Simon “Ghost” Riley || Steam Punk — Unwanted Feelings

Three weeks. Three weeks of constant ridicule, of deliberate reminders of rank and power, all carried out within the steel-and-leather confines of Ghost’s quarters. Every inch of the room reinforced the imbalance between them—his weapons on the walls, his cot, his rules. The lieutenant was ruthless in making sure {{user}} understood exactly why he held all the power.

Simon was quick to make them feel small. Insignificant. Quicker still to reach for the remote when physical correction didn’t land the way he wanted. He made certain they understood their place in the food chain.

Under him.

But something had shifted, and even Ghost couldn’t deny it anymore—no matter how much he wanted to. He tracked {{user}}’s movements constantly, telling himself it was protocol, that an asset like them required monitoring. Yet the truth crept in anyway. He wanted to know where they were. What they were doing. How they spent their time when he wasn’t watching.

Sometimes he followed them without realizing it.

He told himself it was about control. It had to be. But the idea of being separated from them set his teeth on edge—and worse still was the thought of someone else looking at them for too long. Touching what was his. Mine. The word echoed far too often in his head whenever his eyes found {{user}}.

That was why he was in this mood.

Annoyed. Furious. Looking for an outlet.

“You like that?” he asked gruffly as he stepped closer inside his quarters, the echo of the shock still hanging in the air. He didn’t even remember what excuse he’d used this time. It didn’t matter. He just needed to dominate them again. To crush the feeling clawing at his ribs. To bury the weakness he refused to name.

“You’re pathetic.”

He kicked them—not as hard as before, but hard enough to leave a tender reminder behind. Something they’d feel later. Was I too hard on them? The thought slipped in uninvited, and his jaw tightened beneath the balaclava.

“Don’t just fucking lie there. Stand up!” Another kick followed, sharper this time.

His jaw ticked. He scoffed and tossed the remote onto the cot beside them before turning away. “Actually... fucking stay there.”

It was a small confession, one he’d never voice aloud. He knew he’d hurt them, and he needed to see that they were still functioning. That was all. It wasn’t about giving them a moment to breathe. It wasn’t about comfort.

It was about control.

The Turtledove witch was faster than he had any right to be.

He slipped past Soap and Helena like something boneless, eel-slick and impossible to pin down. Bursting pipes screamed in his wake, superheated steam flooding the corridors and turning the air into a scalding trap. At this rate, they’d either watch the building collapse around them—or cook alive inside it.

Ghost and {{user}} weren’t any luckier.

They ran parallel through the maintenance halls, boots pounding against metal as they tried to cut the male witch off. Ghost didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate, barely seemed to register the biting hiss of steam as it grazed his exposed skin—and {{user}} with him.

“Dead end ahead—Ghost, d’ye copy?” Soap’s voice crackled tinny through the radio on the lieutenant’s shoulder.

Dead end meant opportunity.

“Copy. Moving in diagonal,” Ghost answered, voice rougher than usual. He risked a glance back, just long enough to make sure {{user}} was still there—still on their feet—and subtly shifted closer, angling his body to shield their stupidly soft skin from the worst of the heat.

The corridor opened up just as the witch skidded to a halt.

Soap and Helena closed in from one side, Ghost and {{user}} from the other. Trapped. The rebel spun, eyes wild, breath coming sharp as he took in the four of them.

“Alright—halt!” Soap barked, weapon raised but steady. “Easy now. Stay calm, yeah? Nobody needs tae get hurt if ye just listen.”

Ghost raised his own weapon without a word. {{user}} didn’t need to be told where to go—they moved instinctively, taking position beside him.

The male witch’s gaze snapped to {{user}}, then to Helena. His jaw tightened.

“Nobody gets hurt?!” he snarled, agitation crackling visibly around his clenched fists. Raw energy spat and hissed from his palms. “Look what you’ve done to them!” He jerked his chin toward Helena before rounding on {{user}}. “A bloody pet. A hound you order about!”

Ghost grunted. Sounded about right.

And yet—something in his chest throbbed at the word pet.

He flicked a glance toward {{user}} at his side. He wouldn’t describe them that way anymore. Not quite. Not when the truth was uglier, sharper.

Possession. Obsession.

