didn’t follow my rules. I’m sorry, I’m so- so- sorry.” You sob, spitting between your teeth, barely getting enough air. 

“Breathe. Take your time baby, slow, deep breaths,” he folds his hands over your diaphragm with loose pressure, thumbs rubbing circles into your skin as he calms you. “That’s it, you’ve got it.” You’re so close now. “You’re doin’ so well. Can you tell me the rest?” 

 “I felt guilty, like I shouldn’t be there, like I… I couldn’t call you daddy.” Good fucking girl. 

“Thank you for telling me.” He kneads the now raw skin of your ass cheeks, and you jerk, trying to thrash away from the burn. “I know it’s hard to talk about how you’re feeling sometimes, and I’m very proud of you.” 

“I’m sorry I’m sorry daddy, I’m sorry,” your tears are different now, they come just as fast, but they’re born from a release, a dam overflowing with all of your pain and guilt. A river running free.

“I know. Five more, you can do it. You’re almost there.” And all will be forgiven. 

You scream them out, and it’s over, but you can’t stop. You cry into the mattress, inconsolable as pets you, rubs your back, telling you again and again how good you are, how proud he is, how happy you make him, how important you are. You’re not bad baby, you’re perfect, you’re precious, you’re mine. 

He repeats it as many times as needed so you feel it, let it sink in and fill those gaps, the ones your suffering left behind. 

Almost done. 

He hasn’t moved, still on top of you, marveling as your hips twitch and press downward, movement revealing a small wet spot on the sheets. His cock throbs.

“Look forward,” he tugs his sweatpants down to his thighs and strokes himself, squeezing from base to tip. The element of not knowing, not being able to see puts you on edge, but you trust him. You listen. “Stay nice and still,” it’s going to sting, pull more tears from your heart, and each one belongs to him. “Fuck, baby. Your daddy’s good girl aren’t you? Took your spanking so well,” You moan, grinding against the mattress desperately. “Nice and still sweet girl, you can do it,” he holds you down by your wrists, pressing them into the small of your back. There’s no endurance in this, no long game as he comes, painting your cheeks with it, milky white cum covering your skin as he empties his balls all over you, your shocked gasp music to his ears. It turns into a hiss and then a whimper as he smears it around, somewhat in mourning as he thinks about where it should be. 

Though- 

He unties you. “Keeping looking forward sweetheart. Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” Trembling, they uncurl, flicking back and forth until he’s satisfied. “Anything hurt? Feel numb?” You shake your head, sniffling. “Words.” 

“No daddy.” He tugs on your wrists gently, guiding them to your cheeks. 

“Hold yourself open baby,” Your fingers slide through his cum. 

“L-like this?” 

“Just like that.” You’re shaking, from the spanking, from your emotional release, from the uncertainty of this situation. You’ll need a lot of care tonight and tomorrow, hours and hours of reassurance, focused attention, physical touch. He yearns for it.

“What… did you- did you, uh-” You’re so fucking precious. 

“Come all over your ass?” He scoops up a dripping pearl and drags it to the tight ring between your cheeks. “Yeah sweetheart, an’ now I’m going to put it inside you.” 

“Inside me?” You squeak, instinctively turning your head to watch him from the corner of your eye, alarmed. Shocked. He chuckles.

“Do you want to watch daddy push his cum into your ass?” 

“Oh god,” you groan, immediately tensing, still holding on but unable to thwart your involuntary response. The animal in his head tells him it’s a waste. It should be in your pussy, fucked deep past your cervix and into your womb. 

You’re not ready. You can barely take his fingers, let alone his cock. 

And you’re certainly not ready for a baby, though maybe he’ll give you one before he’s an old man. 

“D-daddy, I… I’ve never… no one’s ever, um...” The pad of his finger gently presses, swirling cum across your hole as you shiver. 

“I know, you're okay. Push out,” he coaches, “good girl, here you go,” he barely breaches the ring, but you jolt just as he expected, trying to wriggle away. 

