#soap vibes

[lay-z]

If anyone would know what kind of ASMR I'm listening to right now to help me fall asleep, you'd block me immediately.

It's marshmallow ASMR/eating sounds. 🙂

[boolger]

I see no difference

[may12324]

"Here, there Where the sight rather flees And the heartbeat leaks And the lighted mouth Rather chokes"

[623-74x]

fun first date ideas for you and your man

[3amfanfiction]

what about a johnny who becomes a proper ghost. can walk through walls, can't touch anything without a whole lot of concentration, basic ghostly vibes.

then you move into his house and he's pissed. this is still his space, why are you here, and you're moving everything around? absolutely not. he's not gonna stand for this.

so he puts in the work he's been procrastinating and learns how to properly affect his surroundings and gets to work on scaring you away. little does he know with the housing market as it is, you have no intention of leaving no matter how many ghosts are here with you. and it sure sounds like a lot with the ruckus johnny puts up.

so johnny gets more and more fed up. he eventually throws a full blows temper tantrum right as you're about to have guests over--throwing things, lifting them up into the air and letting them drop, ghastly wailing, running taps, the whole 9 yards.

you’re normally able to ignore him and set things to right after he loses steam but this time the clock is ticking. you’re at your wits end, up against a wall. you come to a decision and figure you've got a 50/50 shot of this working.

you raise your top and flash your tiddies at him.

silence.

everything falls from where it was hovering and quiets. the house almost lets out a sigh.

you take a breath and lower your shirt, happy that it worked only for it to be yanked off your head. you look down and watch your nipples extend, ghostly hands you can't see plucking at them. no matter how you try and fight, you can't get your shirt back down over your chest.

maybe this was a bad idea

Pt 2

[krn-art]

AU where I ship em as an old married pair who meet and realize their partners suck.

Also, that whole movie shoved in a series worth of plots into 2 hours.

✧Reblogs help artists more than likes ✧ ~Please don’t repost or use my art~ (Commissions are open right now in my shop!)

Two old farts in a haunted house? One has a kid from an old marriage, the other has a banshee x-wife who tried to kill him? Like, he meets her while trying to escape his ex and she agrees to marry him instead since her fiancé admitted to not loving her except for her money. But she needs to be married to keep the house and he wants to be human, so marriage of inconvenience but they end up liking each other and stage ghost stuff for her show. Something something he lives or she dies and we get a dramatic ending.

----

♫ I don't think that I can take it~ 'Cause it took so long to bake it~ And I'll never have that recipe again~ ♫

MacArthur Park by Richard Harris

[cupidsworstcrime]

[...fauxcest (brother/sister) , (the illusion of) non/dubcon , catfishing as foreplay]

step brother!johnny x f!reader

smut , obviously

the words "inbred" & "incestuous" used in a kink sense but not in a literal way , consenting & non-blood-related adults being unhinged little freaks

AN: they were not raised together, despite somethings johnny says , thats just him being on some absolute FREAK shit

He tells himself it's harmless.

A fake account. A few messages. Maybe a picture or two. You’re a tease anyway—you always have been, even if you don’t mean to be. Walking around the house in those soft little shorts, brushing past him in the hallway with your sleepy voice and your stupid pet names. Johnny. J. Big bro.

You’re not his sister. Not really. Just a few years of living together and suddenly everyone thinks he’s supposed to be your guardian angel or some shit. Nah. Not when you look at him like that. Not when you curl your legs up on the sofa and sigh his name like it means something.

The first time you sent a picture—half-joking, half-daring—he had to bite down on his fist to keep from groaning. Almost came in his fucking joggers. And when he messaged back from his burner, pretending to be some online boyfriend of yours?

You didn’t hesitate.

He jerks off to you every night now. In the garage. In the shower. Face down in his mattress, biting the pillow, moaning into the sheets like some pathetic bastard. He can’t stop. Can’t look at you without imagining your cunt wrapped around his cock, your throat filled with his name.