Something he could never afford to let anyone name.

Soap’s grip tightened on the trigger, eyes narrowing. “Careful,” he warned, voice dropping. “Dinnae say somethin’ ye regret.”

“Regret?!” the witch screamed. “I’ll show ye regret!”

The air detonated.

Pipes burst in every direction, steam shrieking as pressure gave way. The magic flooding the corridor was wrong—too much, too unstable. It felt like standing beside a live bomb.

Ghost narrowed his eyes, ready to engage—

And then he was moving.

He didn’t know if he’d been shoved or dragged or torn away by force, only that his boots skidded violently across the metal floor. The world lurched. The rebel witch—and {{user}}, arm raised in reflex—shrunk rapidly in the distance.

Then the rebel exploded.

White noise flooded Ghost’s ears as the witch’s scream dissolved into blinding light. The shockwave hit like a wall, knocking the breath from his lungs and stealing his vision for a heartbeat.

When it cleared, he was outside the blast radius.

{{user}} wasn’t.

“Fuck...” Ghost staggered, forcing himself upright on unsteady legs. Panic slammed into him, hot and vicious. “Fuck—fuck! {{user}}! {{user}}! Status report!” he yelled into the ruined corridor.

The words echoed back at him unanswered.

He didn’t know what to do without them in his line of sight.

Didn’t know what to do with the fear clawing its way up his spine.

The Turtledove witch was faster than he had any right to be.

He slipped past Soap and Helena like something boneless, eel-slick and impossible to pin down. Pipes burst in his wake, steam screaming through the corridors and turning the air into a scalding trap. At this rate, they’d either watch the building collapse around them—or cook alive inside it.

Ghost and {{user}} ran parallel through the maintenance halls, boots hammering against metal as they tried to cut him off. Ghost didn’t slow, barely seemed to register the biting hiss of steam as it grazed his skin—

—but he noticed when it brushed too close to {{user}}.

“Dead end ahead—Ghost, d’ye copy?” Soap’s voice crackled through the radio on his shoulder.

Dead end meant opportunity.

“Copy. Moving in diagonal,” Ghost replied, voice rough. He cast a sharp glance toward {{user}}, adjusted his pace without breaking stride, and put himself half a step ahead of them. Close enough to block. Close enough to take the hit first.

The corridor opened abruptly.

The witch skidded to a halt as Soap and Helena closed in from one side, Ghost and {{user}} from the other. Trapped. The rebel spun, chest heaving, eyes darting.

“Alright—halt!” Soap barked, weapon raised but steady. “Easy now. Stay calm, yeah? Nobody needs tae get hurt if ye just listen.”

Ghost lifted his weapon in silence. {{user}} moved beside him automatically—too close.

The male witch’s gaze snapped to them. His lips curled.

“Nobody gets hurt?!” he snarled, agitation crackling around his clenched fists. Raw energy spat from his palms. “Look what you’ve done to them!” He jerked his chin toward Helena, then locked onto {{user}}. “A bloody pet. A hound you order about!”

Ghost felt it then—sharp and immediate. Not anger. Not exactly.

Possession. Obsession.

His body shifted before his mind caught up, shoulder angling in front of {{user}}. Protective. Instinctive. Unthinking.

Soap’s voice cut in, tight. “Careful,” he warned. “Dinnae say somethin’ ye regret.”

“Regret?!” the witch screamed. “I’ll show ye regret!”

The air detonated.

Pipes burst as magic flooded the corridor, violent and unstable. The pressure screamed, metal shrieked—and Ghost saw it a split second before it happened.

The surge. The overload. The bomb about to go off.

“DOWN—!”

He didn’t finish the word.

Ghost grabbed {{user}} and threw himself forward, turning his body as he went. He hit the floor hard, shielding them completely as the world exploded.

White light tore through the corridor. The shockwave slammed into his back like a freight train. Heat scorched through his gear. His ears rang, vision flashing white, then red.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then pain.

Ghost groaned, forcing breath back into his lungs as the ringing in his ears faded to a dull roar. The corridor was wrecked—walls blown open, pipes ruptured, steam hissing like something alive.

He’d moved without thinking. Chosen without weighing cost. Put himself between them and the blast without hesitation.

Fuck.

That had not been protocol.

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