“Ow!” Jesus. He’s hard again, head of his cock already leaking where it sits on your thigh. “Oh- Oh my god.” It’s not pained, or uncomfortable, but moaned. You like it. He gives you more, sinking into you, stretching you around to his second knuckle. 

“That’s it.” His control is a tether, a hook. It keeps him grounded, prevents him from tearing into you even as he keeps putting more and more of himself inside you, so tempted to stretch you with another finger so he can fit the tip of his cock there instead. Slow. Steady. That’s what will win this race. 

He pulls and tells you not to move as he goes to the bathroom to wash his hands, tucking himself up into the waistband of his sweatpants. 

His cum is dribbling out of you, falling in drips down to your pussy and the sheets. He tries to memorize it, burn it into his brain, indulge in it for one more second before he eases you out of the position, rolls you onto your side.

It’s time for the things that really matter. 

Taking care of you. Holding you. Getting you in the shower and then rubbing cream into your skin, feeding you, hydrating you, putting you to bed in his arms. You’re far past ready, eyes glazed over, lips parted, bliss smoothing out the furrow of your brow. The only thing missing is making you come, but you won’t get an orgasm tonight, not with the headspace you’re in. He’ll have to save it for tomorrow. 

“Mmph,” It’s not quite English, or anything, but he understands the sentiment and takes your hand in his, kneeling at the side of the bed, cupping your cheek. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Sleepy.” You find his thumb and suck, lashes fluttering. He lets it linger for a few minutes, massaging your wrists, your elbows.

“Precious girl,” You’re not with it, not aware of anything except his thumb, your comfort, and he takes advantage while he can, brushing his lips across the shell of your ear with a whisper. “Daddy loves you.”

kinda a continuation of this, but Johnny finally getting to fuck you after being in the friend zone for years and being a bastard about it. implied breeding kink.

it adds insult to injury that he’s good.

bent over your childhood bed, drooling on nostalgia and the dust that collected after your absence while abroad. he’s no different, barely able to fit through your front door, shoulders taking the brunt force of the decade he’s been away.

that, and his cock.

palm swallowing your moans so your families don’t hear how he ruins your cunt with it, thick middle reshaping the gums of your walls. you can smell the holiday perfume and champagne melting off your neck as he sucks under your jaw. it’s snowing outside, but the the flakes look bleary behind the tears that boils your waterline.

“y’should see yerself, doll-“ grunts when you flatten your ass against his pelvis, rutting deeper until you bite at his callouses, “a braw mess. must regret not lettin’ me n’yer cunt sooner, mm?”

pushes on your shoulder blades until your throat is stuffed with the feathers in your pillows. fastens his fingers around your hips and angles you just right so he’s brushing against your womb.

dandelion fires light behind your eyes, and you remember how a younger johnny used to talk you through counting them when you looked at the sun too long.

things change fast.

“fuck- squeezin’ me dry, aren’t ye,” he pants, lowering himself until he’s next to your ear, “even yer body knew y’always wanted me. fuckin’ made for me, precious. dinnae why y’held out fer so long.”

“ah- johnny don’t-“

“what? cum inside?” he laughs, and you burry your face into pillow case cotton when he quickens the pace, “why nae make tis permanent, yeah? have meh whenever y’need.”

buries himself to the hilt, and you feel warm confliction fill your womb in ropes until your shaking in the aftermath of your own orgasm.

holds your lower back as he leads you downstairs. plays with the kids while you get water and talk with the mothers.

he sends you a look after picking one up and blowing a raspberry into their stomach, and suddenly you’re aware that this was always going to happen.

and now there’s no way back.

it’s sad when Gaz is excluded in MW content and to defend him most people just bring up how cute he is, which isn’t wrong. but also we should acknowledge he is just a good character overall.

it’s disappointing that so many fans exclude interesting and well developed characters due to their looks or just them not being men. many characters in cod who are not conventionally attractive or are women are often not brought up by fans.

characters should not be disregarded because of design, gender, etc. let’s not make this a trend in the community.

