#plot twist soap is in love with ghost

[cheezbites]

Soap: (staring at ghost)

Ghost: (Ignores)

Soap: (staring intensifies)

Ghost: …

Ghost: What the fuck do you want?

Soap: Nothing from you… that’s for sure.

Ghost: Get a hobby or summat, mate.

Soap: You are my hobby.

Masterlist

[popeabbot]

Literally everyone needs to read this whether you’re a fan of call of duty or not, Rylea crafted an absolute masterpiece!! She put so much thought into making an absolute LITERATURE like calling it fanfiction just doesn’t do it justice!!

Anyways enough gushing this is just such a phenomenal read, in the fandom or not!

The Conditioning: A Salt to the Wound Prequel

➛ companion piece to Salt to the Wound

PAIRING⁀➷ simon riley x fem!reader

WORD COUNT⁀➷ 12k

CONTAINS⁀➷ 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough & unprotected sex, p in v, complicated grief, complicated family dynamics, an attempt to repress memories, mentions of military & war trauma, cutting skin for blood, graphic depictions of death, foreshadowing, mentions of gun violence, little to no effort doing johnny's accent, mentions of abuse, heavy angst, mention of prescription drugs, mentions of death, questionable ethics & morals, religious speak, fluff, intertwined plot points from original fic (more on that below,) purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers, & no use of y/n.

AUTHOR'S NOTE⁀➷ before reading, i would like to note that this is a direct prequel to salt to the wound. i highly encourage you to read that before this. anywho, i’m back with an expansion of the salt to the wound universe! i’ve decided to expand upon the original story, but not in the way i initially intended. i thought it would be interesting to explore more of simon’s perspective on his marriage and the deal he made in the original fic, thus this prequel was born. although, this fic does pov switch, it does so less occasionally. regardless, i sincerely hope this installment is satisfactory. if salt to the wound left you sad or unsatisfied with reader's ending, i hope this brings you some satisfaction. i don’t want to spoil anything, so i won't say anything more. i hope you enjoy. read at your own discretion.

The lines between Hell and Earth are blurry…

The air carried a bone-chilling cold that seemed to penetrate Simon's very being.

It felt as though the night carried a treacherous vengeance that was cowardly whispered in the form of icy wind.

Despite the cold, Simon hovers near the front entrance of the Thai place he had been dragged to on a blind date set up by Johnny, a fresh cigarette between his fingers, the smoke offering him a little warmth.

He should have known better than to take up Johnny's offer.

It was naive of him to think that an older brute like himself could find someone who would take him, baggage and all. 

How could anyone possibly love a man so rough around the edges, broken and battered by life? 

He's got scars that run deep, both inside and out, and they're the kind that won't heal easily. 

Might not heal ever.

Still, he's convinced that someone will come along and fix him, make him whole again. 

Always had his head too high in the God-damn clouds to see the storm brewing where he ought to be on the surface.

Out of the cold night, a voice broke through. "Think I could bum a cigarette off you?" Simon's eyes snapped up to see you standing before him, a warm smile on your face, a sudden spark of connection in the icy air. 

He narrows his eyes skeptically. "You smoke?"

"Not really," you shake your head. "Just had a shitty night."

He doesn't ask you to explain; he really doesn't care. He flicks a cigarette from his pack and hands it to you.

"Can you light me?" you ask sheepishly, putting the cigarette between your lips and hovering closer to him.

His lip quips as he flicks his lighter, hovering just below your cigarette. The flame quickly lights the end, sending smoke down your lungs.

You suck down the smoke gracefully, closing your eyes softly trying to seize your nerves.

Simon watches you for a moment. "Shouldn't be doin' that," he mumbles. "It's bad for you."

Your eyes snap open, a smile growing on your face. "You're one to talk," you say, blowing the smoke out between your lips. "I saw you smoke three through the glass," you cock a brow, eyes darting to look down at the ground next to his boot to see smashed cigarette buds. 

He tilts his head back, smoke blowing through his nostrils. "You been watchin' me?" His voice is rough, but you can tell there's humor in his words.

"Maybe," you shrug, tilting your head forward slightly to look at him through your lashes, a cheeky grin on your lips. "Saw you with a woman in there," you casually say, taking another puff. "You didn't look so happy."

"Saw you with a man," he counters, eyes shamelessly darting between your eyes and lips. "You didn't look too chipper either."

Your shoulders sag at the thought. "Yeah… my boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend," you correct quickly. "He dumped me." Your voice carries a mix of sadness and a palpable sense of relief.

Simon cringes. "Oof. Heartless bastard."

You chew on your lip, your curiosity piqued. "And you?"

He lifts a brow, taking another drag. "What about me?" he prompts curiously. 

You roll your eyes playfully. Men. "Did you have a nice date?"

He puffs out the smoke, nodding along lightly. "That was my little sister."

Your face morphs into horror. You even drop your cigarette on the ground from how fast you cover your mouth with your hands. "Oh! Oh my God… " you start, genuine horror in your tone. "I'm so sorry… I, I just assumed—" you stutter, face stiff. 

Your shoulders relax as he lets out a gruff laugh. "Relax. Just takin' the piss," he chuckles. “Nah. Didn't know the girl. Was a blind date my mate set up for me," he explains through a dry laugh. "She was too uppity for me."

"She was cute," you try to find some good. "But, yeah, I overheard her talking about her daddy's multiple vacation houses in the Hamptons, before proceeding to complain about the price of the champagne," you agree with a chuckle.

He leans just an inch closer, now interested in the conversation. "Did you hear her go on about her father’s private broker firm?" He brings his cigarette to his lips. 

You giggle, leaning closer. "Yeah. Looks like daddy's raking in the big bucks, huh?" You nod, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

Simon pulls back, flicking his cigarette on the ground, stepping on it purposefully. "Broker firm sounds like a euphemism for where daddy parks his questionable investments."

You make a faux cringe face. "Yikes. I can see the raging jealousy oozing out of you," you gesture to him, with a sardonic infliction that's hard to miss.

He smiles. "Oh, yeah. Just riddled with jealousy," he goes along with it, his smile growing as you share a laugh, the warmth of your camaraderie evident in the air. 

The following words that flow off Simon's tongue come without warning. "Would you wanna grab a beer at the bar down the road?" His eyes flick to yours, looking back to his as your laughter dies down.

His nervousness is palpable, evident in the way his Adam's apple bobs as he maintains eye contact. "Are you asking me on a date?" you inquire, sensing his unease.

"I'll pay," he says, skirting around the question. 

You let out a dry laugh. "Well, I didn't think I was going to… " You trail off, only now realizing that you didn't even know his name. 

"Simon," he fills in without hesitation. "Call me Simon."

"Okay… Simon." His name rolls off your tongue in a purr that has him at a loss for words. "I'll get a beer with you, although I'm shocked you would settle for someone as dull as me after being dazzled by Hampton royalty," you jest, smiling at him.

He smiles back, harder. "Mhm. Always been more interested in the common folk," he jokes, as you spin on your heels, laughing, walking next to him towards the shitty dive bar on fifth.

In that moment, Simon sees his future.

A future that he had never dared to dream of until that very moment.

It all flashes through his brain in a light blur.

He sees simple mornings, when the light casts a warm glow on your skin, almost bringing him to tears. He can almost feel the softness of your skin and the warmth of the morning sun. 

He can see you in a long wedding dress with a sheer veil, not daring to fully conceal your beauty before he sees his babies on your hip as you bounce them lovingly. 

So many years full of pure love, until you both find yourselves on rocking chairs on your porch, connected to your grand white house, wrapped in a white picket fence that he will have spent years building up from the mud with his bare hands.

By then, half your grand babies will be learning to walk, while the other half will be busy decorating your driveway with chalk drawings, begging him to take them for a drive to see their uncle Johnny.

His visions of his fantastical family looked like the picture a soldier keeps tucked away in the pocket of his military uniform to protect it from spilled blood.

Serves as a reminder, motivating him to keep fighting through the war. Even in the direst moments, with a gun pointed to his head, his humility laid bare, he will keep fighting for his family, for they are where his heart lies, still untouched by vengeance, pure as the heavens above.

His future, as he envisions it, is a canvas of bright potential.

Yet, he remains oblivious to the looming shadow of a devil's bargain that will one day bind you two, leaving your soul eternally tainted and trapped.

For now, he can continue his fruitless efforts, ponder you with heart-filled eyes, and dream carelessly innocent dreams.

But the devil does not bargain with such innocence, for a darker fate awaits him.

A few months later, Simon is parked in the creaky chair of his home office, filing some paperwork. He is shivering; no amount of heat can warm his skin.

His raging fever, which had ruined his sleep, had carried over from the night before, leaving him feeling his skin flush and dry, barely able to sit upright in the wooden chair.

But that's the thing about Simon, he doesn't know when to quit.

He is stubborn, strong-willed to a disturbing degree. 

He hadn't yet found his limit; the breaking point that would make him just stop.

Must have gotten that from his mother because his father sure knew when to quit while he was ahead.

Simon leans over his desk to scribble on some files, each movement seemingly being harder than the last. He grunts just as he finishes a sentence, lightly tossing the pen to wipe his tired, sunken eyes.

His head flicks up at the sound of his doorbell ringing. With a sigh, he slowly stands and moves over to the door, opening it to see you with a bright smile and a warm pie in your embrace.

"Made you pie," you say, lifting the pie to ensure he sees it. "Hopefully, you like cherry," you smile meekly, watching his eyes drift to the pie.

He lifts his head to look at you, trying to keep his voice steady. "Love cherry," he mumbles, though some emotion has seeped through his tough front.

He can't believe you went and made him a pie.

You had been on a handful of unofficial dates in the past few months, but nothing official came about. 

You were just friends, at least he assumed you were friends. 

But here you were, the sweetest girl he's ever met, with a fresh pie you say is meant for him. He couldn't have possibly imagined you would go and do something that would make him think you care about him. 

"Are you alright? You look tired," you ask, narrowing your eyes in concern. You observe his deep eye bags, and your worry is palpable.

His eyes flick up to see your concerned ones. "Think I caught a cold," he murmurs. "Thanks for the pie, sweetheart." He takes the pie from your hands.

You pass the pie along, and the warmth of the pan spreads across Simon's skin, making him close his eyes softly. "Are you taking care of yourself?" you ask, a slight frown on your lips as you see the tip of his nose tinged red. 

He doesn't answer, just looks down at the pie.

You had made a beautiful lattice, and only a little cherry filling broke through the sweet dough. 

"Simon," you urge, your determination to make him open up evident in your voice. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

He looks back at you. "I'm alright."

You frown again; he hasn't been. "Can I come in?" you ask, your patience reassuring.

"Wouldn't wanna get you sick. Too pretty to be bedridden," he tries to joke, but his chest rumbles with a rough cough.

Your skin warms at the compliment. "I take my vitamins," you assure. "Don't worry about me, okay?" You place your hands on your hips, so he knows you're serious. "Now, am I going to have to shove you to get inside, or are you going to let me in willingly?" You arch your brow, your lips pursed. 

His lip quips; he is too tired to fight you, so he simply steps aside, allowing you to step through the door with ease.

He doesn't feel the surge of nervousness he probably should, as you step into his house and observe every fine detail, down to the scratches on his light wooden floors.

"You have a cat?" you ask, turning to him with a smile.

He shakes his head. "Nah. The other owner did," he explains, moving to grab your purse, which is hiked on your shoulder, and gently laying it across his kitchen island. 

"Are you taking any medication? Drinking enough water?" You start questioning as soon as Simon's shoulder relaxes.

"You some kind of nurse?" he asks in a humorous tone, a playful glint in his eyes, but you don't laugh. 

"I'll take that as a no," you roll your eyes, hands moving around his kitchen blindly to find his cups.

"I can get you some water," he moves over to you, unable to let you do anything alone. You swat his hand away, narrowing your eyes at him.

"It's not for me," you explain, grabbing a large glass and putting it under the tap to fill it to the brim with cold water. "Drink up, boy boy," you shove the water into his chest, and only a little sloshes over onto the floor.

"I'll clean that," you smile sheepishly, already moving to grab a rag off the counter. He sets the water on the counter, his hand gripping your shoulder, beckoning you to stand. 

"What are you doin'?" he asks with equal parts humor and confusion. 

Your lips morph into a confused smile. "What do you mean?" you ask, genuinely puzzled by his question.

He gently grasps the wet rag from your hand. "I mean you bringin' me pie, askin' about medicine, makin' me drink water," he lifts a brow. "What's all that about?"

You tilt your head to the side. "I'm taking care of you, Simon," you say with a reassuring smile, your eyes reflecting your genuine concern.

His lips flat line, mind swirling. "Takin' care of me?" 

"You're sick," you say, taking the rag from his hand. "Shouldn't be doing anything," you move to set the rag in the sink; you'll wash it later. "You need rest," you tilt your head forward, a glint in your eyes.

Simon is left utterly speechless, his mind struggling to comprehend what he is hearing.

Here comes you, this sweet girl who forces her way into his house bearing a pie and a gleaming smile, wanting to take care of him.

Nurse him back to health.

"Go sit," you tell him before he can ask if you're serious, ushering him to his couch. "What do you want to watch?"

His eyes stay glued to yours, his mouth slightly open. 

"Since you won't say, you'll have to watch what I want to," you flick through the channels until a trashy British reality television show dawns on the screen. The room is filled with the sound of some too-on-the-nose pop song that just so happens to sing the exact same scenario as what was occurring.

His eyes flick to the screen, a small smile growing on his lips.

"Lay back," you urge, pushing him back to lie against the back of the couch. "Where do you keep your medicine?"

He looks at you, utterly perplexed. "The, the bathroom. First drawer to the right," he murmurs, with a stutter, his confusion evident. 

You roam over to the bathroom, the only place you've ever seen in his house. You had to pee on the way to the cinema and made him stop at his house so you could. 

You didn't snoop through his things like you would usually do to the guys you've dated because you suspected he could smell any ounce of disorder like a hound. 

His eyes stay locked on the television as he hears you fish for the medication in his drawers. He taps his foot against the floor, feeling uneasy at the thought of lying still and doing nothing.

His fear of being deemed useless is a constant companion, driving him to move even when he can't.

It's the soldier in him who's seen and done things that most can't even imagine. 

He keeps moving, his mind never stopping, to avoid fully comprehending what he has had to do. 

Blood forever spilled in the name of protection.

Or so he says.

He hears your feet pattering on the wood back to him; you had stripped your shoes off at some point. "I got you some ibuprofen for the aches, some Afrin for decongestion, and some cough drops, I think, for… well, you know," you dispense the pills into your palm, handing them over for him to take. "You need water? Let me get you some water." Your care is a balm to his weary soul.

"I'm fine. Had to swallow some pain pills in the desert one time. Couldn't even use my own spit cause my mouth was all dry," he reaccounts, taking the pills dry. 

"You're drinking the water," you say, as you grab the cup and put it on the coffee table in front of him. Then, you hand him the cough drops. "I've never seen cough tablets before," you say, looking down at the table.

He lets out a dry laugh, grabbing the tablets from your hand to drop them in his mouth. "They’re some Scottish thing. A friend gave them to me," he mumbles, leaning deeper into the couch, feeling relaxed.

"Mhm," you hum, watching his eyes close gently. "Get some rest," you sweetly say as his eyes completely shut and he drifts off, a soft snore coming from him as he sleeps comfortably. 

When he wakes up some hours later, he feels less hot and achy than he had all night and day. When he moves to yawn, he almost chokes on the thermometer in his mouth. He pulls it out gently with a soft sigh and a confused mutter. 

He moves to stand, and a cold compress falls from his head to the floor with a soft thud. The thin linen blanket that covers his legs bunches up and slips off him.

He can hear the soft hum of water hitting the porcelain tub in the bathroom. He quickly stands, reaching for the gun that is normally strapped to his person, but feels nothing.

The padding of feet comes closer, and before he can react, his shoulders sag as he sees you smiling at him with lavender foaming bath soap in hand. "You're awake," you observe. "Good. I drew you a bath. It'll help soothe your muscles," you walk over to him, gesturing for him to follow you to the bathroom. 

"I'm not gettin' in the bath." A part of him believes you're joking, so he laughs. 

You aren’t.

"So, you're just going to waste the water?" You cock a brow and plant your hands on your hips.

He tilts his head back with a deep sigh. "You use it."

"I drew it for you, Simon. Don't be rude," you narrow your eyes at him, and he feels a little scared.

With a deep sigh, he moves his feet towards the bathroom. "You better not tell anyone about this," he instructs with a rough voice as he ducks into the bathroom.

"Scouts honor," you promise with a cheeky smirk.

He begins lifting his shirt over his head, and your mouth drops open at the sight. He glances at you. "Your jaw will lock if you keep it like that," he jokes with a smirk, tossing his shirt to the side.

You shake your head, slightly embarrassed. "Shut up, you old man," your face warms and when you look at him, he just gives you a rough chuckle. 

Once you turn out of the bathroom, he strips with an irritated noise, dipping himself into the warm bathtub, the bubbles creating a soft embrace. 

You come in and are pleasantly surprised he actually got in the tub. You sit on the toilet lid, feeling the humid air. "Can I wash you?" you ask, as you grab a stray loofah from the cabinet just above the toilet.

He nods, and you soak the netted material in the sudsy water and begin gently washing his chest, repeatedly collecting the water and squeezing over his aching bones. 

"Can't believe I'm lettin' you give me a bath," he mumbles after a moment of silence, though he feels a sense of peace he hasn't felt in years. 

You laugh before he sees your teeth chatter and your body shake.

He grabs your hand, halting your actions. "You cold, sweetheart?" 

You shrug. "Just a little."

There's a glint in his eyes, and before you know it, he's gripping your waist, hauling you over the porcelain side of the bathtub, and submerging you into the warm water.

"Simon!" you yell, laughter falling off your tongue as the water spills over the side and onto the bathroom floor as you straddle him. Your laughter seizes when he kisses you, deeply and passionately. 

He doesn't know what has come over him.

He just needed to act on impulse.

He just had to kiss you.

His lips move against yours with an ease he doesn't feel scared of. Your hands drape over his shoulders, and your lips move in sync.

He finds himself pulling back slightly. "Stay the night and the rest of the week," he mumbles, desperately trying to find the right words.

You smile at him, brushing his hair back off his forehead. "Are you trying to ask me to be your girlfriend?" 

He grips you tight, pupils widening. "What do you say?"

You press a kiss to his cheek. "I say yes."

His lips press back to yours fervently, and you can't help but put a break out in a toothy smile. 

Spontaneity can kill.

Acting on impulse shows no willpower.

Simon must really be his father's son.

Always so quick to act without thinking.

Guess some habits are hard to break, aren't they?

And what a shame he found someone to indulge his recklessness.

Pity, really.

Was starting to actually like her. 

"You sure about this?" Simon asks, holding your hand, his beer long forgotten. You both sit, squished into the booth at a small diner downtown.

"Come on. Don't tell me you're nervous?" you tease, feeling his tension. He sighs through his nose, his eyes wandering to the salt and pepper containers neatly lined on the table. 

"Soap… Johnny… he's… a bit outspoken," he mutters, hand twitching in yours.

A frown etches into your face before your hand releases its own and brushes against his cheek, making him turn to look at you. "Simon, I love you," you smile. "It only makes sense for me to meet the people you love," you say as if it's the simplest thing in the world. 

Simon could feel his stomach dip at your words.

You love him.

A pure and innocent, no strings attached kind of love. 

He doesn't get to ask why before seeing Johnny strolling in. The confidence that oozes off him as he approaches the booth you and he are sitting at makes him roll his eyes.

"Aye, Simon, my boy," Johnny greets Simon warmly, a hint of familiarity in his tone that Simon can't help but bristle at.

Simon swallows any bad taste Johnny had put on his tongue when he came in.

He was family after all. 

"Who do we have here?" Johnny slides into the booth seat across from Simon and you. You smile a welcoming smile before you stick your hand out for Johnny to shake, giving him your name.

Simon raises a warning brow when Johnny almost bursts out laughing at your chivalry. Johnny smothers his laugh, taking your hand in his, giving it a slight shake, and playing a sly smile on his lips.

Once you pull away, Johnny makes himself comfortable in the booth seat, leaning forward slightly. "So," Johnny starts, already grinning. "How'd this happen?" He gestures between Simon and you. 

Simon throws his arm around your shoulders. "The Thai place," Simon gruffs. 

Johnny's keen eyes widen. "She's the girl, then?" he prompts, but before he can be corrected, he leans forward towards Simon. "I told ye' that goin' on the blind date was a good idea, ye old prude. Ye got yer'self a pretty bird out of it," he laughs excitedly.

Simon rolls his eyes, and you can't help but smile. "She's not the girl I went on the date with," Simon gruffly corrects. Johnny's expression changes, like a kid who's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

Johnny shifts over to the table to whisper to you. "There was no date. Just jokes," he tries to save, sending Simon a wink as if he had saved him from revealing some big secret, and you laugh.

"I was also on a date," you explain, eyes glancing at Simon. "We met outside the place," you laugh as Johnny releases a breath of relief at the admission.

"Phew, thas' a relief," Johnny pretends to wipe his forehead from faux perspiration. "Thought the big guy was gonna wring me out."

"That option isn't completely off the table," Simon roughly says, though it carries some humor. 

Johnny's laughter abruptly gives way to a serious expression, catching Simon off guard and causing your amusement to fade. "He's not payin' ye to be here, right?" he questions, his tone now skeptical.

You let out a fake gasp, hand hovering over your heart. "How'd you know?"

Johnny's eyes widen and flick between you and Simon. "Ye… paid her to come?" His words hold more admiration than criticism. 

"She's fibbin', Soap," Simon chuckles, his hand playfully pinching your side. You can't help but yelp a little. "Not payin' her." 

Johnny's skepticism is met with a playful eye roll from you. "I came here willingly. No money involved," you confirm, swaying your beer. 

"Don't trust ye, birdie," Johnny muses, a mischievous glint in his eye. He then turns to Simon with a sly smile. "Have ye two podged?" 

"Speak English, Mactavish," Simon says, sipping his beer.

"Sex," Johnny says with ease. "Ye two done that yet?"

His bluntness leaves you wide-eyed, and Simon's grip on his beer tightens. "Johnny," he warns.

Johnny rolls his eyes with an innocent shrug, eyes landing on you. "Come on, birdie. Yer folks have had that talk with ye, yeah?" He prods, paying no heed to Simon staring daggers at him.

"We're taking it slow," you say, swallowing the shock of the question. You opt to just answer and try to ease the palpable tension coming off Simon. 

"Takin' it slow? Where's the fun in that, Lt.?" Johnny's teasing tone raises the tension, causing Simon to let out an audible sigh and his hand to come to his tired eyes, the air thick with discomfort. 

"We're adults, Johnny. Not horny teenagers. We don't just crave a quick fuck," you murmur over the rim of your beer, causing Johnny's eyes to snap in surprise, even making Simon lip quip from Johnny's shock. 

Johnny narrows his eyes, trying to find a crack in your facade. "Fair point. But what if it's piss?" He leans back in the booth, oozing a confidence you can't place.

Simon goes to speak, probably to tell Johnny to shut the hell up, but you go before him, hand gripping Simon's tighter.

"Oh, trust me, it won't be," you say with a confidence that Johnny marvels at.

Johnny gives you a lopsided smile. "I like yer bird, Simon. She can hold her own," he nods towards you, giving you a stamp of approval that wasn't needed. 

You don't get to say anything before you see your phone buzzing on the wooden table. You grab it quickly to smother the sound and flip it over to see your sister calling you. "Do you mind?" you ask, eyes shifting between them.

"Go ahead, sweetheart." Simon picks his arm up so you can slip out of the booth easily. You give him a smile and start walking towards the front door, heading outside.

"Simon," Johnny begins when you're long gone, getting Simon's attention. "Take care of yer' bird," Johnny says, eyeing Simon. "She's a special one," he breathes out, his eyes wandering to you pacing outside, the warm sun setting, hitting you at just the right angle to highlight your skin.

Simon notices the glint in Johnny's eyes when he looks at you.

He doesn't ask; he doesn't want to know.

"I will, Johnny," Simon mutters, grabbing his beer.

A part of Simon might have once thought he would always hold you close, but the reality is Johnny can preach to Simon like a priest holding a sermon, to hold onto you, keep you close. 

But some things are bound to slip through his fingers.

No matter how hard he tries.

Especially when the weight of his own darkness becomes too much to bear.

Simon can hear your laughter transcending through his house, clouding his eardrums, sending a shiver up his spine.

He stepped into the living room, his grin widening as he watched you make yourself at home on his couch, a soft blanket enveloping you and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn resting on your lap.

"What a prick," you shout, tossing some popcorn into your mouth. You're engrossed in the same trashy British reality show, a guilty pleasure you've come to enjoy.

"Some harsh words, sweetheart," Simon jests, moving to sit next to you, throwing his arm over the back of the couch, his hand sneaking into your popcorn bowl.

"He called his girlfriend mediocre," you explain, eyes glancing at Simon to gauge his reaction.

He quips a brow, eye looking at the television. "Hell, he is a prick."

"Told you so," you laugh, tossing more popcorn in your mouth and snuggling into Simon's side. 

He finds himself smiling, but not because of the two women now arguing over something egregious on the television screen before him, but because he can see you smiling beneath him. 

He isn't smiling because he can hear his neighbor next door yelling at her cat to get off the fridge but because you've moved yourself closer to him, pulling the blanket to cover his legs, even though it is far too small. 

And he certainly isn't smiling because Johnny just sent him a picture of his dog with a slice of cheese on his head, but because he finally believes you when you say you love him. 

It's the most strange feeling in the world.

To have someone who truly loves you without transaction or expectation.

He is free to be whomever he wants to be, not who you expect.

You don't expect anything from him.

Well, maybe he should throw the trash out; it's too heavy and smelly.

But, regardless, you see him.

And you still love him. 

"Marry me," his fingers move to massage your scalp. 

You laugh in his lap. "Just had to share my wee little blanket for you to want to spend the rest of your life with me. Your standards are tremendously low, Simon," you mumble, eyes softly closing.

"I'm serious," he says, his fingers still moving.

Your eyes open softly, eyes shifting around the room to make sure you heard him correctly. 

"You want to marry me?" you mutter with disbelief and curiosity.

He lets out a gruff laugh. "Don't sound so surprised, sweetheart," his tone carries humor.

You turn to look at him, a soft look in your eyes. "You want to marry me?"

He tilts his head back. "Am I not supposed to want to?"

You shake your head, chewing on your lip. "No. I just… why?"

His eyes widened a little at the question, contemplating for a second. "You're easy," he says.