You're so good for him. So eager. So trusting.

And so fucking stupid. God, you’re stupid, aren’t you? You think you’re safe in this house. That "Johnny" would never. That your step-brother's just some dumb soldier with a big mouth and a soft spot for you. You don’t see the way his hands shake when you bend over. You don’t see how he stalks your bedroom door some nights like a wolf.

You don’t know.

You can’t know.

Because if you did—if you even guessed—you’d stop. And he’d go mad.

So he keeps the lie alive. Keeps messaging you while you sit in the same house. Asks for more. Coaxes it out with filth. Tells you what he wants to do and laughs when you send it like a gift.

Tonight you sent him a video. Slow fingers. Wet sounds. Whispering the name of someone you don’t even know. Someone who doesn’t exist.

And Johnny came in his hand so hard he nearly blacked out.

He’s in his bed now. Phone open. Staring at the freeze-frame of you spread open for him, lip caught in your teeth.

He types:

"Wish I could taste you. I’d ruin you for anyone else."

Sends it. Watches the little "Seen" icon appear.

Then you type back.

"I should invite you over next time J deploys... <3"

His blood freezes. Every molecule in his body goes silent.

He stares at the screen like it’s cursed. Like it’s bleeding. Like it just cracked open and called him out.

His cock twitches. Almost types: Just come to my room.

No. No no no no—he closes the app. Paces. Breath ragged. Eyes wide. You can’t know. You can’t. You’d hate him. You’d scream. You’d run.

Unless—

He sinks into the bed.

And starts getting hard all over again.

It starts with a dare.

“No bra today. Bet it’d make it easier to take pics for me, sweetheart.”

He’s already sweating when he types it. Heart thudding like a drum. He adds a little emoji to soften it—just in case. Just in case you hesitate. Just in case the guilt dares to wake up in him again.

But you don’t hesitate.

You send a photo from the kitchen. From his kitchen. Arm pressed across your chest, nipples barely covered, shirt so thin it’s basically see-through in the morning sun.

“Like this?”

He doesn’t even make it to the bathroom. Just fumbles his joggers down in the hallway, cock hard and aching, jerking himself raw while staring at the screen like it’s a shrine. Like you’re a shrine.

He tells himself he’s doing you a favor. Teaching you how to be sexy. Making you feel wanted. That someone should.

But he’s not that clean. Not that noble.

He’s a fucking freak, and he knows it.

So he keeps going.

“Tiny shorts. No panties. Need to know you're a good girl for me.”

“Sit on the couch like before, love. Snap a pic while someone’s around.”

“Touch yourself in the hallway. Just a little. Think about me.”

You do it all.

And it breaks him.

Because sometimes you do it even before he asks. Wearing those little cotton things that ride up your ass, leaning over the counter like you don’t know he’s watching from the doorway, chest braless, thighs soft and spread on the leather cushions.

He can smell you on the sofa.

And the worst part? He swears you're getting bolder.

Once, you dropped your phone in front of him and bent down without thinking. He saw everything. No panties. Just skin and a little string of slick, catching the light. He nearly groaned out loud. Had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled.

You smiled at him after. Sweet. Innocent.

He had to go jerk off in the garage like a fucking feral animal, fist pounding against the wall after he came, panting your name like a curse.

He’s not sleeping anymore. Just watching. Wanting. Messaging you from the other side of the wall.

He dares you to go further. Pushes it. Tests you.

“Rub your thighs together at dinner.”

“Don’t close your door when you change.”

“Sit on John's bed when he's not home.”

He can’t tell if you’re playing dumb or playing along.

And part of him doesn’t want to know.

Because if you’re doing it for him—if you know it’s him, and you’re still teasing him like this—then that means you’re just as fucked up as he is.

And that?

That makes it so much worse.

So much better.

It was supposed to be a normal night.

Dinner. Dishes. You laughing at something on your phone, his messages, the ones he sent to ruin you. The ones you think belong to some random guy you met online, the one you've been showing your tits to for weeks like it’s a normal thing.