mh. thinking about price keeping you plugged and filled all day. fully casual too, picks toys from your drawer in the morning, working them into your half asleep form first thing after waking up. putting on fresh underwear and pulling it up nice and tight to hold everything in place, muttering a warning about being good and keeping them in, punishment if he notices they're not where they need to be. goes about his day as per usual, let's you go about your day too, calling to check in on you while he's out at work. comes home in the evening to have dinner with you, helps you clean up after and pulls you to sit on his muscular thigh while relaxing on the couch. bouncing you gently, knowing damn well how it makes you squirm, squeeze the poor toy tightly while soft whimpers escape your throat. he adores the way your face scrunches up, adores your soft pleas that he gets to give in to once you're in bed. and the best part about it? He gets to do all of it again tomorrow.

fear of god

There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 12 masterlist

-

A false moon dictates the coming of night. 

You set up a cot in the medical unit again, going to your quarters to grab a spare set of sheets before returning, Gaz shadowing you the way there and back. His presence scratches at the back of your head, reminding you that he’s there at your back. You don’t ask him why he insists on keeping up this charade of monitoring your behaviour—his motives are as unclear to you as ever.  

“This isn’t necessary,” you finally manage to get out on the walk back to the medbay, the door within sight. 

“I know,” Gaz says simply. 

The door slides open and you enter with him still at your back. “Then why are you following me?”

“Those were Graves’ orders, weren’t they?”

“And you what? Follow his orders now?”

It’s difficult to determine who you actually feel betrayed by. Gaz owes you no debt—it wasn’t you that let him into the ship. The focus of your anger should be on Graves and the rest of the crew, but yet—

Your chest twinges when the door slides shut and Gaz leans against it, no different than a guard posted at the door. 

He shrugs, unbothered by the reproach in your voice. “He’s the commander.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s right.”

“Maybe not.”

“I had nothing to do with Hadir getting sick.”

“I know that.” Your chest deflates when you can’t detect any insincerity behind his words. “But Graves is in charge of the ship and unless you think you could get the others to agree with you, isn’t it better to toe the line for now?”

It would upset you if it were any less true. The hierarchical arrangement of personnel on board has always been clear, and it’s not lost on you that you’ve always hovered near the bottom, falling further from grace with every passing day. Who apart from Gaz and Hadir have been sympathetic towards you in recent weeks anyway? Nikolai’s friendship is an extension of his disposition, an affection easily given and easily taken away. Farah barely even regards you as trustworthy these days, convinced that you’re teetering on the edge of losing your mind.

She might not be wrong. 

Gaz watches you make the bed, settling into your office chair, a mite more comfortable than the stool by the counter. 

“Do you want me to set up a cot for you?” you ask begrudgingly. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t need one.”

“You can sleep comfortably sitting up like that?” 

His smile verges on patronizing. “I don’t need to sleep, love.”

Your skin crawls. You hate when he does that—when he lets you in on your shared secret, the knowledge that he isn’t as human as he appears. Whatever he is still eludes you. Alien or divine. There’s no point in asking though. That knowledge sits beyond your purview. 

You ignore him to the best of your abilities and finish setting up your cot, his words still ringing in your ears. 

Things take a turn for the worse when Hadir stops responding altogether. 

Though his verbal responses have become less and less frequent over the last couple days, the dropoff is significant. As your only patient though, you’ve been monitoring him closely since he was admitted, and you pick up on the change quickly. It’s like an itch under your skin, a sixth sense from working with sick patients for the better part of your adult years. 

Gaz picks up on the change in your mood, sitting up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” you respond through stiff lips. “Something changed.”

The base of your spine tingles when the vital signs monitor suddenly beeps, alerting you to a change in Hadir’s condition.

You flip a switch and press a button on the keyboard, speaking directly to the Ship’s AI. “Ship, what’s the patient’s status?” 

Patient's temperature is unusually elevated

Recommendation to increase fluids and decrease external temperature 

You lift his eyelids and find his pupils irregular, one larger than the other, and they don’t respond properly when you shine a light on them. 

“What can I do?” Gaz asks, as serious as you’ve ever seen him.