Now your eyes widen in offense, mouth hanging open. "That's a dick thing to say." 

He quickly grabs your shoulder, shaking his head fast. "No. Fuck, no. I meant that life with you is easy. Never had anyone who made anything easier for me but you… you do that for me," he says earnestly, with pure love. 

You can already feel your eyes brimming with tears as you grab his hand to squeeze. "I'm glad I do that for you, Simon," you murmur, massaging his hand with your fingers. "You… you do that for me too." The confession almost makes Simon drop to his knees and sob at your feet.

"I… I make things easier? For you?" He asks skeptically, eyes tinging red from impending tears. 

You sniffle, feeling the warm tears move down your cheeks. "Loving you is easy, Simon. You make it so damn easy. I would love to marry you," you lean your forehead against his for comfort.

His hands shake as he pulls you against him, embracing you with a deep, passionate love. 

After a moment, you pull back, wiping a stray tear off your cheek. "Simon. You're still active," you say, tilting your head. "You'll leave me."

He exhales, his skin glistening. "It won't be for long, bug."

"Can't you just… leave," you try to reason with pleading eyes. 

He shakes his head, brushing his fingers against your hand. "I can't, sweetheart. Those guys… I need them just as much as they need me," his voice is clogged with emotion. 

"I need you," you say desperately so he'll understand. 

He presses a sweet kiss to your cheek. "Just one more mission, sweetheart. It'll be in and out."

You looked at him for a moment; he wasn't going to budge. "I don't want to be a widow, Simon. You come back to me," you warn, squeezing his hand. 

"I'll come back. There's nowhere else I'd want to be," he smiles.

You lick a salty tear from your lip. "Promise me, Simon."

He pauses for a moment before he murmurs, "I promise."

Foolish kids.

Man doesn't simply go to war without leaving a part of himself out on the field.

The question is, what's left when he returns?

Simon had kept his promise to you.

He did come home some weeks later, but not entirely, not truly. 

Once Price had shown up at the house, with Simon right behind him, in a wheelchair, you knew a part of Simon's soul had turned to ash that reeked of gunpowder and blood.

He moved past you and Price without a word into the house. Price explained that Simon had made a split decision to return to the warehouse they had just escaped from because he knew they had information on you.

They had yelled and shouted for him to come back to the chopper and escape while they had the means to do so, and they could deal with the fallout when they were safely out of active fire.

He didn't listen.

Guns blazing, he sprinted back in, trekked up numerous flights of stairs, and blasted through doors until he found the group of men who knew of his sweet wife back home.

He shot them dead where they stood.

Shot at their bodies, round after round, before he tossed a hand grenade to deal with the equipment and files they had. 

He trekked back out, sore but satisfied.

He didn't even see the pipe bomb being thrown in his direction; he was too focused on the chopper that still hovered near the ground, waiting for him. 

Everything happened so fast after that.

Hauling him into the chopper, not sure if they should call you and tell you he was KIA or if there was a chance he could live. Carrying him to the hospital, where the doctors performed CPR before they shocked him awake.

They all felt a rush of relief when he opened his eyes.

The doctor said he had nerve damage that caused temporary paralysis in his legs that would subject him to a wheelchair, and, eventually, he could make a full physical recovery. 

You couldn't even believe him when he told you, your mouth agape as your eyes shifted towards Simon, who wheeled his way into the living room to gaze out the window. 

"Just… call if you need anything, okay?" Price says, calm and reassuring.

You give a nod as you walk him to the door, brain spinning from the information.

Sure, Simon had gone in on the pretense of something potentially happening to you, but he could have died in that very spot.

That was all you could think about.

"Why would you do that?" you mumble as you make your way into the living room.

Simon doesn't answer; he just keeps looking out the window.

You run your fingers through your hair anxiously, tears brimming your waterline. "You could have died, Simon. You do realize that. Don't you?" Your concern was evident in your trembling voice.

"You want to chastise me some more, or am I free to roam?" His voice is rougher than you remember, and you feel your stomach drop.

"I… I'm not even going to answer that," anger slips off your tongue. "Do you not care that you could have died? I… I could have lost you," you choke out, flailing your arms around.

Yet, he still doesn't turn to face you.

"Will you at least look at me, Goddamn it!" you almost shout, voice strained.

He huffs a deep breath before he slowly turns around to face you.

His beard had grown in, lightly gray and messy.

His hair is slightly longer, and his eyes are darker than you remember.

You almost had to ask yourself who the man was before you; he was surely not the man you had married not too long ago.

"You look different," you mumble absentmindedly.

"Tends to happen," he mutters, fingers gripping his wheels.

You release a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. "I wish you didn't do it, Simon," is all you can muster.

He closes his eyes gently, shaking his head before he starts to spin his wheel. He eases himself towards your shared room, leaving you alone in the living room, nervousness and defeat now bubbling in your stomach.

You had both managed to avoid each other for hours.

You stayed in the living room, even going to the bathroom and taking a bath, while he kept himself locked away in the bedroom, or so you thought.

Once you start cooking dinner, you look out of the window to see heavy rain hitting the ground. Among the coverage of heavy rainfall, you see Simon.

His wheelchair was deep in mud, and he just sat there, the rain soaking through his clothes, the chill seeping into his bones.

You gaped at the sight, tossing your kitchen rag onto the kitchen island. Quickly grabbing a raincoat off the hook, you moved out the door and onto the porch.

The rain smacks against the porch's wood, and you can see Simon leaning his head back against the back of his chair. "What the hell are you doing out here?" you shout loud enough so he can hear you over the rain.

He doesn't look back at you, just nods his head along.

"Simon. Look at me!" you yell, your voice filled with frustration and concern.

He spun his chair around slowly, his eyes blinking fervently from the rain splashing on his face.

"Are you insane? You need to get inside. You'll catch a cold," you say, your voice tinged with worry. You raise your hand to block the heavy rain droplets from hitting your eyes.

He eased his fingers on his wheels to inch closer, but before he reached the yard's edge, his wheels wouldn't budge, wedged in the thick mud. He looked at you at the doorway, his eyes pleading for help.

As you clutched your jacket, a wave of confusion washed over you, your pride standing firm in the face of uncertainty.

He noticed how your shoulders tensed, and he couldn't bear the distance between you two. His heart ached with the weight of unspoken words.

He wouldn't let some damn mud stop him.

Determined, he climbs out of the chair, the large water puddle splashing as he lands in it. His hands grip the ground, mud slipping and caking between his fingers as he crawls through it.

Your eyes widen. "Simon… don't, don't do that, baby," your voice is slightly shaky. “You, you're going to get all muddy," you say, feeling useless to the wave of emotion that washes over you.

Despite the sound of his labored breath and the squelch of mud under his hands, you remained resolute, your feet firmly planted on the old wooden porch.

He crawled halfway through the grit of the Earth's surface and then stopped, looking at you with a mixture of exhaustion and longing.

Something inside you finally snapped when you saw him, mud on his face, soaked clothes, and pleading eyes. You took a step forward, then another, until your foot sunk into the mud, and the rain pellets hit you with force, no longer blocked by the house.

You find yourself kneeling beside him in the mud when you reach him. Without a word, you wrap your arms around him, holding him close as the rain pours.

"I did it for you," Simon finally murmurs, emotion clogging his voice. “I had to keep you safe, bug." He looks up at you, eyes red, water pouring down his lips. “Couldn’t live with myself if they… hurt you,” he mutters, voice going soft. 

"Simon… " The words caught in your throat as you gazed at him through your wet lashes, your emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Got my legs all fucked up, and everyone's actin' like I'm some kind of fuckin’ hero," he says with slight irritation.

"You are a hero, Simon," you say without a second thought, eyes searching his.

"No," he lightly shakes his head. "I'm yours," his fingers softly brush against your bottom lip. "I'm all yours, sweetheart."

Tears started pouring down your cheeks, and you leaned your forehead against Simon's.

He was now holding you up so you didn't collapse.

His voice lulled against your skin, offering you comfort.

Though his own mind swarmed with visions of what he had done, all the blood on his hands that were now wrapped around your innocent face.

The man faced enemy fire with courage, tied his own soul to blood in the name of protection, and yet no matter what tough front he put on, inside, he would always be a weak man.

Some months had passed since Simon had come home to you, battered and bruised.

You had adjusted to being his caretaker, which you really didn’t mind.

He, on the other hand, did.

His worst fear was being rendered useless, a fear that now tormented him in the depths of the night, seeped into his soul and rattled his skin.

He was grateful for your help, but he felt like a burden.

You had repeatedly reassured him that he could never be burdensome, but he struggled to accept that truth.

“Do you need another blanket?” you ask as you walk into the bedroom with three blankets in hand. The moon casts a glow over the room from behind the window.

Simon shakes his thoughts away as he sits up in the bed at your entrance. “Eh, sleep hot. You know that,” he lets out a gruff laugh, tugging his shirt off and tossing it in the laundry bin in the corner of the room.

“Good aim, soldier,” you tease, setting the blanket near him anyways and flicking off the light before throwing yourself onto the bed beside him.

As soon as you hit the mattress, his hands wrap around your waist, and he tugs you close to him so you rest on his chest. “Love you, bug,” he says softly, kissing the top of your head.

“I love you, Simon,” you whispered, feeling the warmth and comfort he provided.

You could feel the lull of sleep lick your brain, and you closed your eyes gently, quickly drifting off to sleep with the fan's hum and the faint glow of the lamp of the street lights outside to keep you company.

In the depths of the night, you dream.

Carelessly innocent to start, but somewhere between the walking fridge and laughing animals segment, you're laying in a bed similar to one you are now, but slightly different, more rugged, less domesticated.

You lay bare, in nothing but your wedding wing dawning your finger.

You begin touching yourself, your finger moving smoothly down your body, savoring the touch that sends a warm sensation to your lower stomach.

Before you know it, a man is kneeling before you, his tongue lapping at your clit, eliciting an outpour of moans that fall off your tongue.

When he looks up, there's a glint in his eyes.

You realize he is not your Simon, your devoted husband and nurturer.

It's Johnny.

"Simon's a lucky bastard," he mutters into your thigh. "Gets ye' all to himself," he presses a deep kiss into your inner thighs, making you arch your back off the mattress. "Gets this pretty pussy to himself every night, eh?" He brings his mouth back to your cunt, sucking and licking you until you shudder on his face, your arousal coating his tongue.

You spring awake, panting and sweaty.

Turning to your side, you see Simon peacefully sleeping despite your rapid movements. 

You pull the blanket back to see your arousal seep through your panties and drip onto the cover sheet of the bed.

You let out a quiet curse, grabbing your phone before slipping off the bed to go towards your drawers, making a mental effort not to wash the sheets tomorrow. 

You grab a fresh pair of panties, feeling the fresh feeling of shame as you trudge into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly. 

You quickly change your panties, turning on the facet to gather some water to splash onto your face, mind riddled with guilt. 

That dream was no wild fantasy, a simple wet dream.

It was the truth.

That one regretful night, all of two weeks ago, a drunk you had succumbed to Johnny's drunk antics and pursuits while out by yourself, unbeknownst to Simon. 

Johnny had fucked you in the same very outfit that Simon had relished in before you had stepped out of the house.

Simon's favorite lipstick of yours had now covered his best friend's lips and chin. 

You grind your teeth at the reminder, the weight of guilt pressing down on you, your mind a whirlwind of regret and ache. 

You're pacing around the bathroom, the walls echoing your inner turmoil, unsure of what to do.

You know you should tell Simon, and you will, but only when he gets a little better.

You decide you can't deal with this mind warfare, so you open your phone, swiping to open your text thread to Johnny.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard anxiously before you type out a short sentence to which he responds almost immediately.

Me: We need to talk.

Me: Can we meet at that bar with the weird name tomorrow?

Johnny: Bang Bang Bar?

Johnny: Everything okay?

Me: Can you just meet me there tomorrow at six?

Johnny: I'll be there.

You release a shallow breath, the thought of seeing Johnny again sending a shiver down your spine.

But you know you need to talk to him.

You leave your phone in the bathroom and head back to the bed, slipping beside Simon without disturbing him. 

The amount of guilt you feel sleeping in the same bed where you just had a wet dream about his best friend, which wasn't even just a wet dream but a reminder of the night you had shared, is crippling. 

You reach to grab a bottle of prescribed pills from your nightstand, popping two and letting them hit your system. 

Once again, you find yourself drifting off to sleep, though this time, instead of a peaceful send-off, you can still feel the nerves on your skin even with the pills.

But for now, you could let sleep claim you, shushing away the feeling of inevitable doom yet to come.

The bar was crowded when you showed up, which was good. 

They won't be focused on you talking to Johnny; they'll be more focused on the woman who has just stripped her top off and the booze floating around the room. 

You step through the throng of people, stretching your neck to look for Johnny. 

Seeing his signature mohawk and prominent figure perched up in a booth doesn't take long. The waitress next to him flicks her manicured nail across his strong bicep, and he gives her his signature boyish grin.

You roll your eyes, moving towards him. He sits up straight as you approach, his eyes locking with yours immediately. 

"Aye, Birdie. Take a seat," he greets, leaning back, gesturing for you to sit as the waitress moves away quickly. 

"I'll stand," you stand firm, pursing your lips.

He leans forward, the same boyish smirk on his lips. "Come on. Don't make me look like an asshole," he jokes, sipping his beer. 

You shake your head, heart pounding. "I won't be long, Johnny."

He nods his head before he gestures for you to speak your peace.

You inhale a deep breath, tugging your purse tight. "Johnny…" you begin, your voice already tight. “What we did…" you continue, shaking your head in disbelief. “It can't happen again. It was a mistake.” You look at him with guilty eyes. “I love Simon."

He nods as you speak, tongue in his cheek. "Know you love Simon. He loves you."

"That's why I can't see you again. Ever," your tone is firm as you shuffle on your heels. 

He narrows his eyes in contemplation, sipping his beer, but doesn't say anything.

"You're not going to say anything?" you ask, confusion in your tone. 

He shrugs. "Think you already made up your mind, no?"

Your lips flatline; he was right. 

You already said your peace, so what were you still doing there?

"Yes. I did," you nod.

"Then that's it," he takes another sip of the beer like he doesn’t care.

You're not entirely sure what you expected.

Maybe, selfishly, you wanted Johnny to put up a small fight. 

Make it feel like what you did was even a little worth it.

But this is good.

This is right. 

"Good. I'll… I'll see you around," you utter quickly before you spin on your heels as you push back through the hoard of people and head back through the door, the rush of wind hitting you and rushing to fill your lungs as you inhale deeply.

You feel slightly disappointed but overall satisfied with your meeting with Johnny.

It was the right thing to do.

The only thing you could think to do to ease your conscience before telling Simon. 

Made you breathe easier. 

Soothed your brain that was going into overdrive. 

You're so consumed in your thoughts as you walk down the paved sidewalk that you don't even hear the voice calling your name behind you until you feel a tap on your shoulder.

You yelp at the touch, turning around to see a disheveled Johnny before you. 

Your eyes widen. "Johnny?"

"I couldn't… couldn't just let ye walk away," his words are jumbled, half labored from running over as if he can't fully believe what he's doing.

"What do you mean?" Your eyes search his light eyes, full of confusion.

"I don't know. I just…" he trails off, hands wiping over his face. He eyes you for a moment, takes a step toward you, grabs your face between his hands, and kisses you deep enough to swap spit.

You can't help the way your body slumps into him as his tongue moves in your mouth.

His lips move against your familiarity and a fiery passion you can't explain or deny.

You don't know if you want to cry from guilt or moan from pleasure.

Johnny pulls away before you can decide. 

You wipe the saliva from your lips when he pulls away. "Johnny…"

"I know. I know," he agrees. "Just had to one last time… but I'll go. See ye around, Birdie." 

You stand there, shoulders sagged, when he walks away with a bland goodbye. 

It's for the best, but why did he have to kiss you?

It made it so much damn harder to let go.

You ponder the interaction as you take the five-minute walk home.

The feeling of shame washes over you when you step inside the house. The lights are dim and warm, and the air smells of coconut and mahogany.

You can hear the creak of the wood as you slowly take off your coat to hang it on the hook. Once you look up, you see Simon rolling in to greet you.

“Sweetheart,” he smiles, beckoning you down for a kiss.

You want to die, but you think that would send Simon into an early grave faster than finding out you had slept with his best friend. 

You bend down and kiss his lips.

His eyes close as he kisses you back with a more profound passion, his tongue sliding across your lips, which makes you audibly whimper.

He pulls his head back, head tilting back in thought. “You’ve been with Johnny,” he says more as a statement than a question.

Your eyes widen, your stomach churning at his words. You struggle to find the right words. “I… how did you know?” you manage to stutter.

“I know what he tastes like,” he says with a straight face, no ill will.

You tilt your head to the side in contemplation. “You… and Johnny have…” you trail off, hoping he can fill in the blanks. 

“Did you fuck Johnny, bug?” he asks, once again with a straight face. 

There it is.

The question of the hour.

You shake your head in shame, eyes still on his because he at least deserves that. “Simon… there’s no excuse at all, but I… we were both drunk,” you mumble out.

“He told me,” he gruffs out stoically. 

Your eyes twitch. “What?”

“Called me right after,” he shrugs with ease.

“You… you knew?” you prompt. “This whole time?”

He nods. “Doesn’t bother me.”

Your mouth hangs open slightly.

The unexpected turn of the conversation leaves you in a state of disbelief. 

“He’s temptin’, huh?” Simon raises an amused brow. 

“He’s… well, he’s… kind of. I don’t know what to say,” you voice slowly. 

Johnny told Simon.

He told your husband that he slept with his wife, and he was still alive to tell the tale. 

That’s why Johnny didn’t seem nervous at the bar because he had already told the one person who mattered the most in the situation.

"Bet you had Johnny in near tears, huh?" You hear Simon roughly ask with an amused smile. 

"Simon…" You can't help but feel a spark of heat on your skin as he speaks. 

He tilts his head back, licking his lips before beckoning you closer. You step close enough so he can grab you by the waist. He bends his face so his lips press into your lower stomach through your shirt before he moves his lips lower to plant a kiss on your cunt through your jeans. 

You let out a breathy moan, fingers threading through his hair. 

"Felt too good squeezin’ around him, yeah. Bet he was prayin' in this pussy," he mutters into you, teeth skimming the fabric just enough to nick through it. 

This is strange; you must have known that much.

But, God, you couldn't help the way your cunt ached with untamed greed. 

His canine skimmed across the sensitive skin. "Go on, baby. Tell me. Was Johnny prayin' in you?" His voice felt rough on your skin. "In what's mine?" 

"Fuck… Simon," you manage to choke out as he presses another deep kiss to your cunt. 

"Sit in my lap," he urges, low and husky.

You oblige, hands coming to rest on his shoulders to position yourself to straddle his lap delicately. Once you sunk on his lap, you looked down at him, pressing a deep kiss to his lips that he reciprocated with equal passion. 

"Too fuckin' perfect for Johnny, baby," he murmurs against your lips, fingers slipping to tug down your jeans. You chew on your lip as you sit up a little so he can tug them down to reveal your panties, complete with a growing spot of arousal in the cotton.

“You see that?” he tuts, pressing his finger against the wet spot, making your twitch against his fingers. “Johnny could never get you this wet. He didn’t get my wife this wet, did he, sweetheart?” he grits, pressing, dragging his finger lightly against your slit, nearing your puffy clit. 

“He didn’t,” you moan out as you shamelessly rock against his fingers, desperate for more contact. “I… I need you, baby,” you whine, gripping his shoulder tight. 

“I’m gonna fill you, babe. Keep you squirmin’ on my cock till you can’t walk,” he presses a sloppy kiss to your neck, sucking on the flesh with urgency. “Get me ready for you, baby,” he mumbles against your flesh, teeth running against your collarbone. 

Your eager hands move to unzip his jeans, slipping them down to reach for his erect cock, the tip already flush and leaking pre-come. You stroke him once before he’s gripping your waist and, without warning, pushing you down onto him.

You both hiss at the contact. Simon grits his teeth as he rocks you against his cock, coaxing your sweet release bit by bit. He leans closer, soft lips gliding against your ear. “She fuckin’ missed me, sweetheart. Takin’ me so well. So deep,” he murmurs, brushing his tongue against your helix. 

You let out a loud moan, eyes shutting closed with intense pleasure. “You always take…” you pant between moans. “...such good care of me, Simon,” you finish, fingernails digging into his shoulders through his thin cotton shirt.

He kisses your lips. “Always gonna take care of my girl,” he bites your bottom lip slightly as his cock pounds into you. You practically scream as he hits just the right places, not even noticing his fingers slipping past your lips and moving down your throat.

You choke a little before you fully welcome them down further, his eyes peering at your mouth as you coat his fingers with your saliva. He pulls them out after a moment, humming with satisfaction at the gleam of them before using his freshly wet fingers to ease against your clit, offering you even more pleasure.

“Feels so good,” you whine, rocking yourself against not only his cock, but his fingers too, the stimulation all-consuming. 

“Come on, baby,” he urges, moving his fingers with urgency as he feels his orgasms start to wash over him. “Come all over my cock and fingers,” his eyes drift to watch his fingers moving in you, your fresh arousal coating them.

Your orgasm crashes over you right as he gets a third finger in, and he follows close behind. You heave in his lap, body shaking with gratification. 

You feel yourself slump against him, cheek resting on his shoulder, but only for a moment, before he picks up his fingers covered in your arousal and nudges them against your pouting lips. You open your mouth widely, and he glides them across your tongue and slightly down your throat.

You wrap your hand around his wrist as you turn to face him, lips closing around his fingers, sucking them clean, even taking them out with a loud pop that has Simon giving you a lopsided grin. 

He bends forward, tongue darting to collect the extra arousal on your lips before he gives you a deep kiss. 

Your heart is still pounding at the turn of events, but not just Simon accepting, no welcoming the fact you had slept with Johnny, but the sex that ensued after.

You have had sex numerous times, but this time it felt more carnivorous, possessive. 

And you loved every fucking second of it. 

Made you realize it was Simon.

He was the one, the love of your life. 

Poor girl, so naive.

So disgustingly pure. 

Couldn’t have foreseen the darkness that lurked; the abyss that waited patiently to swallow her whole.  

The months pass, one by one until a new year brings more rainfall and a vengeance that has single-handedly obliterated Simon’s entire world, his marriage, leaving him a shell of a man even a month later. 

Johnny had died. 

His best friend, no brother.

Taken from him with no forewarning, a sudden and brutal twist of fate that left Simon reeling in disdain. 

Price told him it was painless, but Simon knew.

He knew as soon as you passed the phone to him, your hand shaking and face devoid of any emotion, Price whispered his words over the phone in the same voice he would use to belie brutal truths. 

That Goddamn Johnny had got himself into something. 

Simon didn’t know what exactly; maybe it was better that way. 

He wouldn’t have to picture Johnny flailing around, bleeding himself dry before he didn’t so much as twitch anymore, his body and soul gone before his very eyes.

And yet, even with no inkling as to what occurred, he still did imagine the worst.

He was a soldier, after all, having seen the worst deaths imaginable and even facilitated many of them himself.

Perhaps it was naive, given his profession, but he never imagined Johnny being the one on the other side of the gun, the shot piercing through his skin, an ally, not an enemy.

The thoughts replayed in his mind every day since the news of his death had come his way.

Nothing could pacify the sheer ache he felt deep in his bones.

Not even the Bourbon he tossed back that is now burning a path down his throat.

Nothing could numb him, so he’ll at least try to get a slight buzz to ease his sorrows.

He’s perched over the wooden table of the bar, hunched over on the stool, as he signals the bartender to pour him another.

You were at the house doing something or another; he didn’t bother to ask before he left.

He really didn’t care.

Something he’s gotten exceptionally good at.

He’s been distant, sure, but even worse than that, he’s been colder.

He doesn’t even know himself anymore.

“You got a wife at home?” He hears the gruff voice of an older man as he moves to sit on the stool right next to him, even though the bar is nearly empty. So many spots are vacant, yet he chooses to sit directly next to him.

Simon doesn’t answer; he just takes a brisk sip of the whiskey.

The man gives him a chuckle, signaling the bartender, before he lazily points towards Simon. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

The bartender nods, fixing him a whiskey and setting it in front of the man. He takes a sip, a calm smile on his face. “This Kentucky? Got good taste, my boy,” he praises Simon as he takes another light sip.

Once again, Simon doesn’t answer, turning his attention to the football match on the television in front of him: Manchester United vs West Ham.

"Can feel the sadness wafting off you," the man mutters to Simon, his voice carrying a hint of humor. 

Simon glances at him. "You some kind of shrink or somethin'?" he gruffs, clearly irritated. 

The man laughs, a deep belly laugh. "I'm no one," he says before he leans closer next to Simon. "I can give you what you want," he promises, tilting his head at Simon's narrowing eyes. "Bring back your friend, but… it'll come with a price," he assures, smiling at Simon's wide eyes full of anger.

Simon sets his whiskey down with a soft thud. "The fuck did you say to me?"

The man chuckles. "I know you hate semantics. Just like me. Thought I wouldn't beat around the bush." He sits up on the stool. "Your friend… Johnny. I've seen him. He's a good boy, and he misses you dearly, Simon."

"Who the fuck are you?" Simon erupts, drawing the bartender's attention. 

The man smiles at the bartender, trying to ease his concern. "Someone who wants to help you," he simply says. "But it'll come with a price."

"Price?" Simon asks without much thought.

"The devil doesn't bargain for free, my boy," the man gruffly utters. 

Simon has no reason to believe this man.

He could very well be a homeless man trying to take advantage of him, but he's desperate.

He misses Johnny. 

"How much?" He fidgets for his wallet before the man extends his hand, halting his actions. 

"You think the devil cares about your money?" He shakes his head with a deep laugh. "No, no. He wants something more… practical."

"Like what?" Simon tips his head back, eyes wide, giving the man a good look into his soul.

He was desperate, a hopeless soul.

The man takes a sip of his whiskey. "An essence or soul, if you will, must be promised… sealed in blood," he voices so low Simon almost doesn't hear him. "Doesn't have to be yours…" he supplies, sensing Simon's unease. "But it has to be someone you're close to. Say… a spouse."

Simon ponders for a moment, the weight of the decision heavy on his mind. A vision of you crosses his mind. “My… my wife?”

“Mhm,” the man tilts his head in thought. “That would work mighty fine.”

The man, with an air of mystery, pulls out a paper and a small Bible, complete with large, gold Cardo font and a cross hovering above the text from his large coat pocket and holds it down low for Simon to see.

“This has all you need. Do what you wish, but you must not wait too long,” he hands both the paper and Bible to Simon, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. “For the Gods are hungry.”