But tonight?

Tonight you walk into the living room in those tiny shorts—the ones. The ones he told you to wear when you're "feeling needy." No bra. Hair messy. And no shame. None.

You bend over the couch, reaching for something on the floor. Phone in one hand. Face down. Casual. Oblivious.

And he sees it.

The curve of your back. The way the shorts ride up—completely split you open. You didn’t even pretend to wear underwear. Your cunt is right there. Soft, glistening. Inviting.

His throat goes dry. His cock’s already stiff in his jeans. Blood roars in his ears. He takes a step forward before he even thinks.

And then he sees it.

Your phone screen. Camera on. Recording.

You’re recording yourself—facedown on his couch, ass arched up, cunt peeking out beneath those shorts—and you’re doing it for him. For your “online boyfriend.”

For him.

As if your fucking step-brother cant fucking smell the sin leaking out of you.

"His" name leaves your lips, the one on that stupid fucking account, whispered low for the camera. "Hope you like the view..."

And that’s it.

That’s the moment he breaks.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room. Just the burn in his chest. The ache in his cock. The rage and the desire crashing together in a single molten scream behind his teeth.

Your body jerks as he grabs the phone from your hand, slamming it onto the coffee table. You whip your head around, eyes wide—but not scared. Never scared.

You’re smiling.

“Johnny,” you breathe, sweet as sin. “You finally gonna stop pretending?”

He doesn’t speak. Just grabs your hips with both hands and pushes your back down, until your chest is pressed to the cushion and your ass is tipped up just the way he likes.

He palms your cheeks, spreads you open, and growls—growls—at the sight of your cunt glistening for him.

“Fuckin’ little minx,” he hisses, voice shredded. “You knew. You’ve known this whole time.”

You nod. Gasp. Wiggle your hips. “Wanted to see how long you’d last…”

He bites your shoulder. Not gently.

“You think this is a game?” he snarls into your skin. “You’ve been walking ‘round my house—my fuckin’ house—like this, for me? For my cock?”

You nod again. “Who else would I do it for?”

That’s when he loses it.

One hand pins your wrists to the small of your back. The other rips your shorts down, so fast the seams pop. You’re bare in seconds, cunt dripping, back arched, breath hitching.

And Johnny?

Johnny is feral.

“This what you wanted, baby?” he breathes, grinding his hard-on against your ass. “Wanted big brother to fuck the brat outta you?”

Your moan answers for you.

He kisses your spine like a man dying of thirst. Bites your hips. Tells you you’re his now—always were.

And as he finally pushes inside, sinking into you with a guttural moan, one thought tears through him louder than the rest:

She knew. She let me. And she still wants more.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, hilting inside you with a sharp snap of his hips, “tightest fuckin’ cunt I’ve ever had—‘course my little sis would be the one to ruin me.”

Your breath hitches. He feels it.

The way your walls flutter around him, all soft and soaked, like you like hearing it.

You do.

You do, don’t you?

“Ohh, you fuckin’ freak,” he grits, grabbing your hair and yanking your head back just enough to hear you pant. “You like it when I call you that? Like bein’ bent over the couch by your big brother?”

You moan something that might be “yes” or “more”—doesn’t matter. He’s gone.

“Actin’ all sweet ‘n innocent ‘round me. Callin’ me Johnny like you don’t spend every night spreadin’ your legs for me behind a screen. Like you don’t love this sick fuckin’ game.”

He thrusts hard—cruel and deep—and your whole body jerks. Couch cushions shift beneath you, muffling your whines. He keeps your wrists pinned behind your back, your ass tipped perfectly for him, so he can watch your hole suck him in again and again.

“You liked knowing I was watchin’, didn’t you?” he growls. “When you wore those fuckin’ shorts—no panties, tits bouncin’—you knew it was me. You wanted to tease big brother ‘til he lost his fuckin’ mind.”

He leans down, voice a snarl in your ear.