“We need to cool him down. His fever is spiking. I’ll get the cooling blanket—there are ice packs in the freezer over there—” You point to a refrigerator on the other side of the room. “—get the ice packs and start packing them around his armpits and groin. We need to get his temperature down while I figure out what the fuck is happening.”

Gaz moves quickly, retrieving the ice packs from the freezer and packing them up against Hadir’s pits and in between his legs under the medical gown. Hadir’s lips flutter reflexively at the cold but that’s as much responsiveness as you get out of him. 

You press the button to speak to the AI again. “Ship, is his temperature coming down?”

Negative

Patient temperature currently: 104°

Even his breathing has changed, his breaths similarly irregular and increasingly shallower. You put in the orders for another CT scan, moving quicker and typing faster than you ever have before. The breathing tube gets put in next to secure his airway and you don’t like the way his gag reflex doesn’t kick in when the tube is shoved down his throat. It signals something dangerous. 

The situation before you doesn’t bode well. Dread clings to the wall in the far corner of the room but you ignore its presence to focus on your work, throwing everything at the walls to see what sticks. 

His labs are all over the place. High fever, low platelets, high D-dimer, high FDPs. An hour passes in a blink with you running test after test to no avail—none of his results that come back make any sense—all while his temperature continues to rise. 

Patient temperature currently: 105°

Plastic backliners flutter to the floor when you rip them off the electrodes, pasting the small metal discs around Hadir’s scalp for the EEG, working as quickly and efficiently as possible. 

“Has his temperature come down yet?” you bark, too preoccupied with your work to chance a glance up at the monitor.

“No,” Gaz says curtly. “Still 105°.”

It’s all happening so quickly that you can’t seem to get your bearings. If it were anyone else on the table, you’d at least have Hadir to assist you; you’re on your own now though, Gaz barely any help to you without any real medical knowledge. 

Your heart pounds against your chest when you notice blood coming up Hadir’s ET tube. A few droplets at first, and then a trickle. 

A horrible, prophetic knowledge falls over you, threatening to collapse you. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Gaz asks.

“I don’t know—” Then his nose starts to bleed and your heart stops. The stain on the front of his gown and what you find underneath it when you lift it up confirms your worst suspicions. “He’s going into DIC—”

“DIC?”

“His blood—”

The AI takes that moment to interject, speaking over you: Patient body has used up all of its clotting factors and will begin to bleed out

Sepsis—a severe infection—an autoimmune response—trauma—cancer—so many different possible answers to explain why Hadir would spontaneously go into disseminated intravascular coagulation, but his labs tell you shit. Nothing makes sense. You can’t explain why he might be hemorrhaging because there isn’t anything in his scans or labs to indicate anything wrong with him.

More blood leaks from his face and nethers, staining the light blue of the bed a dark red. Logical objections halt in the face of the tangible, and blood is tangible. Blood is all you see. 

The final moments are harried, frenzied. You bark orders at Gaz, which he follows militarily, and struggle in vain to keep Hadir’s condition from further deteriorating, but it’s nearly impossible without being able to address the root cause. Transfusions of platelets, fresh frozen plasma, and cryoprecipitate only go so far. 

When his brain activity goes flat on the monitor, your mind goes blank. Static noise fills your head. You slump against the wall, staring at Hadir’s bleeding body on the exam table, still leaking blood from all of his orifices, the sound of the monitor blaring like a siren in your ears. 

“He’s dead,” Gaz says blandly, staring at the body nonplussed. 

“Yeah,” you rasp. Your voice is thick in your throat, devastated. 

There’s blood all over the bed, more in one place than you’ve seen in a long time—not since working in trauma units back on Earth. Every inch of your body aches as the adrenaline recedes, having reached its peak in the throes of Hadir’s final moments, jaw so tight you almost can’t unclench it.

“What happened?” he asks, almost quizzically. 