He can hear the sound of the TV when he trudges in from the bar, his heavy boots revealing his presence. 

The paper and small Bible burned a hole through his jacket pocket. 

He reaches for a glass, carefully fills it with some tap water, takes a sip, and swishes around his mouth, not bothering to greet you, curled up on the couch. He can sense your anxiety, glancing at your foot, tapping steadily against the vinyl flooring.

He runs the water to clean the metal sink of his salvia before he takes a proper sip, clearing out the taste of Bourbon and betrayal coating his tongue. 

"Sit. Our favorite show is on," you chime, a warm small growing on your lips.

He closes his eyes gently before he turns to you, shaking his head. "Not feelin' it tonight, sweetheart."

"Come on," you urge, pointing towards the television with your pointer finger. "We're about to find out if Henry is staying or leaving."

"I'm, I'm not in the mood," he mutters, only with slight annoyance.

But that doesn't stop you. "Come on. Would be nice to see you." 

He can feel the irritation bubbling. "Stop asking," he cuts sharply, setting the full glass in the sink.

You narrow your eyes slightly. "Why are you being so mean?"

In the back of his mind, he can't believe what he's doing.

That doesn't stop the words from flowing out of his mouth. 

"Christ, I already said I wasn't in the God-damned mood." 

Ice and venom coat his words as his hand slams into the countertop.

His heart sinks when he looks up to see a frown etched into your beautiful skin. 

"Well then," you murmur, eyes still on his. "Guess that settles it."

He releases a shallow breath, opening his mouth before shutting it promptly. He sees your eyes squint as you take a deep gulp.

He doesn't say anything else as he just moves to his office, shutting the door with a thud. 

He knows he's a coward.

Hell, he's more than that.

He's a man caught in the web of his own fears, constantly evading his problems instead of confronting them.

A master at doing nothing, a virtuoso of avoidance.

And to think he was now walking without his chair, the very thing he claimed made him feel useless, but he doesn’t realize that uselessness doesn't just dissipate.

It lies dormant.

Waiting and willing for the next opportunity to crawl back under the skin and whisper in one’s ear.

His heart raced as he frantically wandered around his office, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

He chewed on the inside of his cheeks, the heavy thud of his boots the only sound accompanying the blood rushing and thumping in his ears.

With a quiet curse and the churn of his stomach, he reached deep into his jacket pockets, grasping onto the loose paper and Bible the man had given him.

The instructions etched into the paper ominously read clear. 

“Beg for what you seek.”

He shuts his eyes softly, hand holding the paper shaking.

Tears stream down his cheek, dropping into his full beard. 

He shakes his head, defeated. “I… I want him back,” his words are cracked. “Please… I need him,” he licks his lips, tasting the salty tears of defeat on his tongue.

Sniffling, he reaches for the knife he wears tucked into a holster on his jeans, pulling out his knife and hovering the blade just above his thumb. With a deep groan and slice of his flesh, fresh blood gathers on his fingertip as he squeezes the skin. 

He presses his thumb, covered in his fresh blood, into the crinkled paper, turning the white a deep red. 

Ironic really. 

Because this time, instead of sealing his own fate, tying his own soul with his blood in the name of protection, he was damning your soul, in his blood, in the name of selfishness, so the darkness can hereby claim you, and he can find solace in this wretched bargain.

The sky was a deep, foreboding grey, with clouds that seemed to swirl and twist in every direction. A torrential downpour drenched the streets, with rain coming down in rigid sheets that threatened to wash away everything in its path.

And even though the storm is fiery, thunder growling and primal occurring outside.

It didn't stop the storm from brewing inside Simon's home.

His mind was a tempest, churning and devouring itself at the news of your passing.

It was a heavy burden, a weight that crushed his soul. The hospice nurse's words, 'died of natural causes related to your heart disease,' were like a verdict, but he knew the truth. 

It was his doing.

He had stolen your life, snatched up your bright potential, and set it ablaze for a self-serving wish that would swap your current life for Johnny's past one.

He had sold you out.

And so he was reaping what he sowed.

The house had been torn apart.

No longer the picture of warmth and comfort, it looked like a tornado, or in this case, a madman had run through, obliterating all that was. The furniture was overturned, the walls were marred with angry gashes, and the once serene atmosphere was now a chaotic mess.

Glass shards from the vases lay on the now scratched and wrecked vinyl flooring, while picture frames hang crooked and cracked from his fists that are bleeding and bruised.

As his rampage ensues, he hears a loud knock on his door. His eyes flick to the door, eyes red and full of unpacified rage; his boots make loud thuds as he wanders over.

His sagged shoulders tighten for a moment.

Despite the palpable anger over your passing, he finds himself considering the deal, and his spirits unexpectedly rise at the thought of seeing a familiar face.

The only face he has left to see.

His hand reaches for the door handle, pulling it open promptly, only for his eyes to widen at the sight.

It wasn’t Johnny at the door, reaching out to him.

It was his own uncaring father, caked in a thick coat of mud and reeking of brimstone.

Simon’s heart raced, and his hand trembled as he struggled to process the sight.

"I told ya you'd be seeing me again, son," his father's mud-caked face twisted in a grin. "Aren't you gonna greet your dear ole' dad?" he asks, holding his arms out. 

Simon's voice trembled with shock. "I... I don't understand. How are you..."

"How am I here?" His father finishes with a crude laugh, dropping his arms to his sides. "I fulfilled your wish as spoken, boy."

Simon's eyes widened in sheer terror, his brain struggling to comprehend what was happening. "No. I... I wished for Johnny back," he tried to rationalize. "Not you."

"You wished for him, boy," he informs, watching Simon's face drop even further with the revelation. "If Johnny was who you desired, you should have been more specific. The devil does not guess," he purses his lips. "Been watching you a long time, boy," his father gruffs, shaking his head. "Longer than you think."

Simon's eyes snap to him, his mouth open in disbelief. "You've been… watching me?"

"Didn't even realize it was your own father at the bar. Shame on you, son," his father shakes his head in disappointment. 

"You… you were the one who… who gave me the paper and… Bible?" Simon asks though he's scared to know the answer. 

"Crawled out of the pits of Hell just to be there and here… and now… you'll never be rid of me."

The darkness that lurks beneath this world is truly insidious. Humans will never know the true terrors awaiting them, possibly having crawled up from the fiery pits of Hell to coexist with them on Earth.

I’ve seen it firsthand.

And so I urge you to heed my warnings.

Be careful who you pray to, dear readers, for the Gods are not always benevolent.

At least… I know I am not.

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE⁀➷ please let me know all your thoughts in the comments, or if you have more specific questions, my ask box is always open. thanks so much for reading! also, shout out to my queenie @lavenderdaisychain for helping me get through the serious burn out i got writing this & reading over some parts i was hesitant about! love you!

[gingerhastoomanyobsessions]

Things that actually happen in hunchback of notre dame, in no particular order

The book mostly is told from the POV of Pierre, a self-insert who is failed author and, I cannot stress this enough, utterly pathetic 

Quasimodo damaged his hearing as a teenager from years of bell ringing and now uses sign language whenever he can

There is a scene where Quasimodo and a fellow deaf guy have to have a conversation without using sign language because they’re in a courtroom and the jury doesn’t know sign. It goes about as well as you’d expect 

Frollo has a little brother, Jehan, who he raised after their parents died. Jehan is now a frat bro in college whose hobbies consist of getting drunk and being mean to Quasimodo. In his first scene Jehan complains about college DEI because an Italian guy got a scholarship he wanted. 

Esmeralda is accused of witchcraft because she taught her pet goat Djali how to do math

Djali may or may not be sapient. He can and does imitate human mannerisms to make fun of people on purpose. He does this while on trial. 

Yes. They tried the goat for witchcraft, too. 

Pierre writes a whole play riding on the pun of dolphin/Dauphin. Nobody likes it. 

Frollo is an alchemist and has a secret mad science lab where he writes on the walls

Jehan literally pulls a “buy my silence” and frollo gives him money to make him shut up

There’s a trio of catty girls who bully Esmeralda like it’s Mean Girls

Quasimodo and Frollo literally have Cryptid Status— Parisians circulate rumors that Quasimodo is either a familiar, a homunculus, or the result of demonic mpreg, and that Frollo is a wizard with wizard powers and/or a ghost

There is a little old woman who lives in a hole and shouts slurs at people. She has a tragic backstory. 

There is a homicidal con man/king of thieves named Clopin Troillefou (surname translation: The Fool of Fear) who deserves tumblr sexymanhood.

Pierre learns how to carry chairs with his teeth 

There’s an entire chapter dedicated to the layout of the streets of Paris in painstaking detail

There’s another chapter that is a rant about interior design 

Esmeralda and Pierre get platonically married due to Clopin’s murderous shenanigans. Pierre tries to make a move in her but ends up being more emotionally attached to Djali the goat than to her. I think that should be grounds for divorce

There is a scene where Pierre has to choose between helping Esmeralda escape or helping Djali. He picks Djali. 

Frollo hides from his own brother by laying face down in mud and playing dead. Somehow this works 

There is a Plot Significant Tiny Shoe. A Tiny Shoe Chekhov’s Gun. And Victor Hugo will not stop telling you just how Tiny this shoe is. 

There’s a soap opera style plot twist that involves a false accusation of cannibalism and the woman in the hole who shouts slurs

Quasimodo makes up a stupid little song that doesn’t even rhyme to confess his love to Esmeralda, who remains oblivious

He then attempts to demonstrate his affection via convoluted metaphors that involve props. She doesn’t get it. Boy please say what you mean

Frollo pulls the classic discord groomer tactic of threatening self-harm if Esmeralda doesn’t give in. 

Jehan rolls up to a party/rescue mission scheming session in Clopin’s secret hideout in full plate armor (how did he get that???), drunk off his ass, and acts like he owns the place. Everyone finds this so ridiculous that they just let him

Hugo goes on and on about how innocent and naive Esmeralda is but then casually reveals that Esmeralda carries a dagger on her person at all times to fend off assault. When Frollo attacks her and Quasi intervenes, she takes Quasi’s knife and almost kills Frollo (fair!) but he flees. She contains multitudes?

Frollo has a psychotic breakdown in the middle of a field surrounded by chickens and hallucinates skeletons everywhere 

For the first half of the book Esmeralda is like 70% sure Frollo is a ghost, not helped by his aforementioned Cryptid Status

Jehan eats a moldy piece of cheese off the ground 

Frollo tries to send Pierre on a suicide mission in drag. Pierre objects to the suicide part but not the drag part  

Clopin’s preferred weapon is a scythe, he’s very good at using it, and he sings when he fights. Again: sexyman potential. 

Victor Hugo has a foot fetish. I initially dismissed it as Frollo having a foot fetish until Victor Hugo included a foot fetish torture scene without any Frollo in it. So I can only conclude that the foot fetish is authorial in nature. Unfortunately the foot scenes are important to the plot. 

Frollo is canonically 36, he just aged like shit and is bald. The narrator will not stop telling you just how bald he is.

Despite being in full plate armor, Jehan gets splatted like a bug

Almost every named character dies. Djali the goat lives. 

[kxsagi]

hihi i LOVE LOVE LOVE your writing sm i’ve read basically all of them 😭🩷

i saw a video of a wife asking her husband “if i die and you remarry, when you die will you be buried next to me or your new wife?”

if you can, can you do this w the bllk guys??

if you can’t, just ignore this 🫶

“𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐨 𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭… 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞”

a/n: THANK YOUUUUU

I LOVE YOUR IDEAS, THIS ATE ❤️

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, karasu tabito, hiori yo, shidou ryusei, ness alexis, bachira meguru

isagi yoichi

“... why are you asking me this at 3 AM while i’m brushing my teeth?” 

poor guy was not prepared. he’s literally got a toothbrush in his mouth and you drop this philosophical bomb on him like it’s nothing. 

he spits out the toothpaste mid-choke. 

“first of all, why are you dead?! second of all, who the hell is this imaginary wife?! i’m gonna die alone, crying at your grave like a loser–” 

gets way too emotional way too fast. now you’re trying to comfort him 😭 

“you think i’m gonna love anyone enough to be buried next to them? no. i’ll be buried next to you or not at all. plot twist, i fake my death and move in next to your grave in a tent.” 

now you’re crying. he’s crying. the dog is crying. you guys are unwell. 

itoshi sae

“wtf kind of question is that.” 

stares at you like you just asked him if he’d eat his next wife’s toenails. 

“i’m not getting married again. why would i? you’re the only one i liked enough to commit to. anyone else is annoying.” 

you’re on the verge of tears. 

“also, my ghost will haunt anyone who tries to touch my corpse. you think i’d share a burial plot? nah. i’m getting cremated and mixed into your ashes. now we’re both in the same damn urn. problem solved.” 

so specific. so dramatic. so him. 

kaiser michael

“babe, why are you asking me questions like this when i’m literally shirtless and vulnerable.” 

immediately panics because he knows it’s a lose-lose question. 

tries to joke it off: “i’ll get buried between you and my new wife like a sexy grave sandwich.” 

silence. 

“... i was kidding. obviously.” 

starts overthinking and imagining fake future scenarios where you’re not there and he’s an old man crying into a photo of you. 

“actually, scratch that. if you die, i die, too. dramatic romantic death pact. like romeo and juliet. except with no poison because that sounds horrible.” 

writes a will that says: “bury me with my first wife or don’t bury me at all.” 

adds a dramatic drawing of him weeping at your grave. 

itoshi rin

stops. mid-bite. mid-breath. mid-thought. 

blinks slowly. 

“why would i remarry.” 

says it like it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. 

“you think i’m going through the agony of dating again? of being emotionally vulnerable again? of pretending to like someone’s jokes again? “i’d rather get hit by a truck and be buried face down in a ditch.” 

you’re like “you wouldn’t even consider it?” 

he scoffs. “you don’t get it. if you die, that’s it. i’m done. there’s no part two.” 

and then – 

“also if they try to bury me next to someone else, i’m coming back to life out of pure spite. i will haunt the graveyard. i will throw dirt at people.” 

writes in his will: “bury me next to her or i will make hell your problem.” 

nagi seishiro

“mm… can i just respawn and be buried next to you in my next life? “i don’t wanna do all that extra marriage stuff again. sounds tiring.” 

he literally says he’ll just build a house in the afterlife and wait for you to show up like it’s minecraft. 

also casually mentions he’ll put a “no girls allowed” sign if anyone else tries to flirt with him in heaven 😭 

“besides, you’re the only one who puts up with me. no one else deserves to be my ghost neighbor.” 

he’d get cremated and request his ashes be sprinkled on top of your coffin like parmesan cheese. romantic. 

mikage reo

“what kind of scenario is this?? are we in a soap opera??” 

pulls out powerpoint. 

“as you can see from slide three, i will never remarry. slide four shows the customized gravestone that already has our names on it. and slide five is just a meme, but it felt relevant.” 

has already purchased side-by-side burial plots “just in case.” 

“i don’t care how old i get, you’re it for me. if you die first, i’m still sending you memes from the afterlife.” 

you’re like this was supposed to be a joke – 

“it’s not a joke. i planned the playlist for our funeral already.” 

chigiri hyoma

“buried next to my new wife? i’d rather be buried next to my shampoo collection.” 

looks offended you even implied he’d remarry. 

“you think i’m letting someone else call me ‘babe’? disgusting.” 

he’s genuinely more upset about the idea of someone else trying to take your spot than his own death. 

“if you go first, i’m turning into an emotionally unavailable old man who only wears black and listens to sad playlists.” 

“actually, i’ll just haunt you and wait till you die, too. make it quick.” 

karasu tabito

“wait so in this AU, you’re dead, i’m alive, i remarry, and then i die? what kinda fanfiction timeline are we on rn.” 

immediately starts teasing. 

“so you're saying you're gonna let another woman have me? wow. fake.” “ANSWER THE QUESTION.” “obviously i’d be buried next to you. but now i’m wondering if my new wife would be hot–” 

you throw a pillow at him. 

“OKAY OKAY IT’S YOU. IT’S ALWAYS YOU. i’d get a second grave next to you just in case mine filled up with too many dramatic sobs.” 

writes his own tombstone message: “don’t worry babe, i got buried next to you.” 

hiori yo

visibly stressed by the moral dilemma. 

“wait. would you want me buried next to you if i remarried? would that be disrespectful?? would it hurt your ghost feelings??” 

bro thinks this is an ethics class discussion. 

you’re like “hiori, i just wanted to hear you say it’s me 😭” 

“oh. then yes. obviously you. i’d get a whole graveyard if i had to. you get the nicest spot. she gets the ditch.” 

writes it in his will just to be sure: “under no circumstances will i be buried next to anyone but her.” 

draws a little heart in the margins and everything. 

shidou ryusei

“ohhh we’re doing hypothetical trauma bonding? i’m in.” 

you ask the question. he goes quiet. 

“babe. i will punch my way out of the coffin if they try to bury me next to anyone else. you think this is a joke? i will haunt the mortician.” 

“bury me next to you or yeet me into a volcano. your choice.” 

gets weirdly romantic and intense about it. 

“also i’m not remarrying. no one else is mentally unwell enough to match my energy anyway.” 

shidou’s ghost would 100% be floating around your grave with sunglasses like “still hotter than your average corpse.” 

ness alexis

gasps. like full dramatic GASP, hand on chest, almost drops his skincare bottle. 

“YOU DIED?! AND I WAS STUPID ENOUGH TO REMARRY?” 

looks personally betrayed by this made-up scenario. 

“why would you even say that?! my whole aesthetic would be RUINED without you!” 

paces around like he’s in a soap opera. 

“no offense to future imaginary wife, but i’d pay extra to be buried next to you, in the prettier coffin, with a better outfit. she can be buried in the clearance section for all i care.” 

already has funeral outfits picked out for the two of you. matching. with pearls. 

“if i die first, i’m gonna request a full gothic candlelit shrine next to your side of the bed so you never forget who the original wife was.” 

will be so passive-aggressive in the afterlife. 

bachira meguru

“ooooh spooky question ~ i like it!” 

he thrives on unhinged hypotheticals. 

“hmm okay okay… if i die, and you die, and i remarry, and then i die again– wait no, i’m confusing myself.” 

10 minutes later: “okay, i figured it out! i’m getting buried next to you AND the new wife. but the twist is: you rise from the grave and fight her for graveyard dominance.” 

you’re just staring at him like ??? 

“jk jk jk 😚 obviously i’m getting buried next to you! in a cute grave with smiley face carvings and sunflowers.” 

“also i’m gonna build a little ghost house on your grave and throw ghost parties there until you show up again.” 

“do you think ghosts can cuddle?” 

bro turns your emotional trap question into a horror-comedy date night. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[sweetstrawberryys]

“Double the Love”

— Task Force 141 x Pregnant!Reader

Reader shows the ultrasound but plot twist it's TWINS!!

Masterlist

---

Captain John Price

You’d barely made it back from the ultrasound before John noticed something was different.

“You alright, love?” he asked, sliding off his coat and placing his hand instinctively over your belly.

“I’m fine,” you said, lips trembling into a smile. “But I do have some news.”

You handed him the sonogram — this time, with two tiny figures on the screen.

He stared.

Then looked again.

“…There’s two.”

“Twins,” you whispered.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, in quiet awe. Then he walked over, gently cradling your face in his calloused hands.

“Two heartbeats.” He swallowed. “Two little pieces of us.”

He kissed you — slow, reverent — like you were a miracle.

“I didn’t think I could feel luckier than I did the day you said you loved me,” he whispered. “But you just proved me wrong.”

---

Simon “Ghost” Riley

He’d always been quiet with his affection, but this was different.

You showed him the updated scan and waited in silence as he stared.

He didn’t speak.

You started to panic. “Simon, I—”

He reached out slowly, as if the paper was too fragile for his hands. His thumb brushed over the image of two tiny shapes.

“…Twins?” His voice cracked.

You nodded, eyes welling up. “Yeah.”

He sat down heavily on the couch, jaw tense, mask pushed halfway up.

“I never thought I’d have one family… let alone three.”

You moved to sit beside him, and he pulled you gently into his arms, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’ll protect all of you. With everything I have. Always.”

And when he placed a hand on your belly, there was a warmth in his touch you’d never felt from him before.

---

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

You thought the man couldn’t be more dramatic.

Then he found out you were having twins.

He stared at the ultrasound photo, mouth agape. “Two? Are you sure that’s not just one doing a somersault?”

“Positive,” you laughed.

He let out a breathless laugh, running both hands through his hair. “Well, hell. Guess we’re skipping right past chaos and going full mayhem.”

But then he looked at you — really looked — and all the wild, playful energy melted into something quieter.

He knelt in front of you, resting his head gently against your stomach. “You’ve given me more than I ever deserved. And now, double.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, heart full.

“Guess I’ll have to learn how to swaddle two babies while holding a gun, huh?”

You snorted.

“And I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.”

---

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

He was already the softest of the bunch, but this? This floored him.

You handed him a wrapped frame, and he unboxed it carefully — revealing the sonogram labeled: “Baby A & Baby B.”

He froze, eyes wide, lips parted. “Is this real?”

You nodded, heart pounding.

Gaz sank onto the couch, stunned, then started laughing — soft, overwhelmed laughter. “Two of them. Two.”

He pulled you into his arms, peppering kisses along your forehead.

“This means double the diapers,” he whispered between kisses. “Double the crying. But also… double the snuggles. Double the bedtime stories. Double the love.”

You melted into him, feeling safer than ever.

“I can’t wait to be the dad they deserve,” he said against your hair. “I’ll give them everything.”

---

Alejandro Vargas

He cried.

Not loudly — just the kind that sneaks up and steals your breath.

You handed him the sonogram with trembling fingers, watching as he studied it. When he realized what it meant, his eyes slowly filled.

“Dos?” he asked softly. “Two little hearts?”

“Yes.”

He sat down beside you, pulling you into his arms with infinite care. “You are a goddess, mi vida. You carry two souls inside you. How can I ever thank you for this gift?”

“You don’t have to,” you whispered.

“But I will,” he replied. “Every day, for the rest of my life.”

He placed a reverent kiss to your stomach, tears glistening in his lashes. “They are already so loved.”

[calebrity]

good cop, bad cop

► ghost x female reader x soap

cw. smut, 2x1, dubious consent, oral, piv, angst, mc is traumatized; policemen! boys are there to ‘save’ her, a fair amount of infighting, obsessive/possessive behaviors, hinted stalking, hints and allusions of foul play, corruption, freeze response, soap is unhinged; ghost is the more ‘moral’ of the two but just as bad, p with plot, 18+ content

an. about 10k words of a fic i procrastinated on since Christmas :] anyways u can read this on ao3 if u want & reblogs/love is so so appreciated <33

The tires crunch over a gravel driveway.

There’s always the familiar face or ten in their line of work, but hers is a pretty one they find themselves wishing to both avoid and see more often.

It’s the neighbors who’ve called this time.

To be fair, the ringer usually varies between the grandmother next door or the guy and his daughter, but the little lady herself stays quiet. People care for her though, whether she’s aware of that yet or not.

Even the cats (bold: curling up to Johnny’s calf and sniffing his boot laces, Simon unable to shake them from underfoot) seem to hold some special affinity for her- because they walk the boys right up to her porch steps and purr. Must be their way of repaying her for all the cans of tuna she leaves out for them in the evenings.

It’s not the first time deputies have been dragged out this far down rural roads on behalf of the scared little thing next door, and Johnny has this nasty stirring in his gut that tells him it won’t be the last.

Domestic cases always struck a certain chord in Simon. Familiar but bitter. All that made it worser was the fact that it was near impossible to put it onto paper so long as the abuser in question walked the thin line of just plain shitty and bad-tempered and- yeah, okay, that guy definitely hits his girlfriend. It’s a liminal space that vermin like her boyfriend get to tread freely in; legally-speaking, they’ve broken no law until legally-speaking, the girl is dead. Found dumped in some ditch or crammed in the closet in a heap of bloody blankets.

And fuck if that doesn’t sound just awful.

Ghost has seen too much for one man alone, but his stomach twists at the idea all the same. He’s become a little fond of her. He hasn’t made any real attempt to deny that, and Johnny can only poke him for it until he’s accused of the same.

That bastard is a free man, as it stands, but Simon’s heard the yelling, you know. Caught the tail-ends of some verbally-scathing fight. His barbed words that leave her with unshed tears and near unresponsive when Johnny performs a wellness check while Simon pats down the fucker. Pulls him aside to tell him very politely to find some shitty motel for the night or someplace else to bum at.

That- those not so subtle warnings both men generously give to the douchebag- are not exactly permissible by the law they so rigidly uphold. But Ghost can’t really help the hostility that burns in his gut when he catches those glossy doe eyes quickly darting away from his as if he’d strike her in the face if she dared hold eye contact- and a few heavy touches during protocol pat-downs never fail to make the wanker obedient. Wards him off for a night or two.

Fuckin’ coward.

Johnny’s heard the dishes break before. They’ve never seen the bruises, though. Hard, physical evidence to tuck into a yellow file for an eternity in the metal bin. And she’s too frightened to offer him up and admit his crimes. Too scared to fess up to ‘em.

(As if being on the receiving end of his drunken fist makes you a fucking accomplice—

Oh, hardly, love. Hardly. Simon’s tried to tell you so with as much of a stoic face he can manage in brief chats before either hauling Romeo off to a 24hour holding cell or flipping the bird in the direction of the local inn. But you’ve got your head in the sand. Your heart in your mouth and your words on autopilot.)

N-No, sir, I’m fine, really. I swear. He just— We’re fine.

Trained dog.

Loyal mutt.

A good girl. Too good, maybe, for her own good.

It’s frustrating, a bit. But Simon understands, he does. Soap can’t fault her for that, either. She’s scared. It’s a traumatic response if they’ve ever seen one.

When they unload from the patrol car, Johnny tips his cap to a curious, familiar onlooker and she gives him a knowing frown. The caller, probably. She’d have to be interviewed or asked a few questions at minimum (the rudimentary stuff, like, so what’s going on tonight, why’d you call us out here?)

—But all that for later.

All that for after they ascertain she’s okay.

The absence of her boyfriend’s rusted pick-up in the gravel road is noted with a corrugated brow and an un-stuffing of Simon's hands from his pockets. The Scotsman nearly trips over one of the plastic geese stood in the lawn because he’s too busy reading his surroundings.

Bastard could’ve taken her… Maybe it finally reached the boiling point. The POS heard the familiar dial of nine one one and booked town with the poor thing in tow. Finally blew both their brains out like he’d been wanting- relayed by a very concerned Mrs. Smith from across the street with a shake of her cane.

She’d said she’d heard awful things come from the trailer home. That that young man needs Jesus. And the girl a real man to love her.