“Well, congrats, baby. You broke me.”

His free hand slips down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight little circles just to hear the way you whimper. You clamp down around him like you’re gonna cum soon.

“That’s it, fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, half-lost in his own filth. “Take big brother’s cock. So proud of my little slut—makin’ me come in my hand every night. Leavin’ your scent on my fuckin’ pillows. I should’ve known you knew.”

Your legs start to shake.

“Oh, you gonna cum?” he taunts, hips slapping into your soaked thighs. “Gonna cum on your brother’s cock like a dirty little inbred whore?”

You sob out a yes.

He grabs your throat, pulls you up so your back arches, so he can whisper filth straight into your ear:

“Cum for me, little sis. Cream on big brother’s cock so I know you’re mine.”

And you do.

Hard.

Shaking and gasping, cunt pulsing around him like you were made for this.

And Johnny?

Johnny’s not far behind.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you,” he growls as his hips slam forward, burying himself to the root, balls tight, cock twitching. “Fill you up right here on the fuckin’ couch—where anyone could walk in, where Mum used to make us sit for family photos—fuck—”

He groans low and ragged as he spills inside you, hot and filthy, hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud.

After, he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t let you up.

Just lays there over you, breathing hard, chest heaving against your back, cock still twitching inside.

“You’re never gettin’ away from me now,” he murmurs, voice thick with sweat and come and obsession. “Not after this.”

Not after you made big brother your personal ruin.

You're still face down on the couch, twitching under him, his cum leaking down your thighs.

But he’s not done. Not even close.

His fingers dig into your hips as he starts to move again—slow at first, then harder, meaner. His cock’s still thick, still buried deep inside you, and now it’s soaked in slick and his own mess.

And he leans in, whispering filth right into your ear.

“You ain’t even my real sister,” he mutters, kissing the side of your throat like it’s a confession, “but fuck if I don’t wanna pretend you are.”

Your breath catches.

“You like it when I say that, yeah?” His hips grind against your ass, cock hitting the deepest spots. “Like hearin’ your big brother call you a fuckin’ incestuous little whore?”

You moan. You hate that you moan.

But God, it ruins you.

“You’re not even blood,” he growls, voice shaking, “but I think about it all the fuckin’ time. Pretend you are. Pretend I watched you grow up, used to sneak into your room just to see what kinda panties my little sis wore—used to jerk off with your name in my mouth.”

You whimper under him, thighs trembling again.

“Dirty little thing,” he hisses, hand wrapping around your throat. “Would it be worse if you were mine? If we had the same mum and da? Same blood? Still wouldn’t stop me. I’d still fuck you just like this.”

He pulls back just to watch—watch the way your body stretches around him, how you drip for him. How you’d let him do anything.

“I’d still bend you over the couch. Still ruin you. Still fill your womb every night like it’s my fuckin’ right. Like you were born for me.”

His breath is hot against your back. His thrusts start to shudder—harder, deeper, sloppier.

“Say it,” he pants. “Say you’re my little sister. Say you like it.”

Your voice is shaking, raw, almost crying—but not from pain.

“I’m your little sister, Johnny,” you whisper.

His hand tightens on your throat.

“Say you need your big brother’s cock.”

You sob it—needy, wrecked. “Need it—need my brother to fuck me—always have—”

That’s all it takes.

He cums again, burying himself so deep you swear you feel him in your gut. Hot, filthy, possessive. And he doesn’t pull out. He won’t.

Even if you’re not blood, even if it’s pretend—he’ll keep fucking you like you are. Keep whispering filth into your ears until you forget what’s real.

Because it’s his fantasy now.

And you’re never getting out of it.

[ghcstao3]

soap can never quite place ghost’s accent. at first he suspects it’s just a cause of ghost having grown up in various places, or maybe some constant influences in his life during childhood. but then sometimes there’s these glimpses of very out-of-place accents, sometimes accents soap doesn’t recognize in the slightest.