The curious lack of emotion in his voice doesn’t penetrate through the brain fog. “I don’t know—he just…” 

The weight of all that just happened comes over you swiftly. An hour ago, Hadir was fine for all intents and purposes. Stable. Now, blood stains his chin, the underside of his nose, the front of his gown, and the bed underneath him, the sweat caked on his forehead cooling as the life leaches out of his body. 

Your hands shake by your sides, a violent tremble rolling through you. 

“I don’t get it,” you whisper. 

You should’ve quarantined Hadir from the start, from the very second he was admitted into your care. You should’ve ignored the fact that his labs came back fine that first day and just assumed that the nature of his illness was more severe than it appeared. Shame and dread plunge like a dagger through your midsection.

Protocol should’ve dictated that you initiate a quarantine, but since you didn’t—

You stare at the body on the table, the ET tube streaked with blood.

—your duty now is to ensure that no one else gets sick too. 

You’ll need to seal off the medbay until every surface has been properly decontaminated and then quarantine yourself until you’re sure that you aren’t infected as well. Your eyes flick towards Gaz momentarily before you shoot down the thought of testing him as well. 

Mitigate the transmission. That thought sticks out amongst the rest. The body lying on the bed in the middle of the room is no longer a patient that needs tending to but rather hazardous material that needs to be disposed of lest whatever infected it is transmitted to everyone else on board the ship. 

It’s waste. Filth. And it will contaminate everything on board if you don’t remove it. 

Your body moves on autopilot. You wheel the bed to the ejection chute at the back of the medbay. It takes a series of codes in order to open the door to the chute and you key them in quickly and efficiently. When the door slides open, you raise the bed until it’s slightly higher than the chute, tipping the bed forward in order for the body to slide into it. 

Ejection chute engaged

Hadir’s body disappears into the chute, the reinforced metal and glass sliding shut when the sensors register that the chute door is empty. There’s a thunk from behind the wall as his body is shuttled through the pneumatic tubes towards the back of the ship, and it won’t be more than a minute before the body is projected from the ship entirely. 

Your heart skips a beat when the AI pings awake again.

Object ejected 

“I wouldn't have done that if I were you,” Gaz says, and you flinch at the sound of his voice, momentarily forgetting that someone else is in the room with you. 

Your eyes drift over to him, the room murky for a moment, the air hazy like water, like you’re looking through a film and only just starting to settle back down into your body after watching from overhead. He seems bigger somehow.

“We have to quarantine ourselves,” you say, frantically towards one of the cupboards and ripping it open, pulling out rolls of plastic to plaster over the door. “We didn’t put on any PPE, so we might’ve been exposed to whatever Hadir had.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.”

His lips are turned up at the corners when you look over, frowning, but noise in the hallway keeps you from following up on his remark. 

The announcement over the intercom must have alerted the others, and you hear footsteps from down the hall seconds before they arrive, boots clanking against the metal flooring. When the door slides open and you see Farah standing there with Alex at her back, her face hauntingly vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before, words fail you. 

“What happened?” Farah asks. 

“I don’t know. He was fine just a second ago and then—”

“Where is he?” she demands, scanning the room for him. “Where’s Hadir?”

“I—” The words get tangled up in your throat, terror and shame making it hard enough to breathe, never mind speak. 

Graves barrels in a second later, flushed and out of breath. He must have been in the cockpit when the intercom alerted him to the ejection chute being utilized. Nikolai is fast on his heels, less winded but just as concerned. 

You realize that from the direction Nikolai came, he must’ve been at the back of the spacecraft, and you morbidly wonder if he heard the sound of Hadir’s body ferrying through the pneumatic tube system.

“Doctor, what did you just throw out of the chute?” Graves asks, his tone hard and uncompromising, softened only by the breathless note in his voice from running halfway across the ship. 

You don’t answer.

His eyes lift to the space over your shoulder, where the patient bed is flush to the wall, the head level with the chute leading out of the ship. Blood still saturates the mattress. 

You watch as the knowledge of what you’ve done dawns on them, realization morphing into distress and horror. From behind Farah, Alex goes ashen, a hand clamping down on her shoulder to hold her in place before she realizes what you’ve done and the inevitable happens. You see it play out in your head like a movie. 