We’ll see about it, ma’am, Johnny’d said with a warm smile, the more socially gifted of the two, about gettin’ that bloke an audience with the big man upstairs.

(As for the latter part-… Well. He’ll keep it professional.)

Simon’s heart is knocking in his chest by the time he knocks on her frail door; it could blow down with a puff of cigarette smoke. It has before. It’s on its last leg, now. Has been for two months. That fucker needs to be put in a psychiatric ward if not a dungeon. If not a headlock where Simon's arm is so tight his ugly mug pops off and fucking rolls.

Any man who hits on their woman or the fairer sex warrants a response like that. Quick and efficient. Violent, very.

Johnny throws a nervous glance around the sordid trailer park and briefly contemplates scribbling down possible witness accounts- that neighbor is still on standby, after all- but the curtains rattle timidly at the window and he quickly forgets the thought.

Johnny’s antsy. Very antsy. Tonight feels different, somehow, the situation more urgent like it’s climbed steadily to its zenith. The air is balmy; early summer carries a fading warmth in its evening winds, and the salty reminder of the sweat beading on Soap’s forehead. Slicking his palms.

Many thoughts cycle through his head in that segment of time where he and Ghost crowd her tiny concrete steps, waiting for a sign of life opposite the door. Anything at all before one of them kicks it down.

They’d have reason to.

Seconds feel like hours. To hell with it— Johnny’s always been well-versed with the art of exaggeration— it feels like they wait there for decades, his heels clipping a restless tune against the cold grey, Simon’s shadowy hues fluttering with an uncommon anxiousness.

“Takin’ her time, ain’t she?”

“No tellin’ what happened, Ghost.”

“Could’ve ran with her... Taken off.”

Fuck. Yeah. That’s the shared fear, huh? Johnny begins to broil the more he’s left to his own inner dialogue. Not just because of the heat.

The brunet adjusts the shiny gold badge pinned to his muscled chest even though it’s perfectly in place, and forces a dry, harsh laugh. It lacks humor.

“That thing’s a skip on wheels… cannae have made it too far, aye? Who knows, perhaps we can intercept ‘em…”

Already assuming the worst has already happened: a learned habit integral to them both.

Ghost gives a grunt, and thus concludes their chat.

Fuck. He should’ve killed that bastard while he had the chance. To hell with not having enough proof of wrongdoing, he’ll do it now! If that bastard musters up enough stupidity to pull back up the bend, Johnny will shove a pistol to his fuckin’ head and turn off the bodycam—

He swears to that big man upstairs—

When the door finally, slowly opens, she’s hiding behind it with a shiner.

✦✦✦

Gloved hands certainly don’t deliver a cushiony touch when they help the thief into the backseat of the cruiser, but considering his brutish personality, Ghost is almost gentle.

Almost.

The suspect (although, the guy was quite literally caught with his hand in the tip jar; there’s very little speculation to be had on just what happened) isn’t their guy— their guy being the doped up asshole that split town and has yet to return to the shitty trailer park— unfortunately. But Simon, quite unexpectedly, wishes it was.

It’s fine, you know, unresolved leads and targets. It’s too common in their line of work to actually hold any real ire against. If they did, cortisol levels would be at an all-time high.

At least,… it’s usually fine. The occasional thug or do-badder will weasel out from law’s tight fist and ditch town, and then Ghost and Soap will have one less useless piece of shit to worry about until they do decide to come back.

The boys mostly take it like water off their backs. Easily. Sometimes frustrating, but what can you do?

They have a town- a familiar web of individual livelihoods- to keep safe right here, and what they won’t do is jeopardize that by embarking on some long, drawn-out journey when results aren’t even promised. For some asshole, no less, that’ll probably end up OD-ing or stabbed in some back alley by another one of his kind.

It’s cruel, but they chose that life. It’s only right they die in it. Simon thinks as much, at least. He made it out of the shithole while he still could, and he has zero regrets turning his back on his past. There’s always a choice. Always.

But this guy- the doll’s ever the romantic boyfriend—

Ghost tightens his palm unwittingly. The petty thief he’s tucking into the car winces and Ghost grunts in response, withdrawing his arm without much concern- but it does help him to refocus.

The job. Yes, that’s right. He’s on duty. Shouldn’t be thinking of her. Well, more than it’s required of him, anyway, extending from the bounds of what’s professional for a veritable enforcer of the law.

The door shuts with a clink and then Simon makes it all of five steps, wrapping around Price’s black and white-painted car, before the big guy himself stops him.

What he’s met with is a somewhat dissatisfied glare. (Not hostile by any means, no, the geezer has his cranky streak, sure, but he’s always been more lenient with him and Johnny... But dissatisfied.)

Capt’s eyes, a kind brown, wrinkle in preparation to scold him.

“Gettin’ a bit ahead of ourselves, are we?”

“Wot?”

Tan, leather-covered fingers move to adjust the cap on his head, “Held our guy a li’l snug back there, didn’t you?” And then suddenly, that singular trace of warmth in his eyes peters out into a steady, sort of paternal exasperation. “I’ve said it before, Simon. Getting rough with them will land yourself into a world of shite- last time, I was barely able to cover for your arse. D’you think Shepherd would look the other way again?”

Ghost sniffs. Blinks slowly— feels a prickling in his chest that time has made almost foreign- a prickling called shame- and kicks dirt over it. He glances from the positively pissed brunette to the cab behind him, spotting a hunched silhouette in the back of it, before looking back to Price.

“Don’t think he’d be particularly pleased.”

That earns him a curt clap on the shoulder and blunt fingers that actually manage to rattle him- but just slightly. Considering he’s creeping up on forty years old, John has done a laudable job at warding off a full-fledged dad bod (although, with his new baby boy on the way, it’s a nearer thing), but the dad strength is absolutely there. Oh, a hundred percent.

“No, he wouldn’t,” he says with a smile too tight to be fully genuine. Too curved. Simon’s observed it from a distance, and usually it only means trouble for whoever’s on the receiving end of it, but while his superior is in fact bristled over his minor transgression, it’s more an outburst of stress than anything else. Simon won’t lose his head for it.

Ghost’s acquiescence must dredge some sympathy from Price though, because he lets out a deep sigh and softens his grip on the blade of his shoulder.

“That case with the doll’s toying with you, innit?” The call-out is sudden, not foreseen.

“You’ve been reviewing the paperwork all week. Look, lad, you n’ Soap are my best men. If I get a call, I’m sending you two out first. If your head’s been screwed with- I need you to screw it back on,” His voice is calmer now, more genuine, too. It carries an affable, yet no less firm tone; the menthol whispers of cigarette smoke. Simon can hardly believe he made it a sentence without fishing one out from his pocket and lighting it, but right now isn’t the time to congratulate the old man on making it a day without falling back on his favorite vice. He used to say he’d eventually quit, but now he’s dropped the pretense entirely. He never will.

Captain’s words hit, though, in a way that’s a bit unanticipated from the blond- but he supposes it’s only natural that if he’d ever be read accurately, it’d be by his senior.

He pats Ghost on the shoulder one final time, “Don’t be chasing after shadows, alright?” If that muppet wants to run? You bloody let him. ‘Member: even if we don’t get to him right away, something else will.”

Chasing after shadows? Ah, that’s one way to put it. Actually, Ghost isn’t even so sure anymore if he wants to find the girlfriend-beating bastard: Price just got done lecturing him over poor conduct (not for the first time), but Simon knows that once he gets his hands on that slimy son of a bitch, there will be a whole lot more to mark him up for- poor conduct the least concern.

Maybe it’s for the better. Letting it go.

“Yes, sir.”

Simon delivers him a stiff nod, and then they part ways: the older one stepping for his car (if Simon cared more, he’d say a small prayer for the poor asshole in the backseat, in for a bad time if he tries to spark conversation with the grumpy driver), Ghost heading for his own vehicle with his cohort waiting inside.

The Scotsman is probably stewing in his own impatience, high as his energy levels are. Simon’s almost surprised he doesn’t approach the car and see his nose pressed to the fogged window, but—

“And Simon,” a gravelly voice calls.

He turns around.

“Relay that to Soap for me, would you?”

—Maybe it’s more than inherent, overabundant stamina that’s got his partner in cleaning up crime so wired.

…Maybe that whole case with the doll- the big blowout with her quote on quote boyfriend and his leaving after striking her in the pretty face-

Maybe it’s screwin’ with Johnny’s head, too.

✦✦✦

There came a time, after all his unfulfilled promises, vows to bettering himself- your relationship- that hope became the equivalent of stupidity. Naivety.

It’s only been two weeks since he slammed the door on your face and booked town, but you’re still reeling a little. The impact of it shook the home. Shook you. Over the course of a handful of days, you experience a strange dichotomy of tiredness and short bursts of energy that convince you you’re happy— for an hour or three, until the absence of him sinks in all over again. He left. He left you. And you’re glad for it. You’re safe for it. You’re destroyed.

How could he- How could he fucking leave you? After he made you this way?

Breathe.

The reminder comes in a bitten voice. Claws its way from the kinder recess of your brain, whatever is left of it.

Breathe.

That’s right. There’s still life left in the tank for you.

You peel the covers off you and slink to the bathroom. A girl peers back from a dirty mirror. Familiar but not. It’s a small effort to mask your shock that stares from your reflection- because for a moment, you’re stunned at just how tired you appear. You look unhealthy. Sad. Like… damaged goods.

And you miss him. You really, really think you do.

You’re much better off without him- that’s obvious. That’s never been the question, whether your general wellness would be vastly improved as soon as he sunk back into whatever hole he crept from. No, what you constantly found yourself questioning was whether or not you’d be able to recover after the whirlwind that is your boyfriend finally swept through. Would anybody else love you, was what your internal dialogue begged to know. Could anybody else love you?

What does that word mean, anyway? The girl in the mirror offers a weak chuckle. And then she releases her white knuckles from the marble counter- and she tears up the more she keeps her eyes steady on the bruised right one.

It’s a new low, even for him. His fist was too heavy, too fast, hurtling at you at a speed that left you with no time to react.

It’s a quiet affair, when you begin to cry.

Salty, bitter. Furious girl.

Truthfully, you were never quite allowed to be angry- or express any sort of emotion for that matter- so long as he shared the now empty slot of the bed beside you, but now that he’s disappeared, that wrath hugs you like a weighted blanket.

You hate him. You love him. You—

You wrap yourself in that heat. Sleep in it.

You wish you made good on all your countless, brittle promises to leave him before he up and decided to beat you to the punch- and in more ways than one. In this stupid trailer home, the lack of your (ex? does this equate to his dumping you?) boyfriend shuffling around chips away at you; the air feels stale, like there’s too much of it for you alone. Simultaneously, you can’t get in enough of it.

The world is closing in on you. Your chest hurts. Your veins heat with rage and brokenness, your pulse begins to jump sporadically and then you begin to hyperventilate every couple hours or so. Saying under your shivering breath, come back home. I’m sorry. I’ll be good- (and then, trying to recall ever not strictly minding your p’s and q’s around him-)

I’ll be better.

Ah, you’ve heard that one before.

It’s weird to hear it played back to you in your own voice, though, because it’s usually not you trying to butter him up and convince him to stay, but the other way around. You suppose the tables have sort of turned now, but still… You… You’d never hit him- not like he did you. Just the thought of it spears between your ribs and twists in like a corkscrew.

A feeling of disgust settles in its wake.

Oh, he’s left you so, so screwed, and yet the chief concern that possesses you all night is this:

Wherever your baby is, does he miss you, too?

✦✦✦

You think about leaving. Starting anew, somewhere.

Part of you has half the brain to want to plan it out, lay out a big meticulous blueprint for your life- carefully mark dots on a map and connect them with a newfound resolve. You’re young still (even if it feels you’ve seen it all, like he’s aged you). Hardly twenty two. When you were a little girl, you’d somehow come to the simple conclusion that all humans lived until the exact age of one hundred; if that’s true, you’ve got just shy of eighty years left in the tank.

You could make it.

The other piece of you doesn’t care for the destination- so long as it’s away.

In the corner of the yard, towards the side of your little home, sits a trashy RV your boyfriend bought as a scrap to remodel later. He never did. You guess he never will. Sometimes you curl up by the window and stare at it, dream of painting the rusted lines a girlish pink or refurbishing the weathered seats with neon leather.

You would be crazy and in love with life, traveling all over the country without giving so much as a rat’s ass about anything or- or him.

Your family hardly has the room in their heart for you. You’re no prodigal daughter, just a welcome absence in a bitter, hollow home. Between scars that don’t ever quite heal (because time is not an apology, as much as you may ache for it to in their stead) and a basal fear that you’ll step through the front door and turn twelve all over again, there’s no real want inside of you to go back to that place ever again. Maybe it’s why it was so easy for you to leave, to fall headlong into the pretty lies of a pretty, albeit temperamental man and decide to let him close the door of his pick-up behind you.

So… where do you go?

You don’t know.

You don’t know.

Your piece’a crap boyfriend left and took his piece’a crap truck with him. Doubt it’ll even carry him fifteen miles before it pops its tire and swerves him into oncoming traffic or a post on a street he swears wasn’t there when he blinked. There’s always the option of an uber or asking the kind old lady next door to use hers for a quick grocery trip, but without a means of transportation, you’re more or less stuck here.

You swallow a thick lump in your throat, dust your red knees off when you stand, and will yourself to pretend you don’t care about any of it. Any of it at all.

Bare feet swish over the crumb-ridden kitchen vinyl and you make a mental note to sweep it later. It’d be good to properly clean this place up, especially now that the number one mess-maker is gone (tossing his empty cans everywhere, leaving cigar butts by the kitchen sink and his thin flannel button-ups on the arm of the couch).

If you’re really trapped here, you might as well—

A knock draws you from your muddled thoughts. Just like that, the haze thins out; when you peek through the curtains and spy a familiar deputy, hands tucked under his armpits as he idly sways on your porch stoop, a clarity washes over you.

…Oh, right. Other people exist. It’s not just you in this world.

He’s whistling something. You hear it as he waits, trading energy between the balls of his feet, patience leaving in subsequent ticks on his face.

…But you’re a mess right now, no makeup, no bottoms, just a long shirt and panties, and one of your braids have unraveled in the short span you’ve spent just twirling and trudging from quiet threshold to threshold—

Another rap at the wood, piercing blue eyes catching yours as the curtains flutter shut with a surprised gasp- and you know you’ve no choice but to answer. He’s seen you. You can’t pretend he didn’t. That… would be awkward.

It’s… fine. You can just hide behind the door when you answer, like last time.

He’s a cop, anyway. You’re sure he’s seen it all.

Whatever happened with you, and your case?

It’s the usual.

✦✦✦

He’s here again.

Well, they both are. But sometimes they feel synonymous to each other- because they’re both endlessly gracious to you (in their own ways; Johnny is more open with his kindness, Simon more subtle) and have lent a hand more times than you can count. They both wear the same uniform, in any case, cloaked in the signature, police-issued garb and a thick belt to keep their gun and cuffs (and hands, when they don’t know where else to put them).

That’s mostly Johnny, though. In the past few months, you’ve learned a few things about him over impromptu housecalls and rides to the local market (because you’re literally stuck here otherwise, until you find a way to get your shit together), tucked in his passenger seat with your knees in your arms.

First of all, he’s a good guy. Not like some of the sleazy cops you see on television who abuse their impunity and talk from their ass every time they wave someone over with their hand. Johnny’s got a fairly big head, you’ll give that much, but his ego is all pretty harmless. Makes you think there must be someone back at the station holding a tight ship, because otherwise he’d have cut free from his leash a long time ago. He’s a big dog. You can tell he likes to bite, yes, but only the bad guys- which is actually a comforting thought.

He’s good to you, to the elderly woman next door and her little rascal grandson who spams your doorbell until you agree to come out and look at the frog he caught. You’re thankful for Johnny’s presence in those times because he’s like a buffer between you and the things you can’t handle, a well-meaning but boisterous little kid a part of that.

The brunet sends him off with a ruffle of his hair, saying, ‘Alrigh, alrigh, leave the woman alone now, aye? Scamper off to yer gran, sure she’s worried boot where ye’ve gone,’ then he turns back to you on the porch step with a smile and takes a bite of his sandwich.

Secondly (and this falls under the first category you suppose, but this is more significant in your mind), he’s patient. Knows there’s something wrong with you- with your situation, that it’s left you a little sour and weak- but he never presses the envelope when it comes to the seedier details. I mean, the station’s already taken your formal story as well as the accounts of neighbors, so it’s not like he doesn’t know…

Even as he looks you in the eye, with his cerulean, rapt gaze that you swear doesn’t blink sometimes, you think he might be turning over the tale in his head. It’s one as old as time: girl falls in love with a fucked-up guy and pays for it.

Johnny stares hard, but he never stares like he’s judging, no…

Admiring, if nothing else. Albeit you’re not so sure what there is to admire— you’re some backroad hick with scars still fading and a sort of social clumsiness that only comes from rickety relationships and the hesitance to brush your fingers with his because they’re big and calloused and he could use ‘em to hit you. But he doesn’t. He never does. You wait for the blow and wait forever.

Ghost is like a ramrod. In all regards.

He doesn’t bounce from heel to heel all the time like his Scottish counterpart, wired with endless energy, no, he stands straight and tall and with his hands at his side. Big and unmovable. His eyes are a soft, dark brown but they’re cold. You were sure that first time you’d met him that he felt nothing- a man made of steel and the dents that misshape it. He seemed heartless.

It took a little time- and lots of careful observation, much overthinking- to realize it, but you were wrong. Simon is kind. (And you do call him that now, Simon; you’d said it on accident, but he didn’t seem to mind or shoo you off by saying something about oh no you gotta call me by my sign ‘cause i’m a big bad cop blah blah blah. He’d let out a microscopic breath and his lashes fluttered, and with a dip of his chin to acknowledge your profuse apologies, he’d muttered, s’alright. And since then he’s been Simon.)

And things have been alright, lately.

The boys drop by (sometimes alone, sometimes with the other in tow) for growingly frequent visits and sniff around your weedy little square of property like hounds, but they don’t find whatever the hell they’re looking for. Your boyfriend, probably. You think his scent’s gone cold ‘cause they haven’t found him yet.

You’ve never asked them.

Never mentioned it at all.

And again- thank God that neither of them prod for more information from you, but sometimes you see the silent question in their eyes. Aren’t you curious what’s come of him? Your boy?

But you don’t intend on spilling your heart out to these two kind-hearted, not quite strangers— not when they’ve already done so much for you.

There’s a little wriggling worm in the back of your head that begs to ask just why they’re so adamant on checking up on you at least thrice a week, but you don’t voice that either. It’s a somewhat harsh theory, but they’re probably just makin’ sure you didn’t kill yourself.

…‘Cause that’s what you are now, right? That’s how everyone’ll see you as. Pathetic and fragile like a tattered cardboard box with red tape plastered on each side.

And… It’s okay. You think you’ve come to peace with it. Ain’t nothin’ the folks around here can throw at you that’ll leave a mark; your mama and old man and ex-boyfriend did plenty a good job at that, and there’s also nothing they can say to hurt you because the voice in your head already screams it all.

That’s not to say your heart has hardened, though. No- it melts a little when Simon pulls out the barstool and mutters a soft thanks for the peanutbutter and jelly you fixed up for him. It even gives a weak little stutter when you unlatch the door and scamper off, Johnny’s eyes tracking your bare legs as you run to find shorts, his breathless chuckle ringing behind you.

Even then, in your old daisy dukes, he’s looking.

Stealing glances when you’re behind the counter pouring him lemonade; you assure yourself he isn’t.

He’s… a cop and, although he’s a whit flirtatious, he’s damn near programmed to survey every personage he comes across. With you, he’s looking for bruises and scars and- and you know what? He’s probably not even looking at all (even if you feel his eyes, that stark blue stare that harbors a hunger only men can really carry, burning into your profile long after you turn).

If somebody told you you lost it, you wouldn’t hurt for it, you’d just shrug and quietly understand.

Hey— The heat is certainly doing no favors for your mind fog: Lately, crowded on your narrow concrete porch step with Simon, you’re even deluded enough to think you feel his gaze on you, drifting along the slope of your cheek with an interest that frankly feels misplaced as you’re rambling on and on about the craziness of Honey Boo Boo.

(“Yeah, sweetheart? When you make supper tonight, put it on the telly. I’ll give it a look while I eat.”)

(“Y-You might lose your appetite. It’s not really a show you watch while eating-“

(“It’ll be fine.“)

He doesn’t tell you it’s impossible, that men like him never stop hungering. It’s hardly imaginable, anyway, to lose his appetite when you’ll be sitting there beside him, curled up on the sofa with a plate, pretty as fucking ever as he humors some shitty reality show for you.

He’s never told you, either, how gorgeous you are. Sometimes it’s all he wants to say because horrifically enough, he thinks you don’t know it, that all your self worth and awareness has been birched out of you by that asshole- but he quietly decides to leave that to Johnny.

That bastard’s always complimenting you. Even in the more private setting of their patrol car, bumping through familiar routes, the Scot’s running his mouth about how sweet you were today and how much that fucker didn’t deserve you and— fuck professionalism, can’t he just touch you? Just once-? Just. Ach, bloody hell, Ghost, I’d kill a man just to grab a fistful of her pretty hair and smell. Wannae hug her and wipe away all her fuckin’ memory of him.

Oh, he knows.

Simon will admit this much, with hands that clench the wheel and slacks that tighten a fraction at all the very vivid images his cohort paints for him of their doll: Johnny is annoying- endlessly annoying- but he’s right.

You’re perfect. Sugar sweet. Simon licks over his teeth without thinking when he’s talking to you (contentedly third-wheeling a conversation Johnny’s pulled you into) and feels his mouth water up. He wants to hold you, too, scorch away any and every idea of that shitty old boyfriend of yours, and tuck away your bangs that you let fall in your face because you’re instincively trying to hide from him.

Kindred and beaten. He wants to tell you you’re the same- but still, so much better than him.

…But all that for later.

✦✦✦

At your table, he digs into lasagna with a fork and foregoes cutting it into smaller bits with the knife. You suppose he can make anything digestible; with big enough teeth, you never have to worry. Beside him, Johnny drums his fingers- ungloved, his jacket folded with them on your sofa- on the wood and flashes you a smile when you catch his eyes.

You’ve hardly finished half your plate when you realize Johnny’s is empty. And now he’s just staring, sapphire hues remniscient of arctic plains skimming over you as you dip your chin to scoop dinner into your mouth.

It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking when he looks at you, what it is he’s seeing. You’d never admit that you feel a little unnerved by it. Even the fact that the two policemen who worked your case have become a tangible piece of your reality feels… Perturbing, almost. Four months scurry past with fast feet and leave you blinking back the dust. They weaseled into your sad little life in their own respective ways and you had nothing to say against it.

They were professional. Until they weren’t, until they were friendly.

And then they were friendly—

Johnny’s teeth, white and perfect, sharp under the buttery light of the fixture overhead, glint at you. You’re made to feel inexplicably self conscious by it. He says- with a tone that feels oddly suggestive, like there’s some hidden meaning to it- watching you with utmost interest as you eat, “Was fuckin’ delicious, hen. Ah think ah wannae second plate o’ it. Ye got some more?”

—Until they were not.

Bravely, you glance over to Simon and he’s wolfing down the last few spoonfuls. And he’s watching you, too, from the corner of his eye like some bird of prey.

Reaching over to gingerly pluck a napkin from its holder, you dot the corner of your lip (really just as a way to distract yourself as they stare) and offer a smile. “Y-Yeah, ‘course,” you nod backwards toward the stove where the tin sits, cracking a joke. “Just gotta get there before Simon does.”

It doesn’t exactly lighten the weird tension in the small space of your trailer home, but it alights Soap’s face with a dazzling grin. Johnny’s laugh is harsh, quick. Too amused. Once, it’d felt like a reward, like an audible confirmation that you were acknowledged in a pleasant, uniquely human way. It wouldn’t earn you a soft slap to the cheek (a wordless warning) or a cluck of a disapproving tongue. Johnny and Simon weren’t like that. They were good.

Two good men.

Your mouth feels dry.

Unease lodges deep in your throat. You swallow it down with some iced tea but it remains after the gulp.

So… maybe they aren’t exactly friendly anymore, or professional- like their shiny gold badges on their chest would demand of them- but they still showed up whenever they were called. Still shooed your crude, reckless boyfriend off the street when he was drunk and causing disturbances. And that day when he ran off and left you—

They were there for you.

Nobody else is there for you.

So yeah, okay, maybe this situation is a little strange, you’ll admit that much, and you vaguely wonder if their boss back at the station is even a mite aware of what his underlings get up to in the short windows their patrol trips will allow- but it’s not like you’re used to normal.

The boys are just a tiny bit weird with how they’ve been starting to forego the polite knocks and enter on their own accord, with how they hover when you’re cooking and how Johnny will absentmindedly pull you onto his lap on the couch before you squeak and alert him to reality- the reality that you’re just some stupid domestic case he handled, not his girlfriend. But you’re weird too, aren’t you? I mean, by that logic, you’re so, so far gone.

Damaged goods, a voice rings in the back of your head. You don’t thank it for its provision but it helps to steel your nerves, the reminder that you can manage these things because they’ve already struck you once before.

B-But again— I mean, your ex-boyfriend did leave you messed up… so maybe, just maybe, it’s all in your stupid head after all. You’re making these mountains out of molehills when it comes to their behavior.

Simon sets his utensil down. “Nah, go ahead, Soap. I had my fill,” he comments, and he’s right, he had a massive serving- but his gaze, umber and intense, consistently flickers back to you.

Your kitchen— no, your whole world— feels heavier with every cocksure syllable that comes out his scarred mouth. “Gotta save some room for dessert, anyway.”

You roll your suddenly dry lips to moisturize them before chiming, “d-dessert?”

You’d thought supper was it for tonight. You only have so much groceries to ration with the budget you’re losing and recipes to pull out your sleeve. In any case, the plan for this evening was to make the boys dinner (because they arrived- without prompting, per usual- and you figured it was the polite thing to do), and then send them on their merry way.

Once Johnny gets his seconds, they’re gone.

They’re supposed to be.

T-They’re staring- the both of them still. Staring hard.

Ghost snags your attention. Keeps it leveled intently, maybe a little nervously, on him. Johnny is just a blur of brown hair (his stupid mohawk he has no right to rock), sun-speckled skin and electric blue eyes beside him.

Ghost is all darkness from where you sit- pale skin broken up by colored scars, a black thermal and shadowy eyes; the only highlight in them, white and blocked, is the small portrait of yourself looking back at him. She looks healthy. But she still looks frightened.

“Dessert, pet,” he solidifies, gentle but firm. No room to argue here. He’s a cop anyway, not like you could get a good speaking point in when the threat of being cuffed will always dangle somewhere overhead.

But! They would never do that to you. Abuse their power. Abuse their manhood, hold your womanhood against you. Simon and Johnny are not like your boyfriend. Ex. Ex-boyfriend. They’re not.

“I- I don’t understand,” you laugh. “I don’t have anything to make.”

Johnny perks up, as if it’s his job to placate you, “Dinnae worry, bonnie. Ye’ll see soon enough. Me n’ Simon here got a lil’ somethin’ ta repay ya.”

“Wh- what, like a cake or something?” With a shake of your head, you pinch your brow and try to make your humor seem solid, real. But in the back of your head you know they’re trained to spot the faults, the little fractures in even the most rigid of personalities; to pin them and capitalize off them.

“I didn’t know it was my birthday.”

Soap chuckles again. There’s no doubt in your mind his mirth is genuine. “Ach. Not quite... Reckon you’ll be feeling like it, though,” he assures, unruffled as ever as your world spins. Not his world, he is fine from where he sits. “Happy li’l lass on her birthday.” It’s strange to see excitement- so audacious and stark- glimmering on a grown man’s face, but it’s there in abundance, softening weathered lines into an almost boyish look.

You’re fooled into a second of peace by it, until he shoulders the conversation- and the unspoken omen of it- over to his buddy.

“Tell her, Ghost. Lookit her- haha, she’s a curious one. Bet she’s jist as eager, aye?”

“Don’t get ahead o’ yourself, Johnny,” Simon murmurs, before his jaw flexes and he says after a thoughtful beat, regarding you quietly, “You’re scarin’ the girl.”

Are you scared?

You don’t know anymore. But if you are, you’re glad for their telling you about it. It’s hard to discern your feelings otherwise. You need the waving red stop signs and green lights to inform you of what’s happening inside of you and if it’s allowed.

It’s as pathetic as it is necessary.

As you clean up dinner, the boys circling behind you like vultures to roadkill as you helplessly busy yourself with the dishes as a last try at warding them off, you wonder where your baby is.

You wonder if he misses you there.

✦✦✦

It’s such a big stretch.

It takes your breath on the way in and when he bottoms out, you find yourself wishing for the couch to swallow you up in one of its crevices; you could disappear there and join the collection of missing pennies and dimes and go brainless for a bit. That’s a reprieve you don’t find, though, not here.

You should get those ideas of self autonomy and rest out of your pretty little head. You’ll always fall into the hands of some man- your abusive boyfriend or otherwise.

Four are roaming you, now, with all the reverence in the world but you don’t know how to respond to that touch. Soap’s fingers leave your forehead after he removes the lock glued there with a tut of his tongue, perspiring at your temple as your insides accommodate to the slow intrusion.

Simon thinks you’re something plucked from the renaissance era, your hair splayed around your head in a halo, one hand balled to your breast while the other presses into the cushion with discomfort.

The cushions are floral, a sage, ratty green patterned with what looks to be blushing carnation and their sprawling vines. It frames you perfectly: a nymphet in her garden, at home, with a distinct look of distress that’s almost painterly as he bullies his cock inside. It’s not like it’s the first time you’d laid on your back for a man- your ex- but it’s been a while, and even then it wasn’t anything this big.

Simon is monstrous and intimidating. You feel as if you’re being deflowered all over again. Startled and sweating.

“Gentle, Simon,” is all you can hope to plead for as, from your side, by the arm of the couch behind your head, a corded set of legs lumber over and stop.

Ghost lets out a grunt over you, voice strained as he stills his hips for a few moments. He’s kind enough to give you some time to adjust, but you think he needs the breathe as well. You fit him tighter than a latex glove and it’s hard to think, let alone make a reply but he manages.

“Being ‘bout as gentle as I can be, sweetheart.”

Inches from your head, Johnny bends over to ruck down his jeans and the too-tight, pesky denim, letting out a curse when he can’t peel them off fast enough. It’s been made very obvious just how eager the two were to become acquainted with you in a more physical way, but it’s Soap who takes the cake in embarrassing himself for it. Though to be fair, he doesn’t seem to mind much, kicking off his pants when they pool at his ankles, untucking himself from his briefs with urgency.

“Ach. Ye better be gentle with her. We owe her tha’, don’t we? Although…” Soap starts, a certain glint in his electric blue eyes that’s reminscient of glowing orbs between dark trees at night- the gaze of a beast- when you glance up. Your eyes are bleared when he cups your jaw under his palm and stoops over, sampling a weirdly affectionate kiss before grinning. That smile is just as predatory, even as his eyes soften into a delirious sort of fondness.

“S’pose we already did her some big favors, aye? Fixing things around her place, mowing the yard…” he drawls, “we even took oot the rubbish for our li’l babe.”

Simon stills at that. Tenebrous, heavy eyes dart across the bridge of your nose but you just moan and try to roll on your side to evade the fat cockhead that slithers through your walls, dead to all else but it. He lets out a deep breath, shifting impossibly closer on his knees and regathering your legs in his hands before giving an experimental thrust in. Testing the waters. Testing if you’re a screamer or a whimperer.

Johnny’s a whisperer— muttering filth in your ear as he awkwardly bends down again and collars you with a wet kiss to your neck. This whole arrangement feels less like a raunchy, impromptu hookup and more like two mutts pissing on a fire hydrant to mark it as theirs. Albeit, the brunet would call it your birthday, because this is a gift to you, right?

He looks like he’s got something to celebrate, anyway. Handsome face weighty with arousal as he gives his hardening length a few strokes, but his body language conveys mirth as he rocks on his heels.

“Isn’t tha’ right, pretty girl? Yeah? Ye don’t have ta nod yer head- jist go on and give Simon a nice li’l squeeze— Simon, d’ya feel her? Fuck. Yer so much better off without that—“

“Johnny,” the blond warns, and as Simon readjusts you once more for extra comfort, pulling you closer on his cock, you watch through a blurred lens as the strange fog in oceanic blues clears out, long lashes fluttering over drooping lids.

For whatever silent conversation of theirs you’re not privy to, Johnny acquiesces. Dust settles in the wake of that feral, almost victorious glint in the Scotman’s eye. He’s just a whit gentler as he straightens his spine and guides himself to your lips.

And, you know, in some parallel universe maybe you wouldn’t be sucking some good-cop-bad-cop’s cock as he feeds it to you in second-long segments. Puts you on a sort of portion control- but your belly already feels full with his buddy as he begins to set a slow pace, heeding your earlier plea, and you’ve not much appetite for it but he’s a giver anyway.

No, you’d be traveling on the road and cursing over potholes in a refurbished RV and in love with life—

“Fuuuckin’ hell,” The taste of him draws you back to real life. He’s salty, hot. Your lips wrap around him clumsily and you do your damnedest to not gag as it curves down your throat. He’s massive in his own right; thick and veiny and ready to go even if you hesitate at first.

Simon clamps his eyes shut, wanting to block the sight of his mate’s cock out, and Johnny’s crinkle with pleasure.

He hisses through perfect white teeth. “Wooh. There ye go. What a goooood fucking lass. Ye seein’ this, Simon-?”

“Tryin’ not to.”

“-Och- she feels so bloody good. Bet her pussy’s even sweeter-“

“Reckon it’d feel even better for all three o’ us if you shut your gob, Soap.” Simon snips, wetting his bottom lip as it gets hot and dry in the room and your small living space whirls with the patent smell of sex and sweat. It beads at your forehead, clumps up on the underside of your thigh that the blond keeps hitched up; trickles over the girth of his fingers and your face. When he spots it there on your jaw, he’s tempted to bow down and lick it up. Johnny’s member sliding in and out of your parted lips- swollen from all the prior kissing- wards him off well enough, though.

Head lolled on your shoulder, a calloused but bizarrely gentle hand supporting it as you hollow out your cheeks for Johnny, your eyes flit over to the coffee table. You barely catch it over the din of groans and loud vulgarity interwoven in sounds of praise- the vibration of a phone- but it’s there amidst the slapping skin and deep breaths and makes you look over.

Your phone screen lights with a message. Interest piques in you as you rapidly blink back the clouding of your tear ducts, thankful for the relief even if only mental to coax you from your present situation: the hands and fingers and eyes raking all over you.

It’s a notification of some sorts. An alert, you think, but not the atypical kind from a contact saved in your phone. It seems like it’s from an official account but you only spy the tail end of it before your screen fades to darkness.

“Lookit me, pet.”

We regret to— Identified— Something something- you’re not paying it all that much attention anymore because Simon aims a palm at your tit and gropes it, keen on the small whimper you reward him with even if it’s muffled around Soap as he cants himself past your stretched lips. Johnny likes it, too, practically preening as he tightens his clutch in your hair and croons down at you, rocking his hips into your wet, fucking divine mouth with a growing loss of self restraint.

He gets it, he has to be considerate and all— but damn it all if your tongue doesn’t feel fucking perfect as it licks up the flushed underside of him as his engorged tip squelches at the back of your throat.

You’re everything he dreamed of and then some.

Ghost’s voice, again, slithers through the barrage of noises as he seeks the wet heat between your thighs. “Sweetheart, have a look.”

You don’t really know if you want to, but you do have a look. Your eyes flit up to his before following his own to the juncture of you both, his fat cock spearing you open— the proof of it jutting in a subtle bulge along your abdomen. It’s horrifying. Something straight from an alien movie- a parasite wriggling inside you— but when you instinctively clamp down, Simon groans and looks like his breath’s been stolen when he meets your eye again. “Good girl. You’re a good girl.”

There’s a haze all around you. Sickening. Dizzying. The boys smell of the world outside and distinctly masculine; they don’t kick their boots off at the door and rather track all the mud inside- tainting you with it. This was your space. After your boyfriend left, it was supposed to be. And you were meant to be free.

Johnny lets out a long string of expletives as he nears his edge, heavy balls hitting your chin every so often when he presses the envelope on just how far he can reach down your throat before you start hurling out dinner. These two individuals were the only ones there for you when your whole world, without warning, started to cave at its middle, and you were always grateful for that, endlessly. But when the brunet comes down your trachea with a roar, holding your head in place as you gag, and tells you with a breathless grin to thank him for it-?

Fire lashes in you.

Your brow corrugates. A flash of anger, indignant and humiliated, arises from the baser part of you and the blond leans over you to slap Johnny away. “Gentle my fuckin’ arse. Don’t make her swallow that shite. Now piss off, lemme finish alone w’her.”

The gleeful look on Johnny’s face withers into a scowl. “What?! That’s no’ fair! C’mon, she knows it was just a joke. Tell the ghost, sweetie, tell him ye want me ta stick around.” He winks. “That it tastes good.”

After grudgingly swallowing it down, there’s certain moment where you just splutter, desperate to catch your breath as the cop- almost ruefully- slides his dick out from your mouth and deliberates on tucking himself back in. Then, Simon takes your face in his big paw and guides your eyes to his, his own dark caramel ones simmering with something intense, unable to be named.

“You don’t want him stickin’ his nose in our business, do ya?” He all but grumbles, “he’s had his turn-“

“With her mouth! I can go again once yer finished, Ghost,” he pops up a pointer finger, “dinnae underestimate—“

Briefly, Simon pauses, tosses him a quick look and barks, “Quiet, Johnny. You’ve had your go at her. Told you we should’ve bloody waited, she’s hardly ready for one o’ us, let alone both. Y’just couldn’t fucking wait?” (You get the inexplicable inkling that he’s making an indirect address to something else, then.) He sighs, steadies himself, refocuses on the moment and the way your cunt feels as it hotly mouths him in, lapping at his veiny sides. “Hop off it a moment, lad.”

Soap scrunches his nose. “She’s a strong woman. She can take it. Think ye should stop selling her short-“

“Both of you just stop already!” you murmur through the gap your hands make as they seal over your flushed face. You bushwhack yourself with the boldness of it all. It was long past the due time to grow a backbone but it was getting late and you were cranky and you still had to finish tidying the kitchen as soon as the boys took their leave. They’ve overstayed their welcome and as the reality of it all dawns upon you, the initial freeze response thaws into irritation.

“You two are both leaving right after—!”

A laugh, harsh and vigorous, cuts you off. “Ach, I don’t think so, hen. Cannae get rid o’ us that easily.”

Confusion reshapes you. Your face pinches and you look between the men anxiously as Simon resumes his pace again, clasping your hips on both sides as he drives himself home. You gasp and lie back again, fully recumbent as you cover your mouth. It makes you go numb all over again, the warmth of his body over yours stifling, his girth stretching you out deliciously as he repeatedly hits that one spot in you that points all rational thought to the door.

“But y-you have to leave—“

“Well,” Johnny cuts you off, then, and Simon doesn’t bother straightening him out this time. He lets him talk. He supposes, anyway, that for as dedicated as he is to his good cop role, he’s really no better than Johnny in this singular regard.

With you.

Blue eyes twinkle with delight. Simon’s grunting over you, his small sounds of pleasure picking up in volume and frequency, and you get the idea he’s gonna come soon.

Soap chuckles, knowing something you don’t, “Yer right, actually, hen. We are leaving. But yer comin’ with as well, aye?”

(Fuck your bastard ex-boyfriend for never fixing up that piece of shit RV in the back. Fuck him fuck him fuck him.)

✦✦✦

It doesn’t take much for Price to get Simon’s attention. A short, yet no less urgent word over his walkie is what has him in this time.

When he walks in, the chief greets him with a tight smile over the rim of his coffee mug and nods to the seat opposite his desk. “Simon, good to see you. Sit.”

So Simon does. He takes a few steps forward (it’s all it takes for his long legs to reach the center of his office), shuts the door behind him, and pulls out a chair. John’s desk is messy, though the blond knows that’s not how he prefers it— paperwork piled up in a small mountain, nearly spilling off the mahogany edges; there’s hardly even enough room for his steaming drink or the shiny little standee with his name on it, but he manages in one way or another.

Dark hues appraise the clutter for a second too long before finally returning the eye contact expected of him. He’s not used to feeling uncomfortable, Simon, but the more the clock hanging overhead the door clicks, the more Simon readjusts himself in the almost too-small leather chair and awaits his superior’s words.

They finally come. “You know why I called you in here today?” Simon’s also not used to feeling like a disobedient child called to have a chat with the school’s principal, but it crosses his mind for a moment anyway. He wets his bottom lip, and gives Price no verbal response. Better to wait it out, he thinks.

The brunet’s smile pinches as he gives a few fast blinks.

Ghost spots something, then, amidst the hodgepodge of documents and wayward pens. Under the small desk light with a crooked neck, by the phone stand, a yellow folder lay. It’s opened, unlike the other ones— and the tip of something peeks its head out, cold and black.

A videotape, he suspects- and a whole plethora of thoughts hail down on him, briefly, shadows revolving behind his brain- before returning the stare of the man in front of him.

Ghost sniffs. “…What you got there?”

Lightless, mildly curious eyes bore into warm brown ones. Searching for something.

A silent moment passes, but very slowly. Price ultimately looks down to the object in question and takes it in his big paw, untucking the rectangle-shaped item inside. He gives it a shake as he speaks, and Simon reads the diminutive wording scrawled in sharpie over a white label.

The date is a familiar one.

“This,” he starts, a sage sort of look in his eye as it widens- peers into Ghost’s soul and scours it- “is the motel a town over, one week ago.” He points his chin, with unwavering eye contact, to a crisp paper atop the stack, “and that’s the owner’s report of the body we found in one of the rooms. Any o’ this ringing a bell?”

Simon, boredly, or maybe thoughtfully, looks off to the side and offers a small, one-shouldered shrug. “You didn’t put me or my partner on that case,” he says simply, “Can’t say I’m familiar.”

He doesn’t exactly intend on it sounding like an excuse- and to Ghost’s credit, it doesn’t: his deadpan tone is too good for most of anything to slip through— but he wonders if his chief is regarding it as a truth or an alibi.

A beat passes. John smiles.

And as a reply to that, he folds his hairy hands over his desk and leans forward to emphasize his following sentiment; he speaks in a low murmur but it’s clear to the blond. Crystalline. He nods to Simon as he does, or maybe he nods to himself.

“It’s a familiar face, though, the body we pulled from the closet. A real fuckin’ mystery, innit? First thought I had was- how the fuck are we gonna break this to the poor doll? But I never got the chance to think long and hard on it. You know why?”

Another segment of quiet comes and goes. The blinds of the office are pulled, sealed shut, the event of any potential onlookers or nosy colleagues peering in precluded. It’s just him and John right now, but Simon can’t help but feel like the big man upstairs is looking too, that omniscient, godlike gaze tracking him, and he gets a feeling no different than it when he’s stood under the crosshair of another asshole’s gun.

He sniffs again, asks without much interest, “Why?”

His overling says with what seems as puzzlement but Simon knows very well is not: “Because the doll’s been reported missing yesterday by a neighbor. Said she hasn’t shown for a day and her grandson saw a car come and go.”

Ghost blinks and looses a sound that’s equally a scoff as it is a sigh. “Hell of a way to start off the week, yeah? Poor bird flew off… Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“She doesn’t have any means to, though. Fly off.” Price leans forward even more but Simon holds staunchly, perfect poker face and all. “Got any ideas, lad?”

“Called an uber, likely.”

A laugh, harsh and short. “An uber, yeah.” A deep sigh of exasperation through his nostrils- and then all semblance of cordial conversation between two officers goes out the window.

“You want to be honest with me, now? Or do I gotta drag Soap in here? M’sure he’ll have your stories tied up in one pretty bow for me, mm? All nice n’ neat? Or did you even fucking think that far ahead?!”

Johnny? That motormouth? Hell no. This situation is already fast to flee Simon’s hands, but it’ll all go to hell in a handbasket as soon as that gobshite’s involved. Mactavish can hardly maintain an inside voice (one that’s broken entirely when the doll’s brought up), and the blond knows he’ll flub with an alibi, entangle himself in a position he’d be hard-pressed to get out of. It’ll be one crazy match of twister that’s almost funny to think about but neither men laugh, rigid and sober.

Ghost swallows thickly. Wets his lip again; all his movements kept simple and slow. His heart skips just once, though. The phantom hand of guilt knocks at his heart. Simon buries it down before he opens his jaw again, “What d’ya plan to do, Captain?” Is all he says.

He has no real proposal here. It’s not his or Johnny’s first mishap, but it’s unclear whether or not he’ll be covered on this one— or if he even can be, what with the shiny black videotape inches away, hard and real.

Proof of wrongdoing.

Price maintains eye contact for another tense handful of seconds more before his gaze dips. He looks down at the tiny tape his hands dwarf, considers something. Careful and meticulous, mulling it over in his head.

Shadows pass through Simon’s.

…Better to wait this out, though.

The blond watches Price’s severe visage lessen by a fraction. He tucks the tape away. Reseals the folder and slips it beneath the mammoth stack of papers on his desk. Ghost doesn’t know all the nitty-gritty, who’s seen that tape or if it’s been duplicated, in possession of another but for what he can see here and now, it’s been buried.

“…About what, lad?”

Simon blinks. Price flashes a close-lipped smile, warm eyes just a bit too crinkled to be considered kind- not that Simon’s ever gave away his guise- and folds his hands.

The flaxen badge on his crisp uniform glints when Ghost, betraying nothing, rises from his chair- and it nearly blinds him on his way out.

He stops at the door just before leaving, though, as if his legs are bound by some inexplicable force. He looks partially over his broad shoulder, just halfway to make the clarification.

“…She’s alright, for the record. Safe.”

“I know, Simon. I know.”

Ghost hears the crisp sound of upright papers bumping against wood.

A cue to leave. He takes it.

Home is waiting for him, after all, with open arms. And knowing that Johnny’s no doubt doting all over her— okay, home is waiting for him with open legs, too.

Bastard just better not be hogging up all her attention.

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [11]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 6k words cw: gore. 18+ mdni

he takes you home.

Ghost flicks the butt of his cigarette to the tarmac as he marches towards the Black Hawk, the gusts from the spinning blades quick to put out the smoke.

He yanks his balaclava under his jaw with a fist. Outstretching his arm he grabs onto the metal frame of the helicopter’s open door, leaping up into the near-empty stomach of the aircraft. A soldier on the airfield rolls the door shut after him, it seals itself shut with a click and a dull thud. 

Illuminated by the dim red of the bulb above, there you sit. Arms still locked behind your back, a sack pulled loosely over your head. It seems Soap had the conscience to find the same army-green woollen blanket that Price had given you last time, and tossed it over your bare legs. He can’t see you breathing. You must barely be sipping air. 

He contemplates leaving you like that, blind and silent, barely a shadow in the dark cabin. But he feels compelled, as he steps towards you and you flinch at the sound, to at least allow you sight. His chosen tactic of stoking terror in you has served its purpose, now - you are malleable, compliant, you’ve committed yourself to his plan. There’s little need to continue tormenting you. No practical need, anyway.

With a careless fist he clutches the top of the cotton bag, tugging it from your head and holding it tightly in his hand. You squeak, turning briefly away in fright as your sight returns to you. But as you realise your surroundings, quickly glancing around the echoing cabin, your gaze lands on him. Glowering up at him from under twisted brows, mouth barely open, you swallow. Saying nothing. 

Christ.

Look at you. 

Your eyes are hauntingly dark, puffy, stained with melted mascara oozing black from your lashes. Your hair is greasy, looks matted; frizzed and curled and crimped chaotically in your captivity. There’s a split in your lip, swollen and red, a speckled mauve bruise on your cheek. 

Gone is the image of that pampered whore. No longer do you look like some meticulously manicured empress, sheltered and ignorant, deserving of odium. It’s hard to picture you, even, in your nauseatingly expensive clothes, donning a priceless mink coat and diamond-encrusted heels, flittering about your mansions, plural. 

It’s difficult to see you for what you are. 

Like this, you are more reminiscent of a cat turned feral; once loved, once cared for, then apathetically abandoned - ill-prepared for the world outside your sanctuary, forced to turn primal to survive. 

Yet, you look more human, don’t you. 

There’s a hunger in your glare, deep within your shadowed eyes, but he can see it  - a fierce desire to survive. A potent craving to be free. He can see how much you despise him, how much you scorn your misfortune. How eagerly you’d slaughter him to gain your freedom, if you could ever overpower him. He can see you thinking, analysing, plotting. You must have run out of acts to keep up. Are you stuck on which role to play for him? You’ve tried your hand as the succubus, then as the damsel - what next, little thing? 

There’s something visceral about you, now. Stripped down to the raw meat. To your persisting organs, dark and thumping. To your very last resorts. You’re quite the little animal, aren’t you?

Your gaze shifts from him, then, to the black bodybag that lies on the checker-plate steel of the cabin floor, dumped coldly in a pile against the wall. 

“Is that him?” You ask, monotone, eyes fixed and glassy. 

Ghost nods stiffly. “Yes. That’s him.” 

You inhale deeply, slowly, you twist your head away as though it had offended you. 

“Not very mournful, are you,” he remarks dryly, a needless comment that he didn’t question before uttering. He just wants to see how you react. A poke with a stick. Because even still, he cannot fathom that you could have loved your husband. That you felt anything for him beyond a gratitude for his bank account, and for whatever protection he supposedly provided you. He wonders, believes, that what you must have felt was dependency. Reliance twisted in retrospect into an emotion easier to swallow. That feeling, he knows. 

You look at your knees, your body is rigid. “I don’t- I don’t know what I feel anymore.” 

He grits his teeth, gripping the handrail on the ceiling as the helicopter roars loudly and begins its ascent. Can’t think of anything to say. 

You remained dead silent for the duration of the flight, and therefore, so did he.

The driveway of your estate is expansive enough to allow the chopper to drop down close to the main entrance, vast and ornate as it is. Your palace almost glitters in the grim daylight, Ghost begins to wonder if all of the florid architectural details are plated in gold. It wouldn’t surprise him. 

As the aircraft lowers to a hover above the asphalt of the courtyard, Ghost disengages the locked door and heaves it open, the metal moaning and clanking as it rolls along in its fastenings. The cold is not nearly as vicious as it had been the last time he arrived at your mansion, but he can see the impending snowstorm rolling in over the distant pine-coated hills. A blessing in disguise - a certain delay to any arriving Ultranationalists that are yet to receive your distress call. 

He turns to face you, then, and you only gaze vacantly out of the door, at your blood-soaked mansion. Your skin is drained and grey, eyes glistening with a vague horror. He leans down to you, holding you by the shoulders and lifting you to stand. Swivelling you, he tugs a combat knife from its sheath on his belt, pokes it through the black cable tie around your wrists and slices it off with a pop. 

“Out,” he barks, loud enough to be heard over the thunder of the rotator blades, as he puts his knife away. 

You turn around and step past him, shoulder grazing his stomach. You hop down onto the driveway, yelping as your bare feet land in the thinning layer of snow. He watches with a crease in his brow as you wander sheepishly towards the towering doors of your once safe castle, almost aimless in your direction, you wrap your arms around yourself. Only thirty-odd metres, you’ll be fine in the dry cold for that long. 

He reaches then to pick up the bodybag, heavier than he had anticipated; he tosses it over his shoulder with a sour grunt, and sets out to follow you. Muttering an all clear into his radio as he jumps out onto the snow-coated cement, the helicopter immediately begins its ascent - leaving him here, with you, and all of the corpses of your decommissioned protectors. Not protective enough, were they? He’ll do a better job. 

Hauling your now limp husband, he approaches you. You’ve stopped dead. Within arm’s reach of the door that had been left ajar, you could merely step forward and return to the familiarity of your fortress - yet you are utterly frozen. Staring through the crack into the foyer like you had forgotten where you were going. 

He persists past you, barging open the heavy door and marching into the grand entryway, leaving bootprints in the sprinkling of snow that had blown in through the gap overnight. And he’s confronted immediately by a butchered corpse; one of your guards, whose throat he had slit and who had bled to death not a day earlier. He can see his face in the daylight. Looks young. 

Peering over his shoulder, you are stiff and unmoving. Gazing through his body as though you can see the body behind him. 

“I can’t-” you croak, “I can’t go in.” 

“Fuck’s sake-” He grumbles, adjusting your husband on his shoulder. “It’s your mansion.” 

You aren’t tearful anymore, and it perturbs him; instead you just stand as rigid as stone, wide-eyed and absent. “I can’t go in.” 

“The place is empty,” he says dully, simmering irritation seeming to fluctuate at each breath. A bitter impatience and an uncomfortable pity. “You’ll be fine.” 

“I can’t look at them,” you utter, barely shaking your head. “I don’t want to see them.” 

“What,” he looks back at the cadaver on the tiled floor, “the guards?” 