“Farah—” he starts, but any effort to steer her out of the room is thwarted by how quickly she comes to the same conclusion. 

“Where’s my brother?” Farah screams, and you wince, your head aching like there’s something else in there listening to her scream too. 

Alex has to hold her back from lunging at you, fighting to keep her in his arms, her body thrashing wildly. You’ve never seen her like this before. Grief and rage strip her of stoicism, and when her screams turn to tears, it rips a hole right through you. 

“You ejected Hadir from the ship?” Graves breathes, stunned. 

Nikolai just stares, at a loss for words. You’ve never seen any of them so obviously affected, so contrary to the image of them that you’ve carried with you in your mind for months. 

“I had to!” you shout, vocal cords tearing under the strain. “We couldn’t keep his body on board! What if it was some hemorrhagic fever—like ebola? Or worse?”

“You don’t even know what killed—” Graves roars before stopping abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut. He presses his fist to his mouth, the skin around his knuckles bone white. 

“We need to quarantine.” Your fingers tremble when you press them to your temples, flinching when you realize that your gloves are still covered in blood. “I was going to seal off the room to keep it from spreading, but now that you’re all here, we’re probably all been infected—”

“Infected by what?” 

“I don’t know.” 

A shade is falling over you. Everything feels raw, livid—a wound being prodded. The light hurts your eyes when you lift them from the floor to meet Graves’ gaze. Even the air feels caustic against your skin. 

Even your impulses don’t feel like your own, like there is some

insidious rot

fruiting under your skin.

“Are you going to say anything to them?” you finally snap at Gaz, desperation loosening your tongue. “You were here—you saw what happened. Why aren’t you telling them what happened?”

The others turn to look at him, orienting like sunflowers towards the sun. It’s the only comparison that comes to mind. And at the centre of them, Gaz stares back at you, an ersatz approximation of confusion. 

He gives a slow blink, eyes glinting with something unknown. “Tell them what? That you tossed Hadir out into space?” 

You should’ve expected that you’d be left hanging, but the reality of it is unbearable. Humiliating. 

You know what you look like to them: dangerous, erratic. Your paranoia on full display. Even Nikolai’s mouth is set in a grim line.

You can hear the accusations flying through their minds—that you caused this somehow. Overdosed him on anti-clotting medication and let him bleed out, then disposed of the body before a proper autopsy could be performed. That maybe you prolonged his illness, knowing it would lead to this.  

It happens swiftly and without word, as if planned ahead of time. Nikolai and Graves lunge towards you suddenly, grabbing you by the undersides of your arms and nearly lifting you off your feet when they haul you forcibly out of the room. Alex still has Farah trapped in his arms in the corner of the room when they drag you past her. 

“Farah, I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” 

You’re not strong enough to break free of Graves’ and Nikolai’s hold though, so you’re carried off before Farah can say anything. There’s only a split second for your eyes to lock and for you to see something broken beyond recognition there, and then the door cuts you off from her.

“You’re all fucking insane—let me go—” you scream, spittle flying from your mouth. The scream that tears out of you is so animalistic and loud that your throat squeezes up in protest, a cough forcing its way out. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Down the hall and towards the back of the ship. Boots echo against the metal floors, the two men on either side of you in sync with each other. Neither says a word nor responds to your screams. Their patience with your increasingly unhinged behaviour has finally crossed a threshold once thought impossible, your reputation alone no longer enough to save you. 

They all but throw you into the brig, the metal door clanging shut behind you when you’re dropped to your hands and knees, peering over your shoulder to find Nikolai punching in the key to lock and arm the door, a rueful, pained look on his face.

“Nikolai, please—” you beg, crawling to the door and curling your hands around the bar. “It wasn’t my fault—I didn’t kill Hadir. I’m sorry! He could’ve made everyone on board sick if we’d kept the body! Please, Nikolai, please—”

Your pleas fall on deaf ears. The last sound you hear is the brig door slamming shut and then their footsteps gradually recede into the distance.