You grimace at that, pushing the heels of your palms into your shut eyes, as if you might block it out. “They were just boys,” you whisper, a quiet whimper escapes you, Ghost wonders if you had even intended for him to hear it. “Just doing their - their job.” 

He finds himself silently disconcerted. They were just boys, you say. Boys you hired to put their bodies on the line for your safety. Yet there is anguish in your throat - it’s potent, and quivering, and even he is unable to maintain his conviction that you are only performing your guilt. Why do you care? Are you ashamed? Do you blame yourself? He wonders if you’d react the same way, to the knowledge of how many boys doing their job had been slaughtered at your husband’s behest. Would you feel as guilty, then? Or did their deaths serve you better? 

Ghost sucks his teeth. “Weren’t doing a good one, were they,” he remarks richly. Pointlessly cruel. He doesn’t look at you when he says it. 

“You’re proud of yourself,” you mutter, now you are glaring at him. A lour of pity and disgust. 

His victim’s eyes are clouded, its throat open as wide as its mouth; even he can’t deny the gruesomeness of it. He blocks your sight of it where he stands. “Not of this,” he admits with a grim huff. “This is just work.”

You tighten the arms around yourself, trembling in the cold. “You sound like Victor,” you croak. 

Ghost bites down on nothing. Feels his temples throbbing with fury at the accusation, but he finds himself with nothing to say to it. 

“Get inside,” he orders, cutting through the turgid silence. 

You open your mouth to speak, or to breathe, but you do neither. 

“You want the sack back on, do you?” He questions impatiently, reaching into one of his pockets with a free hand to present it to you. 

You hesitate, merely blinking at him. But with a stiff shake of your head, you take a step forward. He moves aside to let you pass, unwittingly maintaining a position that blocks the view of his victim from you. You amble like an android, head locked, facing forward; you follow your nose down the ostentatious foyer. 

“Master bedroom,” he demands dully, as he follows you. You offer no verbal confirmation, but you make your way to your grandiose staircase. 

From behind you he can see the blood drooling down the stairs. Darkened and viscous in the hours since its spill. There’s a body at the top, he remembers, one of your mercenaries who had tried to sneak up on him. That one was met with a knife through the temple. He’d have warned you, but you’ve seen it already. He can hear it in your throat, the whines of anguish and repulsion, your toes inadvertently land in the dark red puddle. 

You sob, struggling to keep your head up, refusing to turn down and look at the corpse you can’t bring yourself to step over. 

“Keep going,” he grunts. 

With a quiet cry you obey, lifting your blood-stained foot and vaulting over your obstacle. Good girl. 

You seem to shrink in the unending hallway, dwarfed by the paintings that are taller than you, by the chandeliers that would crush you if their hangings were to snap. He recognises this hall as the one he had stalked you down. Remembers the vivid fury, the pure indignance that burned in his stomach at the sight of your exorbitant wealth, how shamelessly you flaunted it with your paintings and your wallpaper and your fucking twinkling chandeliers. It looks more grey in the daytime. Labyrinthine channels and empty rooms, lacking light or energy or care. A decorated cage. 

You disappear through the door to your master suite, and in quick but steady pursuit he follows you inside.

The room is bathed in the dull glow of the ashen sky, by virtue of the floor-to-ceiling windows that span two of the four walls. There’s an eeriness to it, untouched since his incursion; your blankets still tossed and crumpled from where Soap had wrestled and detained your husband, the bloody prints left by Ghost’s boots stain your cream carpet. 

They track to where he had found you, in your ensuite - and where you stand now, in the doorframe. You stare into the dark for a moment, wavering, before venturing inside. He decides to let you. Chooses to trust you. 

So he busies himself, carting your weighty husband and dumping him on the carpet at the end of your bed. Apathetically pulls down the zip with a shrill shriek, parting open the sack to unveil the pallid, faceless cadaver within.

The pride he takes in your husband’s fate hasn’t waned. Still relishes in how deserved, how karmic it is, as he yanks the polyester bag out from under the corpse. Leaves it lying haphazardly, face down, black blood smearing and staining the pristine off-white wool beneath it. To make it convincing, he considers, he tugs the glock from where he had tucked it in his vest; tugs back the slide, listlessly aims the barrel at the back of it. Fires three shots - back of the head, neck, shoulder - sending old blood splattering out from the cadaver and splashing everything in its vicinity. Each bullet erupts in thunder through the room, vibrates the glass of your windows, sends shudders across the floor. 

He takes the moment in the subsequent silence to inspect his handiwork; if examined by a coroner it would be clear that these bullet wounds were inflicted post-mortem. But he’s confident that your husband’s company will be quick to dismiss and bury his assassination, once in the grip of his rival - inevitably, Vladimir Makarov. In that man’s eyes, Ghost and his men had done him a favour. Created a power vacuum for him to slither into. He can’t imagine that the cause for that vacuum would be closely investigated. 

Ghost’s head perks, then - hearing your flitting movements as you step out of the ensuite, he spots you. Two strides from him, you stand dead still.  

Your shaky fingers curl around a black pistol - the Beretta, he suddenly remembers - the one you had first drawn on him, and that you had surrendered at his behest. You point it at him intently, holding it up with both hands, he sees your finger grazing the trigger. There’s a glint of challenge in your wide eyes. A curl of unease in your lips.

He doesn’t indulge you with a panic, or a step back, or a raise of his hands - though he does feel the racing in his chest, he is not immune to adrenaline. He merely keeps his eyes on you, minutely turning his body so that he faces you head on. 

He could, if he chose to, lift his own glock and shoot you square in the forehead in the time it takes you to blink. You’re quite bold in your assumption that he can’t, or won’t, kill you before you can even pull the trigger. But he doesn’t want to. Not yet. He keeps his gun tight in his palm but aimed at the floor. 

You didn’t pull the gun on him the last time you had one in your clutches, he considers, but the current circumstances are vastly different. Then, you were lost in the depths of the compound utterly unfamiliar to you, outnumbered by armed and armoured men that would shoot you on sight, or worse. Now, you are back in your domain. You know where to run, how to hide, who to call. Perhaps you are a better liar than he had thought. Perhaps your Soviet co-conspirators never presented any threat to you at all. If that were true, despite his doubt, you surely would shoot him. Try to, anyway. That’s what he would do. 

“Do you know how to use that thing?” He asks stiffly, tightening his fists in stifled frustration. Elects not to antagonise you but refuses to embolden you. You enigmatic little thing, you have left him desperately unable to read you. 

“Yes,” you murmur, but he can taste your reluctance from where he stands. Despite the violence of your world, you seem rather averse to it. Maybe you don’t have it in you. 

He inhales carefully. “If you shoot me, and I don’t die,” he grumbles, “I’ll fucking kill you.” 

“Don’t threaten me,” you challenge mutedly. He sees you raise the handgun just slightly, he can look down the barrel from here. 

“I’m not threatening you,” he goads, voice low. “I’m warning you.” 

You falter, just briefly, sucking down a sharp breath. There’s a twitch in your wrist, your catlike eyes align with the iron sights - and on sudden instinct, Ghost moves to lift the weapon of his own. 

But in that heartbeat you had pulled the trigger; he feels an immediate flash of blisteringly hot air gust past his hand, before an explosive jolt of the gun in his palm sends it flying from his grip. He grunts in shock and spontaneous anger, shaking out his whiplashed hand and glaring at you with a bloodthirsty fury. 

You raise your pistol again, eyes wide, he can feel where you are aiming to fire next - but now he sees only red. 

Before you shoot again, he storms rapidly towards you, immediately reaching for your arm and tossing it upward just as you pull down on the trigger. The eruption of the barrel blasts right by his ear, sending a rogue bullet colliding into the floridly plastered ceiling. The shower of white dust lands on his back as he stampedes you, unfazed - you shriek in dispute as he restrains you, herding you brutally before ramming you into the panelled wall, front-first. He tears the little gun from your grip, before pinning your arms behind your back, leaning into you with his entire weight and wedging you tightly against the wall. 

“Are you fucking stupid?” He growls savagely; his head craned over your shoulder, lips against your soft ear, he feels you wriggle defeatedly beneath him. 

His rage is red-hot and thundering in his temples, he viciously fights the urge to fulfil his warning to you. You shot him. You missed. Or, perhaps, you had aimed near-perfectly, if your goal was to disarm him. 

“Get off me,” you protest through teeth, barely able to use your voice with his crushing weight tightening your ribs. 

With a jolt, he pushes you harder. “Answer me.” 

A pained yelp escapes you as he shoves the air from your lungs, he finds himself unconsciously loosening his grip at the sound. “I saw a chance,” you breathe, “so I took it.” 

“Yeah?” He seethes, letting a hint of amusement slither into his tone. “How many chances do you think you’ll get?” 

“I don’t care. I’ll keep taking them,” you cry, your frightened honesty continues to confound him. 

“If you want, Mia,” he snarls, mouth still to your ear, “I can leave you here. I can leave you here with the bodies of your husband and all your fucking servants. You can clean up the mess, if you want. You can try to get the stains out of the carpet. Then what, huh? You gonna run away into the hills and freeze to death? You gonna call your fucking Russians to come and see the mess you’ve made? You know they’ll have questions, sweetheart. You know they won’t be as gentle as I’ve been.” 

You writhe in protest, and he tightens his grip. 

“Get off,” you groan, again, but he can hear your tenacity fizzling away. More of a plea than a demand. He supposes he’s finally getting what he wanted - for you to fight against him, to challenge him, and to lose hope in the futility of your resistance. He doesn’t find nearly as much satisfaction in it as he had hoped. 

“Is that what you want?” He demands, low and rough, ignoring your supplication. He leaves a second for you to respond, and when you only whimper, he persists. “Is it?” 

“No,” you croak. 

“You sure?” 

A whine slides from your throat. “Yes.” 

“Say it.” 

You draw in a quaking breath, as much air as his confinement will allow. “I don’t want you to leave.” 

He lets out a huff of satisfaction. “Then don’t take any more fucking chances.” 

When you give a cautious and reluctant nod, he finally decides to release you. You stay put, for the moment, with your trembling hand keeping you balanced on the wall. He keeps his glare on you as he pulls the slide entirely off your Beretta, taking it apart completely with a noise of clicks and snaps. 

Fury waning, heartrate steadying, he suppose can’t fault you for your attempt at escape. He knew it was inevitable that you would take it. But he hopes, for your sake, it is your last one. 

“You got a bath?” He questions tensely, as he marches towards the other gun that you had, somehow, shot from his grip. 

“Why,” you mutter leerily. 

“You won’t want to shower.” 

He looks back at you, then, tucking his handgun back into place in his tacvest. You have your arms around yourself, expression bitter and doubtful. 

“What are you talking about.” 

With an ireful sniff, he nods towards your ensuite door. “Go on. See how it makes you feel.” 

You dubiously shuffle into your bathroom, and he meanders over to lean in the doorframe. He’s going to watch you like a hawk for the foreseeable future. Your own fault, little thing. He no longer trusts your judgement. 

He spectates as you open the towering, shimmering glass of your shower door, reaching in and tugging on the lever to turn on the water. It cascades loudly out of the golden rainfall showerhead, splashing over the pearlescent tiles and spitting outwards onto the glass in a mist. Little stray droplets touch your skin, land on the tiles outside the shower, leave dark spots on the black sweatshirt he had given you. 

You reach a shaky palm towards the stream of water, holding it under the fall for just a moment; before you vacuum in a rigid breath and immediately tug back your hand, shutting off the lever with a slam. You whine, and sniff, as you wipe your wet hand on the fabric of your sweatshirt. 

“I couldn’t shower for a month the first time,” Ghost comments frankly, coarsely, his arms crossed as he leans against the white painted jamb of the door. Unsure why he admitted such a thing.

“You-” You hesitate, he sees your dark eyes well. “You’ve been waterboarded before?” 

You utter it doubtfully, yet accusingly. He grits his teeth, then nods succinctly. 

More than once, in actual fact - the first time a mandatory exercise as part of his special forces training, the next few far less quotidian, left far deeper scars. He swallows at the thought. Chooses not to entertain the memory as he feels his throat begin to close. 

“So you know what it feels like,” you chide weakly. 

“I do,” he says. 

Wiping your cheek with the sleeve of the sweatshirt, you glower at him. “Then why do you do it to other people.” 

“Because it works.” 

“Did it work on you?” You seethe. 

He bitterly begrudges your interrogation. Because the more you dig, the more he remembers. He remembers that they started with cold water, the cubes of ice that would land sharp and hard over his face - and that they then moved to hot water, not quite hot enough to cook his skin, but hot enough to emulate the searing pain of it. He remembers the burning ache in his lungs as they failed to suck down any air, only droplets of water and his own frothy saliva. He remembers thinking he had died, almost welcoming the release it would bring him; only to be painfully reawakened once they refilled the bucket and started the onslaught over again. 

“It did,” he murmurs, breaking the ugly silence of his reverie. 

You seem to soften at that, scowl loosening as you keep your stare hitched on him. Did you think he was merely an agent of suffering, little thing? Did you ever consider what kind of pain would have been necessary to turn him into one? 

“It was preferable to Graves’s idea,” he confesses hoarsely, though he immediately questions why he felt the need to offer any kind of justification. 

Drawing in a shivering breath, you look at the marble tiles under your toes. “The commander,” you utter. 

Attentive bird, aren’t you. “Mh,” he confirms. 

“What was his idea.” 

Ghost runs his tongue along his teeth, can’t help his eye from catching on the swollen bruise on your cheekbone, on the split in your lip, on the welt on your temple. “You don’t need to know that.” 

He watches your face as your lip begins to quiver, brows crumpling, eyes grow glassy with brimming tears; you look away from him as if to hide it. Can’t explain the swell of viscous guilt that churns in his stomach at the sight. 

“Draw a bath,” he abruptly orders, sniffing and adjusting his mask over his nose. “You’ll need to look like you haven’t left the building.” 

You nod, rubbing the sleeves of your sweatshirt into your eyes. “Fine.” 

Your mind is frayed. 

Your heart is tired, but somehow, still beating.  

Your instinct to retaliate had reared its head, only briefly - little rationalisation had occurred when you had spotted that Beretta on the floor of your bathroom. Once it was in your hands, your impulse had flooded you swiftly, hot and blinding. 

And you relished in it, while it lasted. Watching him freeze in place, witnessing him hesitate and walk over eggshells to avoid your pull of the trigger. Fantasising, for a brief moment, that you might let loose the bullet that would end him - that you could watch him die right there in the room he had taken you from, and that no consequences would come of it. Just that fleeting illusion seemed enough, at least temporarily, to bolster your spirit. You still had it in you. You could have outsmarted him, if you tried. 

But some small part of you is glad, now, that Riley had foiled you. Because you can’t fathom being left alone here -  surrounded by so many corpses, as he had reminded you, stuck in the same room as the bloated cadaver of your husband. You could call certain people for help, once the Lieutenant was dead or gone - if he would have gone as he threatened - they may have come to collect you, and maybe they would have believed whatever story you would have spun for them. 

But, you know how sorely unlikely that would be. How certain a death that path would lead to. 

The English soldier is frightening, and dangerous, and unpredictable - but at least, grudgingly, there is a glimmer of hope in the path he offers you. A dim guidelight in an otherwise black, echoing, endless tunnel. He makes his threats but he does not enact them. He restrains you but he does not hurt you. 

Not yet, you suppose - you do your utter best not to let the gorey images of the sentries he slaughtered flash into sight. You hadn’t considered how many there were. How many more there might be, spread about your mansion, or elsewhere in the grounds of your estate. At least, in your bedroom, you can’t smell the blood. But that was always the case, wasn’t it? 

How many houses, how many buildings, how many cities had been left like this in the wake of Victor’s campaigns? How many more bodies had been strewn through hallways and streets? How much more blood had been spilt? You’ve been willfully ignorant, blissfully so. Just as your hunter had so venomously shamed you for. 

There’s a wound in him, though. You can see it, despite his efforts to keep it obscured. You wonder how many more he might be hiding. 

He remains looming in the door of your ensuite as you lean over the clawfoot bathtub, sticking the rubber plug into the drain, and twisting the brass knobs. You try to hold a hesitant finger in the water, but you can barely keep it under the stream for even a second; feeling the splashes spray over your skin; scarcely long enough to know that the water will be hot enough. 

Whatever they had done to your mind seemed to you as indelible. A tattoo of suffering needled directly into the glossy, wet tissue of your brain. But there’s a strange, sick comfort in the knowledge that this man might know what it feels like. He might be able to understand what you are going through, even if he doesn’t care how it hurts you. Might you end up like him? 

Once the tub is full, you hastily lean over and twist shut the faucets, the steam billowing from the water lapping at your arm. You glance at him, then, and he still watches you scrutinisingly. When your brows knit doubtfully at him, he flicks his head in the direction of the tub. 

“Hurry up,” he nudges impatiently, spectating aloofly from behind his painted balaclava. “The longer we take, the less likely your friends will believe anything you say.” 

You curl your lips in distaste. “What, are you going to watch?” 

“You think I’m going to let you out of sight after what you just pulled?” He questions severely. 

Glaring at him warily, you stifle the urge to lash out at him. “Are you scared of me?” 

He chuffs, then, evidently amused; his shoulders jolt with a single huff of laughter. Doesn’t even entertain your attempts to outwit him for even a moment. The fucker. “Stop wasting time.” 

“Are you?” You pester, seeking now only to badger him out of the room. You yearn to be alone, if only for five minutes. 

You can see his eyes crease in their corners, his cheeks shift under his knitted mask. He’s smiling at you. “Do you want me to be scared of you?” 

You cross your arms demurely. “I want you to leave me alone.” 

“Not gonna happen.” 

“You’re disgusting,” you seethe.

Unfazed by your insult, he says nothing in his defence. “Get in the bath.” 

“You just want to watch me strip.” 

He rolls his eyes, you hear him lick his teeth. “Seen plenty of it already.” 

“You’re a pig,” you spit.

He grunts in exasperation, you wonder hopefully if he might simply back down and step out of the room. But, no, he stays obstinately put - so intent on staying, in fact, that he crosses one boot over the other, leaning his shoulder comfortably against the doorframe. 

“You’re not exactly the fuckin’ Virgin Mary, are you?” 

You feel your heart thundering in frustration, frenetic and quick to flare. “Fuck you.” 

He stands straight, then, and you feel yourself begin to shrink. “If I wanted you naked, I’d have left you naked,” he sneers, reminding you acrimoniously of his earlier favour. “You can wash yourself with the sweatshirt on, for all I care, just get in the fucking tub.” 

In honesty, you don’t hold your nudity particularly sacred. You didn’t have that luxury, in your lines of work - and by this point, it’s habit, whether you like it or not. Really, you just wanted him out of sight and mind for even a brief moment, long enough to catch your breath, to enjoy the silence - to pretend none of it had ever happened, and you had just simply had a nightmare before getting in the bath that evening.

But he is as obdurate as he is unperturbed, he stays firmly planted in the door. 

So you grip the hem of the thick black sweatshirt, tearing it upwards and off you in a single, hasty motion; your skin pricks and shivers near instantly upon its renewed exposure. You hurl the sweater at him spitefully, throwing it in a ball as hard as your arm could muster. It hits him in the chest with a thump, and while he seems briefly taken aback, he otherwise absorbs the blow.

Despite his efforts to seem utterly uninterested in your nakedness, his lidded eyes betray him. As they always do, for all the beasts of his kind. Though they take only a cursory glance, raking briefly from your eyes and downwards, back again. 

Not indulging him any longer, you lift your leg and step into the tub - dipping your toe into the water, you find it is only lukewarm. Groaning in defeated frustration, you reluctantly set both feet into the bath and lower yourself, sinking into the aquamarine water with a bitter sigh. You want eagerly to submerge your head under the surface. To relish in the dull, throbbing silence, to  pretend you are still in the womb of a mother different to your own. Maybe you could start from scratch, if you held your breath for long enough. 

But simply the thought of the water touching your face sends a surge of panic erupting from your heart - even the warm surface of it lapping at your neck makes a flush of anxiety scrape down your spine. You sincerely hope that the bath, though barely warm and vaguely triggering, might eventually relax you, even slightly. That washing off the filth and pain might make you feel better. But you feel the need to distract yourself, to stop your skin from crawling in the wetness - you take a pump of soap from the bottle of rose and jasmine bodywash, sat on the single floating shelf next to the tub, and rub it gently into your arms. The smell is a small comfort.

“I wasn’t going to shoot you,” you mutter absently, eager to fill the silence - you now find, while half-submerged, that being truly alone might send you into a panic attack, irrespective of your scorned company. You do your best to maintain an apathetic candour in your voice, but the agitation squeaks through despite your effort. 

“You did,” he argues tersely, tilting his head. 

“No - I mean, I wasn’t going to kill you.” 

He snorts, as though challenging the idea that you could have if you tried. “No?” 

You shake your head, keeping your eyes on your body as it ripples under the water; you grab another pump of soap. “I just…” you think aloud, lifting your knee out of the water and massaging the soap into your skin. “I wanted to feel brave. I just wanted some - some control over something. Just once.” 

While you question your needless, over-divulging honesty, there’s something rewarding in letting someone be privy to your innermost thoughts. You couldn’t share anything with Victor, not anything honest, anyway - and you wouldn’t dare to share with any of his compatriots, or any clients from your past life. Not your maids, or your cooks, or your mercenaries. Not even the women you considered ‘friends’, the wives of your husband’s co-conspirators - lest they turncoat and share every secret of yours with their own husbands. Everything you might have uttered would have made its way back to you. Would have returned to violently hurt you. 

Being welded shut, intently, is what you have been for the better part of your life - but, grotesquely, nothing you tell this man could make your situation worse. Would be heard by people that you don’t want it heard by. What does he care of your thoughts, anyway? What use are they to him? You may as well utter them to a brick wall, but at least now you know somebody is hearing them. 

When you flit your eyes to look at him, his stare is vacant. 

Maybe he overestimated you. Assumed that you could puppeteer everybody in your life, that you could whisper demands in your husband's ear, and that he’d obey if the words slid out seductively enough. Maybe he knows now how wrong he was. 

He draws in a tense breath, and releases it in a pained sigh. With a grumble, he chides; “You’re too brave for your own good.”

[stardustamaryllis78]

Hey, do you guys remember when these two were actually compelling characters?

Yeah, neither do I.

Bait is by far the most interesting character of these three and I'm not even joking.

But lets start at the beginning shall we?

Let's start off with Callum, the protagonist.

He is the son of Queen Sarai and step son of King Harrow 🐦 and the big brother of Prince or King Ezran, depends on which part of the show you're on. I guess spoiler if you haven't got past episode 3 where Pip dies and Harrow is forced to eat bird food for the rest of his life. (I have MASSIVE feelings about that "plot twist" but that's a potential post for another day.)

He struggles with the idea of being a prince because he believes he's not good at horse riding and sword fighting, things a prince should be good at.

Ignore the horse, Bait is the one clearly in charge, Callum doesn't know what he's doing.

All (kind of) jokes aside, he was dorky without being too annoying and him getting the Sky Primal Stone which in turn allowed him to use Sky magic which made him feel like he was for once good at something was interesting to watch, especially after he had to smash it to hatch a dying Zym and learn the Sky Arcanum through other means. A good well rounded character.

Then we have Rayla, who used to be one of my favourite characters.

Not anymore.

She was originally so snarky, sassy and feisty but in such a fascinating kind of way. She also had a kind and gentle heart and would do anything to help those in need. Plus, she had the inner struggle of being an assassin who cannot kill but that didn't really matter because she used her skills for the greater good anyway.

Its a shame her first and only kill in the show came in the form of herself.

Character assassination at its finest.

How did Rayla go from this:

To this:

Best Dragonguard of the century guys 👏

From a girl who would do anything to help others in need, even a dragon that would torch tons of innocent people to legit turning her back on a dragon in distress. This is not Rayla.

But how did it come to this you may ask? Well curious Tumblr reader, I have one simple answer. One simple answer that will burn so much of The Dragon Prince's fandom down and will cause an all out riot but let me just tell you, I'm speaking nothing but the truth.

The answer is:

Rayllum

Yep! Them becoming a duo literally murdered their characters and I still o7 them to this day 🫡

What was once two interesting characters who found solace in each other and set off together (and Ezran was there as the third wheel) to stop a war spanning centuries became a poorly written soap opera.

So where did it go wrong?

I'm gonna sound like a broken record in saying SEASON 4 📢 HAHA!

But no, not season 4, it was actually before that.

It starts with Rayla leaving Callum the nicest birthday present anyone could give someone - ghosting them.

Now you'd think that Rayla would at least wait a day or two after Callum's birthday so he can have an enjoyable day first but nope! She decides to dip on whats supposed to be a happy day for him and make it miserable. What a woman! 👏

Now you could be saying to me, "But she needed to go with full urgency!" To which, no she did not. She went because it was a mission of revenge, something she LITERALLY said herself so she could have waited a few days but she chose instead to make someone she's supposed to love miserable on a day of happiness.

But okay, she dips and leaves Callum sad and miserable on his birthday. Surely when she returns, she apologizes right?

...Right?

I don't think arc 2 Rayla would understand the word sorry if it bit her right up where the Moon don't shine.

Anyways, its two years later (Yes, you heard me, two years) and Rayla decides to finally unghost Callum.

Now, Callum is understandably upset with Rayla after taking off on his birthday and leaving without saying goodbye. So whats Rayla's stance on this? Is she understanding?

Of course not, this is arc 2 Rayla we're talking about.

Imagine letting the guy she let down have some room to sort things out in his head. Crazy right?

But anyway, he eventually relents to Rayla because she won't shut up in typical Rayla fashion and they both snooze on the couch.

This kind of soap opera drama goes on for THE ENTIRE SEASON while they just gradually "make up" and its just such contrived conflict. Especially as nothing came of Rayla leaving for those two years and it happened off screen.

Plus, her not taking accountability for her actions is a big deal.

Sadly the writers did it with this ship. ^

I love Red Herring story lines that are spent so much time on and are SUPER built up only to have literally no impact on the plot whatsoever. 🤗

Loved wasting my time on the Dark Magic Callum story line.

BUT HEY, he did get some great looking tooth-paste in his hair! 🪥 Looks great on you Callum. 🤥

Now however, I must talk about the most beloved of all seasons and no, I don't mean season 6 or 3.

Clearly I'm referring to season 7, aka, facing sucking the season.

Like seriously, if I ate a Moonberry Surprise every time Callum and Rayla snogged, I'd end up needing medical attention.

That's not the offender I'm talking about though. It's Rayla's super selfishness and Callum choosing her over his grieving brother.

Somehow, the writer's thought that was okay.

Remember, this is the same girl who left him for 2 whole years to put her need of revenge before his feelings.

Callum betrayed his brother for her.

But it's not even just that, it's just the selfish nature of Rayla in season 7. Ezran has just had Katolis burnt to a crisp, and all she can think about is herself and her own needs. Ezran's feelings? They don't matter. As long as she's happy, that's fine.

I don't even want to talk about them all buddying up in the Silvergrove happily while Ezran is still dealing with Katolis' fallout.

Plus remember, at this point, Callum still believes that Runaan killed Harrow. I get forgiving someone but bro is literally choosing the guy who assassinated the guy who raised him over his grieving brother. It's actual insanity to me.

There is much more I have missed but I have reached my Rayllum limit for the day. This ship is as fun as watching paint dry so I want to do something that is going to actually bring me joy.

Have a good day everyone! Peace! 🫡

[lilithlounge]

Mercury Retrograde in Aries – March 15, 2025: Welcome to the Cosmic Chaos.

Part two is coming up, Tumblr wouldn’t let me use more than 10 GIFS. DM me or hit my Ko-Fi for custom readings.

Brace yourselves, besties. On March 15, Mercury stationed retrograde in bold, impulsive Aries and it’s about to drag all of us, especially Fire signs (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius), into a cosmic cage match with our communication, tempers, and tech. And let’s not ignore the plot twist:

Mars (Aries’ ruler) just went direct a few weeks ago, which means aggression and ambition are peaking.

Venus is ALSO retrograding in Aries, aka relationship chaos in warrior boots.

In other words, Everything’s on fire, including your group chats. Let’s dive into how each sign will get roasted, tested, and (if you’re lucky) reborn.

Aries – Your Mouth is on Fire. Literally.

You’re already blunt, but now? No filter. No chill. Just chaos. Miscommunications, temper flare-ups, and impulsive decisions that make you scream “WHY?!” two days later. Slow. Down.

If you think you should “just say it” maybe… wait 10 minutes. Or an hour. Or forever.

Taurus – Unexpected Bills, Exes, and Existential Crises

You like control, but Mercury in Aries is throwing financial curveballs and weird energy into your self-worth zone. Exes may pop up block, delete, protect your peace. Ground yourself before reacting. And double-check your bank app. Twice.

Gemini – You vs. Everyone.

Ruled by Mercury, so you’re already sensitive AF to retrogrades. Now friends are testy, texts are misread, and your jokes are starting fights. Group chats = landmines. Choose silence. (I know. It hurts. But your peace will thank you.)

Cancer – Work Chaos & Sleep Deprivation

Emails lost, meetings missed, bosses irritated, and you’re one meltdown away from quitting. Your dreams may be wild too. Journal them. They hold clues. Protect your mental health and rest like it’s a full-time job.

Leo – Social Media Mishaps & Ego Bruises

You want attention. Mercury Rx gives you misunderstood posts, ghosting, or getting called out. You’re trying to be iconic but Mercury wants you humbled. Think before posting. Or wear sunglasses and be mysterious for once.

Virgo – The Control Freak’s Breakdown

Another Mercury baby, so brace yourself. Plans fall apart, people flake, and nothing is organized. You’re either crying or rage-cleaning your entire life. Let chaos exist, you won’t die if things are messy for a few weeks. Probably.

Libra – Relationship Rewind, Drama Edition

Venus retrograde AND Mercury Rx? In Aries? Your love life is a soap opera. Misunderstandings, arguments, that one ex texting “hey.” Protect your energy. Pause before reacting. Also: NO to the ex. (You know who I mean.)

Scorpio – Secrets Slip, Tension Rises

People are spilling tea they shouldn’t, and so are you if you’re not careful. Your patience is nonexistent, and you’re ready to cut everyone off. Observe. Don’t retaliate, yet. Let others expose themselves.

Sagittarius – Chaos? I’m Home.

Plans are canceled. Travels are delayed. Your energy is all over the place. You’re annoyed, unbothered, and loud about it. Welcome to your natural state, but amplified. Channel it into art, music, movement. Or burn something safely.

[str4ngr]

will you be mine?

cw: fluff, various character and different fandoms, gn! reader. synopsis: dates that they would take you on for valentines day <3 notes: making me jealous of ppl who don't even exist, bruh. divider by @bernardsbendystraws.

dinner. the rom-com, perfect night with a flutter of laughter in the air. soft, flickering light of candles as the aroma of dinner wafted in the air. the gentle clatter of utensils and plates, the murmur of other couples and patrons around you. even with such company, it was as though only the two of you existed, your eyes never leaving each other, your cheeks flushed with shy smiles. the food, although delicious, was secondary to the sweetness of conversation, of the connection that blossomed as the night progressed. neither of you wanted the night to end, for the tingle of love that made your cheeks ache with grins to leave.

⋆˚࿔ geto suguru, higuruma hiromi, reo mikage, micheal kaiser, kita shinsuke, oikawa toru, malleus draconia, john price.

movies. cuddled, wrapped, and warm in each others arms, a thick, soft blanket tucked under your bums as your breaths mingle together, the familiar setting of home making the night all. the more comforting. your eyes are trained on the bright light of the t.v., the dramatic dialogue, music, and intense plot making you gasp together, whispering to each other, trying to predict the plot. your hands intertwined, squeal at the plot twist, limbs flailing out as he groans when you accidentally knee him, your apology a hushed giggle as the movie continues to rumble in the background. he laughed and shook his head, scolding your chaos as you both huddled back together, continuing your occasional conspiracies on the plot and reactions to every twist and turn of the story.

⋆˚࿔ toji fushiguro, gojo satoru, yuuji itadori, meguru bachira, tendou satori, kuroo tetsuro, isagi yoichi, sukuna ryomen, simon 'ghost' riley.

baking. he never knew that baking could be so utterly chaotic. seriously, why was there flour across the table, on the floor, and all over his... butt? you laughed behind him, and his bum stung as he deadpanned, slowly turning around to glare at you. his gaze softened, no matter how hard he tried to scold you, his lips twitching into an affectionate smile as he threw a sprinkle of flour at you. you squealed just as the oven rang, ready to be loaded with cookies, muffins, and more galore. he hesitantly turned back around, brushing off the hand-print that stained his sleep pants, quickly pushing the pans into the oven. turning back to face you, he rolled his eyes again, playfully fighting with you as he tugged your hand from the bowl of brownie batter—not that he ate some as soon as you turned away—smiling into your flour-y hairline.

⋆˚࿔ nanami kento, shoei barou, ryuisei shido (he would throw the whole bag and spank you back), bokuto kotarou, leona kingscholar, johnny 'soap' mctavish.

museum. shoulder to shoulder, you walked through the expansive, slightly chilly, room, pausing every couple steps to gaze at the displays. his hand squeezed yours occasionally, his voice low and breathy as he explained small details about big pieces and their even larger meaning. he listened to you as you talked about the ones your recognized and understood. your shoes softly clicked in unison as you went room to room, taking the occasional photo of an absolutely enthralling piece. you weren't silent, but the quiet company of each other was more than enough, the feeling of your weight leaning against his should as you took a break. the way he rolled his eyes as he took your bag, carrying it without shame no matter how much he was 'reluctant' about it. he adored how you gushed over a exhibit that you particularly loved, his eyes momentarily stopping on it, before turning back to you.

⋆˚࿔ megumi fushiguro, hyoma chigiri, sae itoshi, hajime iwaizumi, kyle 'gaz' gerrick.

aquarium. there was a pep in your step as you two walked together, eyes wide as you gasped and pointed, pressing close to the glass as you two tried to find the fish the little plaque beside the glass spoke of so eloquently. ooh-ing and aah-ing over the strange and beautiful creatures that swam around you. walking through the tunnel was ethereal. the deep blue glow from the aquarium lightly tinting your skin his eyes stuck to your face, barely able to comprehend your words as you read of the placard about that specific tank of fish. his arm wrapped around you waist as the both of you walked through the dimly lit indoors, slow smiles creeping onto you lips while pointing out fish you recognized from previous tanks. oh, and don't even get started on the petting pool.

⋆˚࿔ choso kamo, yuta okkotsu, rensuke kunigami, rin itoshi, seishiro nagi, wakatoshi ushijima, akaashi keiji.

notes: mmm some of these kinda dont fit but like... you can just twist it a little in you head; there was a vision, promise.

[ghostheartfelt]

Hiiii! First of all I hope you're doing well <333 and second omg!! I loved your ghost smut 😭😭 I'm here to request smt if you don't mind, I've requested this before but nobody wanted to write it but feel free to not wrote it too if you don't like the plot but here we go:

Ghost breaks up with reader NOT because he hates her but because his next mission is really hard and dangerous and there was a really slim chance that he'd survive it. So he tries to push reader away to not hurt her feelings but things escalated and they break up but when he comes back from the mission they have make-up sex? 🤭 Thank you for reading all of this and if you can't write it then I understand, thank you for your time and effort 💗

*:･｡☆ a/n: hi anon~ thank you so much for being my first req!!!! And thank u so much for  the support. I’m so sorry i took forever to get to this! but you bet ur sweet ass i’ll write this for you?! I hope you enjoy this regardless of how long it took me to get to it. mwah! -ur bbg cure 

〔☆〕 desc: ghost is deployed on a mission in bangladesh that price explains as risky and complicated--ghost immediately thinks of you as the possibilities of survival are described as slim. him, gaz, and soap set out back to manchester, and no amount of talk is able to change his mind. he ends things off between the two of you, which arises a depressive state in you before he arrives and makes it up to you completely. (possibly takes place before ten minutes past?…. 👀)

*:･｡☆ tags: p in v, unprotected intercourse, whiny ghost if you squint, hand job if you squint, oral (f receiving), fingering, reader orgasms twice, cock warming, he sleeps with the tip inside<3, this hurt my breeding kink heart, pet names, possessive ghost, breast worship if you squint, break up and make up sex, porn with feelings. SMUTTY SMUT SMUT!!! not too bad, sadly.

—✩ N[EX]T REGRETS ✩—

word count — 4.3k

☆ (peep the song that inspires this writing...) ☆

Your hands are setting two plates on the dinner table; one for you, one for your boyfriend.

He was coming home from deployment—it’d been months since you’d last seen him, you’d lost track.

Silverware wrapped in cloth napkins are set beside the plates before you flick the cog of a lighter and ignite the candles in the middle of the table.

You turn yourself around to grab the cookie sheet of ribeye off of the counter after pushing on mittens, holding it in your palm as you place two steaks down onto one of the plates, then one onto another. 

Then you take the tray back to the counter and set it back on top of the table cloth so it didn’t damage the marble.

Regardless of the fancy dinner setup, you were still in a black satin night dress and fuzzy socks. You knew Simon would just dress down himself the moment he got home.

You scooped steamed vegetables onto both plates, then potatoes and gravy with a sprinkle of chives. 

When you place down the spineless wine glasses, you hear a heavy door slam causing a smile to crease your face.

Simon was home, he was going to come inside and he was going to hold you again for the first time in months. Run his hands through your hair for the first time in months. Kiss you for the first time in months.

You seat yourself gently on the dinner table, ankle crossed over the other with your elbows bent and palms pressed neatly on the wood as you wait for him to come inside.

You hear the door open, then shut, heavy padded footsteps approaching the threshold of the dining room.

Ghost is the one who comes through the archway—fully geared with the skull mask and helmet, the only thing he lacks is a rifle.

“Simon…?” You push yourself off your palms, confusion whisked on your face.

It was one of your rules, the mask stays off inside your home.

His eyes land on the neatly set table before they reach yours. 

You approach him slowly and he tenses, your eyebrows stitching together in concern.

His stomach twists inside of him.

Gorgeous minx.

Absolutely breathtaking.

Beautiful perfection.

He couldn’t say anything he wanted to—and god he had so much to say.

Your eyes flicker to the windows alongside the front door seeing two other bodies.

Armed bodies.

He wasn’t staying.

“Can you all stay for dinner atleast? I made enough for everyone…” you smile softly while fumbling with the straps of his vest. 

Stop touching me, you’re making this harder on me. Ghost swallows the knot in his throat. 

There’s a pause before Ghost backs up.

“There’s someone else.” 

It’s a lie, it’s a lie. It’s such a lie. Ghost 

Something inside your chest tightens and you swear that it’s your heart. 

“What?…” You scoff lightly, your eyebrows pinching together in disbelief.

Don’t make me say it again. Ghost inhales sharply.

“Simon…” you tilt your head slightly, extending your hand to touch him.

“Please, let me try to be better for you, give me a chance…” your lips quiver. 

You don’t need to try and be better for me. Ghost thinks.

He knew you’d been reading articles on how to be in a relationship with someone in the special forces—he’d found out and closed the lid, sat you in his lap and kissed you so softly, telling you that you were perfect for him and you didn’t need an article to tell you how to love him.

But you know it’s real when Ghost jerks his shoulder away.

You know it’s real when you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood as tears start welling in your eyes. 

You know it’s real when Ghost’s eyes evade yours. 

You know it’s real when Simon turns around and he doesn’t spare you a goodbye.  

You especially know it’s real when the door slams shut and rattles the walls around you.

It’s surreal, but you expected this. 

He must’ve found someone on base, you thought.

You feel your knees give in beneath you, and you’re met with the floor.

A hysterical sobbed scream leaves your throat as your trembling hand lifts to drag down at your lips.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

Ghost stands for a moment on the doormat outside of your home. 

Gaz’s hand finds a place on his back, the other holding his vest as he guides the larger male towards the truck they’d arrived in.

“Didn’t have to do that, Ghost.” He says, followed by a sigh.

“Did.” Ghost replies back as he seats himself in the back. “Wasn’t lettin’ her get my dog tags—she’s been through enough bein’ with me.”

Soap turns his head over his shoulder after sitting in the front passenger seat. 

“Ay, L.T, we all know y’ll make it back t’ya pretty lass.” He says. “Y’r one of we bes’ fighters, ain’t that righ’, Kyle?” Soap’s elbow bumped into Gaz’s ribs.

Gaz utters a strained noise before nodding, hands wrapping around the wheel.

“‘M not takin’ that risk, now shu’up ‘n drive. Cap’s gon’ ‘b pissy enough.” 

His head turns to look out the window as he feels the wheels of the truck roll down the driveway.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

It’s been seven months. Two-hundred-thirteen days. 

All you do is work, eat, and sleep. 

Eating, not as much as you should.

You couldn’t cook, couldn’t get yourself up from your bed the second you got home from work to start the stove.

You either sleep all day or not at all, there wasn’t a balance.

God, your living room was disgusting. Snot tissues were littered across the entire coffee table, empty champagne glasses, crusted food plates and crushed soda cans.

You’d resorted to hiring a maid just to clean your living room—which was the only room you stayed in for five months straight while your depression started getting progressively worse.

You lay on your side with a weighted blanket draped over you, holding you down comfortably. 

Simon stayed in your head, even after half of a year. He invaded your head. It drove you insane.

At the same time, you were scared of the day that he wouldn’t be your first and last thought each and every day anymore.

You bunch the blanket closer to your chin, your wet eyes have drenched the little area to hell. 

Things just have never been the same since Simon left the house–-you still happened to feel his presence next to you, hovering over you. 

“There’s someone else.”  His words settled an uneasy weight on your shoulders that you still were unable to shake off. 

A splutter of sobs escapes you once again, tears blurring your vision as they fall and your nose starts to clog. 

You try to breathe in, but you feel as though there’s not enough air around you. You breaking into a coughing fit is enough for you to push the weighted blanket off of your body and heave yourself up. 

Spit and drool creates several small strings between your lips–you’re practically foaming at the mouth from how hard you’re crying.

Tears flutter off your eyelashes and further blur your vision, so you try and rub at your eyes with the heels of your palms desperately. 

You stand up wobbly and start towards the bathroom, you didn’t have the energy to walk the extra couple of steps into your bedroom to use your own bathroom, so the guest bathroom would have to do for now. 

You turn the shower knob and pull it out towards you after undressing, then step into the warmth and sink onto the shower floor, hugging your knees to your bare chest and letting the water run over your face. 

Sobs cause your body to twitch and jerk, the heat in your eyes making your eyes burn as your breathing grows unsteady over the stream of water above you. 

You just wanted him home. 

But, he wasn’t yours to want home anymore. 

He wasn’t yours to crave anymore or to love. 

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

A door slams so hard air causes the fabric of his shirt to flail in the wind. 

Ghost had spent months struggling with the actions of his decision, where he had hoped that the choice would break you free of your shackles of worries when it came to the blonde when he was away. 

He spent every night and every rising morning worrying someone would take his place. It would’ve been his fault, he knew that, and it made him want to scream at the top of his lungs until they felt raw in his chest. 

He presses the lock button on his keys, hearing the locks inside the jeep click, then he jumbles with his keychain looking for the house key.

Ghost’s hands are shaking as he pinches the specific key and jabs it into the door lock, turning it.

When he hears the all-familiar click, he immediately pulls off his balaclava and pushes himself through the front door. 

There’s silence–pure silence throughout the house except for the sound of running water. 

She’s showering. 

A short amount of relief washes over him as he bends to untie the laces of his boots, placing them aside. 

When he stands, his eyes scan over to the living room and he feels his heart sink in him at the sight of the absolute mess made of the living room.

An overflowing laundry basket and take-out boxes that made the room stink of old fried rice. 

He throws his bag behind him against the wall before he walks himself towards the pile of laundry and begins pulling out shirts and pairs of pants to fold against his knee. 

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

You took a two hour shower, most of it being of you shredding any form of emotion from your body that you could.

Now you were sitting on the fur-covered toilet seat, running your lotion-coated hands along your freshly shaven legs. 

You told yourself you would try going to a club to replenish your sex deprivation. 

Steam finally clears from the mirror allowing you to look at yourself in the mirror. Your hands pull the towel off your head, wet hairs sticking to your shoulders.

The bathroom smelt of your coconut milk shampoo and body wash–it smelt divine. 

You thumb up your white laced bra and panties, plug in the blow dryer and scrunch your mop in your hands as you wave the blow dryer over your hair.

It seems like hours, being only nearly ten minutes until your hair is somewhat dry, but your arms are tired, so you unplug the dryer and wrap the cord around it.

You leave the bathroom and walk back into the living room, pausing in motion at the sight of it being clean–your laundry being neatly folded on the coffee table. 

“Kris? Is that you?” You call, not too loudly. 

She had a key to your home, but she had stated she wouldn’t be available this week due to some personal reasons she wasn’t required to go over with you.

You walk over towards the couch and drag your hand along the cotton material.

There was no reply to your call, which concerned you. You hadn't contacted any of your family members to come visit.

You slowly turn yourself around and the breath is practically stolen from your lungs. 

Simon’s standing across the room from you, clad in a black t-shirt and jeans, a belt secured in the front.

You watch his eyes drag up and down your exposed body, watching as he inhales sharply while his eyes narrow.

“Love,” He mumbles. 

Your eyebrows furrow and you lift your neck up. “Why–why are you here?” “Will y’let me explain?” He sighs. 

“Does she know?” You reply quickly with a shaky voice. 

“Does wh–” 

“Does she know you are here, Simon.” 

There's silence, then he licks his dry lips.

“There is no she.” He says flatly.

“No,” you scoff, running a hand down your face, eyes darting to the side as you listen to him walk closer toward you. “No…no. No–I remember specifically…” your angry, now.

Simon catches your lips in a firm kiss, but you push him away, and the look in his eyes makes your chest ache.

“Please,” Simon’s eyebrows pinch together. 

“Stop, just stop.” You seethe, pressing your finger into the midsection of his chest making him back up some. “You said there was someone else, you said–”

“I was lyin’, there wasn’t.” He pauses, frowning.

“Bullshit,” you shake your head. “Fucking bullshit, Simon Riley!”

“Let m’talk.” Simon says gruffly, his tone stern. 

You swallow thickly and lower your head in defeat after nodding, finger lifting so you can chew on your cuticle bed. 

“I…I let a debriefing get t’me. Said there wasn’t much’a chance of survival–can’t say much, y’know that…but I didn’t want y’to have to go through that.” He explains. 

His hand reaches down to lift your chin, thumbing at any stray tears making their way down your cheeks. “Forgive me, lovie.” Simon leans down to close the gap between you both again, this time you submit and his hand cradles the back of your head. 

The kiss is slow and passionate–gentle with its hints of dominance. 

“Missed you…” He mumbles over your lips, hands finding your ass to knead the supple skin.

You gasp slightly, but cave in to his touch instantly. “And I missed you…” 

“Please…never do that again.” 

His forehead rests on yours a moment, fingers toying in your hair by rolling pieces between his fingers.

“‘M sorry.” He murmurs. 

He wasn’t the type to apologize, you knew that. His apologies were sincere and meaningful.

Your hands grip his shirt.

“Over half a year, Simon…” Your voice is so low, you couldn’t even call it a whisper. “This whole time…”

“I know…I know…” He mutters into your hair, taking in your scent. 

“Will y’let me make it up to ya, love?” Hot breath rakes over the side column of your neck.

You simply nod, and that’s all enough for him to pick you up by your thighs and for you to wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him.

He guides you both into your bedroom, seating you on the edge of the bed.

“So fuckin’ sexy when y’r half-naked ‘n angry…” Simon chuckles dryly as he drags a finger up your clothed cunt. 

“Simon…please…” you mumble into his shoulder.

“I’ve got’ya, gorgeous.” He says cooly while laying you flat on the bed. 

Simon slips his fingers past your panties, his cock twitching in his pants at the feeling of your wetness spreading along his fingers.

“Ffff..uck, babe, you're so wet for me ‘lready…” he whispers.

You gasp as his finger slips up and down between your folds, making you twitch as he passes your throbbing clit.

“So fuckin’ divine…” he purrs above you, eyes full of love and lust. His other hand finds a place on your thigh, squeezing the flesh as he works at your warmth.

You whine, watching as his teeth bite at the lace lining of your panties, pulling them down as his eyes don’t stray from yours.

“Oh…fuck…” you bite your lip gently, the action making you fanny flutter to the point of aching.

“Jesus…” he breathes against your thigh, pressing his lips along the skin and sucking it until he’s satisfied with the markings.

Simon scoops up both of your legs by the crooks of your knees, spreading them apart as he shifts down to rest his knees on the ottoman spread across the end of the bed.

A shuddered moan releases from you as his tongue prods at the hole in your cunt, then drags up to swirl around your sensitive bud. 

Your hand grabs a tight hold in his hair, making him groan against your core and increase the pressure and sensation in your stomach.

A whimper leaves your throat as he sucks and laps at your pussy, making you buck into his jaw.

“Jus’ like that, baby,” he growls onto you, pressing a wet kiss onto your clit. “Y’gon cum all over m’face like a good girl?” 

You mewl and cry out as Simon slips a finger inside, your back arching and thighs jerking.

“Simon!” You gasp loudly as your fingers dig into his back over his shirt.

His tongue drags flatly up your cunt, collecting all your juices—he’s practically drinking you. 

Another finger pushes inside gently, curling inside that same spot he’s able to find so effortlessly each time that makes you go wild.

“Gon’ c…cum…” you stutter meekly.

“C’mon then,” he urges. “Cum f’r me.”

Simon quickened his pace and the pressure, pumping his fingers in and out, in and out.

Like he was starved, his face presses closer into you, tongue toying at your clit making you twitch against him.

There’s an unbearable heat between your legs as you feel a knot tie in your abdomen when Simon levered his fingers deeper into you. 

“Good…” he groans, pressing his tongue inside with his fingers as your walls clamp around him desperately, a strained moan leaving you as your orgasm snaps.

You cum, hard, and grip his shoulders with both hands as his fingers fuck your orgasm back into you before he finally pulls his fingers out to coat your thighs in your climax.

Simon sucks out his work, then spits it back out onto your heat, slapping your pussy and releasing a deep groan.

He licks his fingers clean, his tongue sliding between each finger. 

You lift yourself up by gripping his belt, slightly wobbling before his hand finds a spot to rest on your back.

“Fuckin’ hell…cum drunk ‘lready, sweets?” Simon bends down to take your mouth onto his, taking the chance to slip his tongue between your lips when you moan into his.

Gently, you palm his hard cock over his pants, eyes squeezing shut then opening to find your place on his belt and fumble with the buckle.

“Mm—y’find what you were lookin’ f’r?” He pants heavily before his lips trail down your jawline to lick and suck at your neck. 

“Oh..fuck…” he murmurs, lips brushing against your skin. 

“Want you so bad, Si…” you moan, lifting your head to grant him better access. “Want to feel you inside of me.” 

He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere across the room while he kicks off his pants that you helped pull down Simon’s hips, lips then coming back down to tease at your collarbones and neck.

“Ooh..ho…you will, don’t y’worry, sweet girl.” His cock sprung free out of the restraints of his boxers, making him groan hoarsely.

Simon’s fingers tap on the outerside of your thigh. “Turn over,” he demands.

You babble out nonsense that is incoherent as you flip on your stomach and one of his hands gather both of your wrists. 

He’s on the bed now, between your legs with one hand holding you up by your stomach. 

The head of his cock teases at your entrance, lips trailing up your spine.

“Y’want it?” He growls. “Huh?”

He inhales sharply, nudging the tip into your greedy hole. “God…you do…” 

“J’s suckin’ me in like th’needy little pet y’are.”

You moan out a chant of pleases, cheek pressing into the comforter of the bed as he arches and positions you to his liking.

“Y’want this thick cock in y’r empty pussy.” 

“Yes…” you mumble, backing into him 

softly until you take in his entire tip which causes the larger man to apply more pressure into your stomach. “Fuck me, please…please…”

“Oh…Mmm…Such a good girl beggin’ f’r my cock.” Simon praises, letting you bounce on his tip for a few moments.

“Tha’s right baby…jus’ like that…I own this pretty little cunt, don’t I?” He snarls. “Nobody else’s to fuck.” 

“Only yours, just yours,” you nod helplessly, earning a positive noise from the man behind you.

He takes in a sharp breath before slowly he inches himself into you farther, stretching you. 

Filling you.

You moan loudly, your walls closing around his length making him push out the same noise.

When he bottoms out in you, his tip kissing your cervix, he retracts and ruts back into you, the sound of skin slapping filling the room as he hisses and breathes harsher at every thrust.

“Oh…” he sighs in ecstasy, releasing your wrists so he can grab the fat on your waist.

“Yes…” he moans, every contact with your hips causing the breath in his mouth to jump and fall.

“Tight little pussy just swallowing me,” Simon hisses through clenched teeth as he painfully yet deliciously stretches you open to his size. “So—fuckin’ sexy.” 

“Want y’to cum in me, please…” You gasp, clawing at the comforter as he bucks himself deep into you, filling you up and emptying you, repeating that motion over and over.

“Want me to fill y’with my seed?” He chuckles, a moan interrupting him. “Tha’s what my slutty pet wants?”

“Fucking yes! My god, yes…” you pant, muttering and whining unintelligibly as he slams back into you and makes your ass slap against his thighs. 

“Too bad,” he croons.

“Simon…pl..ease..” you moan.

“No…no, I can’t…cum in ya, love. We—we ain’t thinkin’ straight…” Simon’s cock twitches inside of you as he continues ramming his hips into yours, a guttural groan tearing out of him. 

“I can feel y’tightenin’ around me, j’s beggin’ to cum around my fat cock…” 

“There y’go…Bounce that gorgeous ass on me, j’s how I like it, babe.” Simon strains, hand roughly smacking the skin on your hind. 

You squirm against him, making the blonde growl and grab your hips with a bruising grip. “Y’feel me stretchin’ y’r tiny pussy?” 

“Mhm? Y’do?” He grunts, heaving above you as he thrusts himself into you. “Fuckin’ take it, filthy fuckin’ minx.”

“Look at you, such a pretty pet, bent to my content…Pussy out on display.” 

“Gonna cum, gorgeous, all over your perfect belly.” He mumbles and flips you onto your back.

You moan shamelessly and loudly, whining as he pulls out of you and starts stroking himself while playing with your pussy.

“Fu…u…ck…” his head leans back as you massage his balls and replace his hand. “J’s likeee…that, perfect girl…”

He rubs his middle and pointer finger over your clit at an inhuman pace, making your body jolt and try to push away if it weren’t for his hand holding you roughly in place.

You roll your wrist up and down, pumping his cock in your hand until he takes control again and smacks his tip against your lower abdomen, spilling out his cum onto your stomach with a choke of your name.

Simon’s body twitches, pants and swears rolling off his tongue in a pleading voice as he covers you in his warmth.

“C...C’mon lovie, cum all over my fingers again, let me sss…see y’come undone f’r me again…N…Need to see it…” He stumbles over his words as he comes off his high, an undertone of a whimper in his voice.

It makes you pool, your ego skyrocketing at the fact that you can do that to someone. To him.

Simon’s fingers hit every perfect nerve inside your pulsating cunt, curling and plummeting into the same spot of overwhelming pressure that brought you over the edge. 

A tightness coils in your stomach again, and he absolutely fucking loves the strained noises that spill out from you at every rut of his fingers inside of you.

He loves the way he can get you wrung out at every pet name and gentle touch, the way you clamp your thighs together at the smallest motions.

Simon knew your body better than you did, and he fucking loved it. He knew every spot that drove you absolutely mad and every crevice that had the ability to make you beg just how he wanted. 

Your eyes shoot open from their half-lidded proportion as Simon finds a certain spot that sends electricity throughout your entire body, making you cry out and dig your nails into his scar-ridden flesh.

“Righ’ there, huh, princess? Righ’ there?” He hisses which drawls out to a throaty growl, hammering that same spot with more pressure. “Couldn’t stand bein’ away fr’m this pussy f’r so long…” 

You chant ‘yes’ over and over again until your gasping and panting his name, your breath catching in your throat as you let out a loud cry through your climax, thighs trembling as they slowly close around his forearms in reflex.

He lifts your thighs up again and sits you on his lap as he pulls the covers over the both of you.

“Did s’good for me, lovie. Mmm…S’proud of you, baby.” Simon whispers, catching your lips in a ravenous kiss as he presses his cock inside of your warmth, pushing your climax back into you in a tranquil motion. 

“‘M gonna be right back, okay?” You coo against his lips as you swing your legs over the bed, he gives you a small ‘mhm’.

You quickly give yourself time to use the bathroom, then wash your hands before you walk yourself back into the room, crawling back into his lap before he turns the both of you to the side.

Simon unclips your brassiere and drops it onto the floor, cups both of your breasts in his palms and moans as you slide yourself back down onto his cock.

“Mmh…So warm…” he whispers huskily while kissing the nape of your neck down to your collarbones.

He spoons you, lulling you into a state of drowsiness as he gently massages your tits. Simon’s breath is a gentle pattern over your neck, gentle snores leaving the barriers of his lips after his hands go still.

You don’t take long to catch sleep right behind him, turning your head a moment to peck his wet lips before you’re able to finally shut your eyes.  

[wherethegoldenleavesfall]

gihun headcanons???

Well first off, I have this headcanon that Gihun was born premature. That since birth, Gihun has been fighting the odds. That Gihun was a fighter from day one.

Others are miscellaneous:

-Gihun's fear directly turns into anger. His fear fuels it in other words. He will fight, freeze, or fawn once he is in danger. He has no care if you insult or hurt him, however he will physically fight any gods or get into argument with them. Or both will happen if they go after his loved ones.

His anger has multitude of levels. 1. Self blame. 2. Wrath is based on injustice and unfairness. 3. Fury is based on being complelety done with people. Like a look that says I am tired, you are being stupid, leave now or else. 4. Is when Gihun goes completely silent, stewing in rage, about to explode.

As the wise prophet Shrek once advised.

-Gihun has a strong, powerful death glare. You have 5 seconds before I go feral. To kick your ass or verbally dominate you in an argument. The strongest is the I will end you twice over, take up necromancy, and end you once again.

-Gihun is neurodivergent. I see him having ADHD, autism, BPD, C-PTSD, depression and obsessive compulsions. I can provide evidence for each, even for the one not mentioned above. Not a cis person by any means. I fully see pansexual Gihun. But Bi Gihun is still valid.

-Gihun upon seeing Sangwoo for the first time thought I will protect this boy and be his hyung. Just picture baby Gihun with I do not care how you feel about me, but you will love my Sangwoo look.

-Was considered a slacker, not any teachers favorite by a longshot, class jester, clown, and scagegoat.

-Gihun struggled in school big time. Had no support or accommodations at school. Was heavily stigmatized in school when younger and still is well into adulthood years.

-Is an engineering genius, dabbles in all engineering fields, excellent mechanic. Pity that Dragon Motors exploited and overworked Gihun so bad.

-self taught themselves engineering and all relavant fields that engineering correspond with.

-Being blacklisted from all Engineering fields devasted Gihun. To the point Jungbae was desperate to get Gihun out of the house and well you know how that went.

-is a surprisingly good at drawing and sketching, keeps so many blueprints around the house.

-can be very hard to read at times during their quiet moments in season 1 and 2.

-is a motor mouth typically, in their calculation mode, Gihun would have the quiet moments mentioned above.

-as Jungbae can attest too any soap opera, sitcom, or any law and order shows will be ruined as Gihun nails every character beat. Who fathered Susie's baby, not her husband Mark for sure. Who is the murderer, its the kid next door. As a result knows the plot twists a mile away. Gihun will take all the fun out.

-can read people's auras and their emotional states well. Knows who to trust, who to avoid, and how to read the mood in a room fast. Is very loyal to people unless proven otherwise; that loyalty blinds them to betrayal though.

-Gihun's faith in people and humanity is an ever twisting, burning, serrated-metal clawed-out heart that still remembers past betrayals but refuses to remove the knives. Refuses to let any ghosts go as well. Gihun is already fully aware of how bad people can get. Gihun is under no illusions despite what a certain someone -cough inho cough- thinks.

-when asleep, heart rare and pulse go so low that Gihun is frequently shaken awake by a worried Sangwoo, his mother, or a concerned Jungbae. Does sleeptalk on occasion. Is prone to sleepwalking as well.

-loves to cuddle and sleep by other people as Gihun seeks heat out in their sleep.

-is a very tactile person and learner.

-can learn fast, will ask stupid questions to see what the person would say or what they omit. Can catch people in a contradiction fast. Can calm down situations fast. People let their guard down around Gihun like spellcraft. And is underestimated constantly. However, Gihun believes they are completely stupid and grossly incompetent.

-Gihun is a scrappy, adaptable, emotional, fierce, messy, and loving disaster of a person.

-did not win their squid game by plot armor, pure dumb luck, or both.

-was and is a complete mama's kid. Even though Malsoon in younger years was always on Gihun's case, was a tiger mom, and was always working. So Gihun, was mostly left alone to own devices.

-Gihun's extracurriculars were ballet, gymnastics, and figure skating. Point being that in iceskating circles, Gihun was referred to as the "Ice Royal".

-growing up took great pride in eating all their spinach and other green foods so they can grow up big and tall. To Malsoon's pure amusement.

-Gihun learned basic vet skills to care for any injured, starving strays. Gihun also knows how to groom them; to take care of them for a short term until they are well again. You can pry that headcanon out of my cold dead hands.

-Malsoon does not know but Gihun has resorted to prostitution and escort service in the past.

- Gihun's favorite colors are pastel shades. Especially the rainbow. Pastel Princess always. Invented the term drama queen.

After the games though, the rainbow 🌈 and pastel colors are gone. And his smile is gone.

-Gihun's favorite animals are kangaroos, elephants, hippos, horses, lions specifically lionesses, tigers, echidnas, the platypus, and wolves.

-Gihun names all the horses he bets on and I like to think he also looks them up.

-as a demigod, Gihun has adhd and dyslexia. Demigod dreams was how he knows what the Frontman looks like.

-after Gihun won the 33rd Squid Games, the aftermath of the final game was dubbed by the workers as the Bites of 2020. As 20 workers were attacked, mauled, and bitten in many places from them trying to pry off Gihun from Sangwoo's body. Put his body in a gift wrapped coffin to take him away. All while Gihun lunged and screamed at them to stop.

-Has many paradoxical character traits. I have found a post with unique character traits. Gihun has 2, 4, 6, 12, and 13 in my eyes.

-entered the squid games already traumatized before, a stepford smiler.

-Trauma post games involve Gihun trying to not take up space by limiting food intake-possible eating disorder. Gihun's room is so painfully bare.

-Gihun has so much insecurities, that if they were money, Gihun would be rich 5 times over. Gihun's insecurities have insecurities. I suppose you can say that they have layers like onions and ogres.

-can be oblivious and callous, rude, or sharp with people. Can be literal minded. Can be violent, deranged, and way too fired up.

-sometimes forgetful, loses focus easily; has skewed priorities at times. Has a limited mouth filter. Can lose the big picture to only see. Can be too food obsessed at times; as demigod big three children have supercharged metabolisms.

-out of box thinker. Loves to keep wires along with a small toolkit in their pockets.

-in a smore competition with Jungbae, Gihun lost to fire 🔥. Jungbae forever holds it against Gihun.

-Gihun and Jungbae's combined antics are the talk of their hometown and neighborhoods. Especially the incident that shall not be named so help me Jungbae.

-once when they were young, Jungbae asked Gihun to promise him. Bros before jerkasses allowing Jungbae to have veto powers over any freaks or non freaks Gihun will date in the future. Especially if they will be Gihun's future spouse or romantic partner.

-has Cloudcuckoolander tendencies and intentionally acts stupid sometimes to get a response, information, or further info ie probing someone's mood. Sometimes is just oblivious to their impacts on other people for good or bad.

-Loves chocolate milk because of the sugar. And well Gihun is lactose intolerant to regular milk.

I hope these are good enough. Sorry for the long wait. 😅

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

Just gonna slide these into your asks. Some Valentines GhostJade for us all.

Did Jade plan this? Yes.

Did Ghost know he spent the rest of the day with lipstick stains on his mask? No.

Did Soap, Gaz, and Price try their best to keep straight faces around him? Yes.

Did they succeed? No.

And did Ghost give his payback as good as he got? Well that's none of our business is it...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACKKKKKKKKK!!!!!

Such a wonderful and lovely gift!!! You never fail to amaze me Pix!! .ヾ(≧▽≦*)o

And wonder what's Ghost's payback to her 👀 hmm hmm hmm~~

Plot twist : Ghost made Jade clean his mask with makeup remover since 😂😂 Yep that's their Valentine's Day plan.

Thank you Pix!! You're the best!! 💗💗💗💗💗💗

[credince--writes]

I'm thinking about the Better Off Dead series right now- and the first sexual encounter of Roach & Getter.

(Poly!Soap x Ghost x Roach x Reader)

Smut Below The Cut

Sorry I wrote this on my phone. Brainworms.

This is one of those 'man I have this idea but I don't want to write the oodles of plot that would lead up to the scenario

You're pawing at eachother, anger meeting in a clash of tongue and teeth that reminds you of home.

Stumbling back, back back and into Gary's room not thinking much of it

The pounding in your ears and the sounds of rustling clothes tunnel visions in on pulling Gary's shirt off and over his head- tossing it forgotten to the side

It's a bitter ritual of begging for forgiveness- his hard body going soft and placid beneath your fingertips as you push him back- direct his body as you see fit. Pushing down- the sudden loss of contact of skin only because his feet caught on a pair of boots tucked neatly at the end of the bed.

Back colliding down onto the soft surface below- a soft gasp leaving Gary's lips before you climb on top.

Your hands, you would always recall in these moments- are so much smaller than his. But yet wrapping your fingers around his wrist he allows you to pin his arms over his head.

He knows the second he breaks the illusion of power you're gone.

You're so, so angry.

The glob of spit left your mouth without even thinking. One hand leaving his wrists to breach your thumb against Gary's lips, press down against his tongue and hold his mouth- hot and wet open.

There's no words. Nothing is spoken but the glazed, hazy look in his eyes tells you enough that all the anger, red faced bile sinks its claws into your throat- clawing up and up until-

"You fucking whore-" you grit out, ignoring the hot feeling on your cheeks, the breathy way your condescending words leave your lips.

He just groans, rolling his hips up against your own.

Yanking down his trousers and briefs, roughly taking his cock in hand and giving him a singular dry tug down the length.

He bucks up, finally- noise- retribution leaving his lips as a groan leaks out into the air. A thick, choking smog.

It's not loving.

There is no care in the actions tugging your own bottoms off before fulling seating down on his cock.

You see the strain of his biceps as he holds himself back.

Back when he was a good boy- he'd be able to wrap his hands around your soft middle. Lifting you up and down on his cock when your eyes went cross.

Pawing at your tits, pulling you close to suck on them.

No, this wasn't the past.

You want to be mean.

Hateful.

You want to hurt like you've hurt.

You played with your clit when you ride him, ignoring the desperate, airy huffs of air leaving his lips.

Your orgasm hits, much to your dismay.

You hand leaves his wrists, but he dares not to move them from over his head.

Both hands planted on his chest, fingers digging into the collarbones beneath the flesh.

The ringing in your ears subsides before lifting your hand and slapping Gary across the face as hard as you can-

Grimacing as his cock twitches inside you

It fills you with a dreadful anger- the scab peeled off. Naked in front of him- all of the emotions come rushing back.

You lift your hand again.

A large, much larger hand wraps around your wrist. Engulfing your hand in a way that makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise-

Danger, predator.

The top of the food chain.

The apex.

You twist your neck, a small breath you hope is undetected unwillingly leaving your lips as Gary's cock pushes against the spongey ceiling of your insides as you lean back

Ignoring the twitch of your toes

Only to be greeted with the skull balaclava

You thought you were mean?

Oh, you're about to meet someone much, much meaner sweetheart.

[juvenillia]

hey hi Jules! i love ur writing... dopom is simply amazing and i cant wait to see where the story is going now ❤️❤️

so i saw that ur kinda taking reqs so i wanted to ask what do u think how the 141 (+ Konig) would react to a reader who moved on from them? maybe a bit hurt/comfort yk

i hope ur fine with such a request, love ya ❤️

Hey there anon and sorry for coming back to your request that late, but tbh you request fitted my one shot for Ghost so damn perfectly that I wanted to finish that one beforehand so I could shamelessly promote it with your request another time, so thanks for your request and your love for DoPoM!! I love you!!! (that fic is my baby and I literally can’t wait to show you where the story will lead soon, atm I’m writing the big plot twist for the story but pssst)

Moving On [headcanon]

a/n: Maybe I got carried away, but I hope you still like it. Still I think it's not my best work. No matter what the reason of your breakup was, the man you love/d wasn’t happy about it. Still those men have really different ways to deal with the breakup and aftermath. In my head the obvious reason for the breakup would be that they want you to be happy, that they can’t bear the thought of the continuous angst and worry you must live through because of them. Maybe also a bit of jealousy, or maybe you decided to go because you couldn’t keep up with the longing and lonely nights anymore. Let’s be honest, dating one of those men would be heartbreaking and thrilling at the same time, you’d need nerves and patience like the soldier they are. It’s not for the weak.

tw/cw: slight mentions of suggestive content, toxic behavior, depression, guilt and more

Characters: Soap, Price, Ghost, Gaz, König

》Master Post《

Johnny – Patience/Eagerness – Would simply not stop being your partner. Yes, you broke up, but why should he leave your side? He denies the thought that you don’t need him because he knows you do. He’ll make sure to show you that you are indeed in no need of any other man than him in your life. Will keep referring to you as his significant other anywhere he goes. Will keep the cute polaroid of you in the pocket of his tactical vest. You need someone to help set up your new ikea bed in your new flat? He’ll be there in no time to lend a helping hand. You try to turn his favors down, but he reminds you anytime: “We’re still friends bonnie, aren’t we?” and he’s right. You couldn’t just shove him out of your life, he means too much to you after the years spent with him. And don’t let me get started of the idea that you’d go out with a new man and the date went horribly wrong. Johnny would make sure to lend you a shoulder for you to cry on. Stroking your hair, reassuring you that no matter what he would never leave your side. Not pushing you to far out of your comfort zone. Maybe he starts to accept that you both are simply friends now, very close friends. But anytime he asks you about your latest attempt to date someone new and you tell him how bad that guy treated you, a new glimpse of hope is added to his heart that still is beating only for you. He would love to scream at you that if you’re willing to try he would be the man carrying you to the altar in no time. But he knows you need to see it for yourself that he still is the right choice for you and he’s willing to wait for you to open your eyes.

Price – Jealousy/Possessiveness – But not in the bad-bad way, only a so much that it’s still kinda attractive you know? This man will let you go because he knows it’s for the best, but he won’t leave your life. He is confident enough to think that you won’t find anything better than him. He shared everything with you, and he knows everything about you. You’re going out with your girls, he will be at the same bar, scaring away any man that only dares to look at you for too long. You will once a week get a bouquet of your favorite flowers with a little handwritten note. Nothing more than a little compliment like “Pretty flowers for the pretty Mrs.” and you know that handwriting too well. Anytime you manage to hook up with someone new, he would be there too. Catching your glance, walking past you with a little “That’s my replacement, love? You can do better than that…” Only mumbled so you’re the only one to hear it. He won’t force you into anything back but makes sure that whenever you try to forget about him, he’s right there to shove his presence back into your head and heart. He doesn’t ask you out, he wants you to come back to him. And after a long time, and many bad dates you eventually realize that you won’t get happy with a different man. So, when you get weak and crawl back to him, he’s going to make sure to show you how much he missed you, and that no man would make you feel like he’s able to. And believe me, he’s making sure you won’t leave another time.

Ghost – Anger/Guilt – He does understand why you left, always tells himself that you’re better off without him, still he feels so much anger inside of him. Anger aimed towards himself. He is angry that he couldn’t be the best version of himself around him. Angry that he couldn’t be the man you needed; you deserved, what sends him into a downward spiral of guilt. Guilty of everything you gave up for being with him, guilty about everything you invested into that relationship, just to break every string off. Just to discard you out of his life, because he knows better than anyone that you deserve better than him. Still, he feels the pure selfishness in wanting you back in his arms. He would straight forward tell you how he feels at this point. Knowing that he isn’t the best to talk about his feelings but knowing that he has to try his best to get you back. So expect something like “I would do anything to get ya back.”  You were the only thing giving him a place looking forward to return to and finally rest, how could he give up to that? The only thing that convinces him to keep out of your life would be the realization that you really are happier with another person. And if you’re interested in that even more I recommend reading 》 happier 《 my one-shot about that exact storyline.

Kyle – Grief/Shock – Can’t handle the breakup and is devasted. He locks himself up, doesn’t talk with anyone about it. He wouldn’t try to talk you into staying with him, because he loves you too much to try to force something on you. His mind is always circling around all the things that might have prevented that outcome. Everything eats him up. He leaves your life without a trace for you to take. Not wanting to get in your way. Still, he makes a private fake Instagram account to still be able to have an insight of your life. When he notices that you started dating a new man his heart breaks again. The last bits of hope for a shared future shattered into million pieces. You were his person, there won’t be anything he could do about it. Nothing could convince him otherwise, but he sees that you seem happy with the new guy, so he learns to live with the pain in his chest. Is laying between the memories you shared and will always hold onto them. Maybe at some point found the courage to tell you, that he’s happy for you new relationship and that he is still grateful for everything you went through with him. But he really didn’t expect an invitation for your wedding to land in his mail. Still, he goes, because he knows it makes you happy. Seeing you in the white dress, kissing your now husband, it really makes him tear up, still he’s forcing a smile onto his lips as he tells you, that he can’t stay long because of duty. You gave him a quick hug, thank him for his coming with the same sweet smile he fell in love back then. “I missed that smile a lot.” He admits and leaves your life completely afterwards. Still, the sight of you in that dress haunts him at night, knowing that you’ll never be his.

König – Denial/Pity – Hear me out, I do believe he would straight up say no. Like you tell him you want to break up with him and he is just like. “Aber nein, mein Mäuschen [Well, no, my little mouse] You don’t want that.” You are not allowed to leave him, sure he is reasonable and will talk things out with you, but you won’t be able to leave him so easily. Promising that he’ll do better, that he’ll change. He knows you better than anyone and will try everything to keep you in his life. You’d need to leave him when he’s deployed, the only time he couldn’t hold you back. So, when at someday you’re out with a new guy he finally steps in. Wrapping his arm around your waist, glaring at the man in front of you. “Do you really thought I’d let you go?” he mocks and strokes your side gentle. He sees how you still melt under his touch, because he knows that he had ruined you for any other man. He knows that you only wanted him, so he openly shows his pity for that poor guy that never really had a chance in the first place. But also, the pity he feels when he sees how hard you try to move on from him. He would never deny your desire, so he takes you back and reassures you once more, that he loves you and that you don’t need to leave him. That he will always come back to you, no matter what. You’re his reason he fights and survive.

[ghcstao3]

I saw your tags, you have challenged me!

Scary Show AU (cw for cannibalism and murder)

Ghost is a very well-known yet still semi-anonymous Voice Actor for spooky shit. There's a huge following for him because, regardless of what role he's playing, he does a phenomenal job. He's only listed in the cast list as "S.R.Ghost"

Typically he plays the role of the creatures in this super popular show called "Cryptid Season" which follows a gang of college kids desperate for extra credit in their Biology class so they hunt cryptids as evidence/to study for their papers. He does the voice over and some of the motion capture (he's a big dude) for the monsters and such, his most famous one being "Goatman" (from the demonic Goatman's bridge in I think Texas?)

Meanwhile Soap is this animator who's starting to become really popular, and he announces a new show in the work: "Consume", where he voices one of the two lead roles. It's presented as a show about a normal, if not very lonely man, being tormented by a demonic presence in his home.

Plot twist: dude's actually a cannibalistic serial killer and ends up quickly befriending the demon. The demon helps make the man harder to track by police forces in exchange for the bones and souls of his victims.

Cast:

Soap as the killer

Ghost as the demonic entity

Gaz as a detective who's new to the case but also best friends with Soap's character

Price voices the seasoned detective who's been working this case "too damn long"

Ghost and Soap ABSOLUTELY fall in love while recording scenes together. The banter, the flirting, the sexy scenario of cutting up a corpse together; it's too much not to fall in love irl

(actually such a big brain idea but I don't know how you'd write it tbh lmao. Maybe the show itself, where the boys keep their names? Idk the original idea turned into something much greater)

took a minute to figure something out i'm ngl but i did. something (in any case i would love to see your proper takes(s) if you'd be up to it, seeing as it's your idea!! i feel like i couldn’t do it justice)

-

Just like any other actor, Ghost had to audition for the role.

His agent books it for him without consultation, knowing the project would be right up his alley—horror, monsters, no face required—and Ghost makes no argument in sending in his tape. He recognizes this process and takes no issue with it, and once out of his hands, he waits patiently for a congratulatory offer or a gentle rejection.

Just like any other movie, or show, or what have you. Consume is no different.

Supposedly. At first.

John "Soap" MacTavish is... many things. He's charming, according to most. Talented. A joy to be around. A man who wears more than several hats of a project, which certainly tells of someone trying to worm their way into the commercial industry.

He has the spirit and creativity, Ghost will allow him that. But he also doesn't know when to stop talking as soon as the important work is done.

Is Soap professional? Sure. Does Soap make sure all jobs are done with efficiency and done well? Yes, he does. Does it make him any less of a nuisance to Ghost? Absolutely not.

But Ghost would be damned if the project doesn’t find its way into his soft spots, despite its nature. He’d be damned if he doesn’t fall in love with Soap’s animations and the hard work and craft he puts into them.

Then he blinks, and the pilot is premiering. It does well (again, considering its content), and Consume is properly green-lit.

Which is when Soap proposes the idea of recording their lines in the same room. Together. Facing one another. Because banter, and chemistry, and whatever other reasons he insists upon.

Personally, Ghost wants to decline. He’s always felt somewhat awkward when recording as such with anyone, but professionally? He couldn’t really say no, could he?

And it is awkward, at first. There’s more takes than usual, and Ghost can sense Soap’s frustration, though the man never expresses it. He just plasters on a tight smile, calls for a break, and pulls Ghost aside.

Surely, surely this is where Ghost gets fired. This is where Ghost is told he’s going to be replaced, where he’s told to say goodbye to Gaz and Price and wish them luck, and move onto his next gig. This is where—

“Have I done something wrong?”

Soap’s face is so earnest. So painfully sincere.

Ghost clenches his jaw. Shakes his head.

“No, I—“ He sighs. “Just have to get used to the… face-to-face. Let’s—I’ll try again.”

Soap smiles wider, now, as he nods, something kind and warm and brilliant.

The second try goes much smoother. Ghost takes a deep breath and eases himself into scripted dialogue, into witty banter and subtle flirts like it’s any other project.

They continue to record lines as such, just the two of them, each episode at a time. At some point, Ghost worries, the line between script and show and reality gets blurred. At some point, he fears, that flirting becomes genuine.

And what would he know—the reviews only get better as that line becomes less and less clear. Natural, real-feeling dialogue, critics say. The relationship is authentic, claim viewers.

The love is actually heartfelt.

And fuck, if that doesn’t make Ghost realize a few things about himself.

About Soap.

Consume is no different, his ass. He might have to have a stern talk with his agent in the near future.

(Or not.)