(it would be quite some time before soap figured it out—or, well, before he was told—because it’s not something he would’ve guessed in a million years. the same day he learns supernatural creatures are real is the same day he learns ghost is something of an ancient vampire who’s just about completely lost track of time and accents and sometimes languages, though the last one isn’t as often a problem as it is an asset with how often they work internationally. somehow this explanation makes a lot of sense to soap.)

[paintedimagery]

Brainrot. Pure brainrot.

[drgnflyteabox]

something to remember you by

pairing: soap x fem reader summary: your boyfriend wants some memorabilia of you to take on his deployments. only, he wants his superior officer to take the photos. w.c: 3.7k tags/warnings: dubcon, cucking, mild degradation, oral (m + f, rough), hair pulling, un-negotiated kink, dom!soap, clothed man naked reader, teasing scent kink (m + f), one (1) pussy slap, crying, squirting, unprotected sex, some anxiety, reassurance mid-fuck, overstimulation, some aftercare, abrupt but open ending, reader has some internal shame around sex/kink, reader doesn't rlly like her bf

At first, it’s nothing. Dirty talk, suggestive texts, passing comments while he’s on his second deployment with a hand around his cock and you pretending to be into it.

"Think about it, babe," he’s panting, but it’s less sexy when you can tell he’s deepening his voice on purpose like Christian Bale Batman. "Don’t you wanna give me something to remember you by? While I’m out here fighting for you?"

Corny. So fucking corny. Your feet are kicked up on your coffee table, fuzzy-socked, face schlopped with a cooling gel mask. Quarter past 8 o’clock, and he’s trying to sell you on letting one of his army buddies fuck you and take pictures of you. The absurdity makes you almost laugh.

"…babe?" Oh, shit.

"Yeah honey, I’m here." You’d kind of feel bad, if it weren’t for the ick factor. It wasn’t that you didn’t like him, he was fine, it was just that since he’d joined the army he’d inched closer and closer to picking up a mic and dictating which body counts were okay to women over podcasts. That, and he’s gotten hornier. Kinkier.

Which is fine, really. Only you don't consider yourself adventurous. Sex is like a chore, something to put you to sleep, to relax the muscles. Relationships are quid pro quo - I suck your dick, you make my parents think I’m succeeding in life, deal?

Not to mention, you've never even considered stepping outside of the idea that sex is between committed couples only, sequestered away and hidden in the closet like old clothes.

"So, are you picturing it?" Schlap schlap schlap. He must’ve added lotion. "You can say no obviously, ughnnn, but I know this guy really well. I'd, ahhh fuck, sit in the other room."

"Thanks for being so considerate," you sound dry, but you’re honestly intrigued. Life has been monotonous since graduation, the transition from study to office… rough.

You aren’t adventurous. But you’re so fucking bored.

"Can I see him first?" On the TV in front of you, muted, Matthew Macfayden confesses his love tearfully in the rain. You want to be bewitched, body and soul. To feel something.

"So you’ll do it? Oh, fuck-" Not what I said, you think. His voice goes high, reedy, trembling with his orgasm. "See how fucking hot this makes me? I’ll send a pic, give me a sec."

It’s a group photo. He’s dressed in his uniform, head shaved, standing next to a group of a dozen or so men. Outlined, at the far corner with a group of guys big enough to dwarf a good third of the rest, is a man with building biceps and a smarmy grin and a confident, wide-legged pose. Hips jutted out. Fuck, he’s hot. You can see his bulge through his pants, through the picture, under a heavy tac vest.

"Get in, get in!" the apartment is clean for once. At least, clean without you getting sick of his clutter and playing maid. Did he do it himself to impress his friend? That makes you snort, but he doesn’t catch it, too preoccupied with his phone.

"Um, woah-" you start, taken aback. It looks like a porn set. There’s a plastic sheet on the ground in front of the couch. "I thought this was supposed to be casual?"

"It is, babe," he’s brushing you off, same as he did the few days leading up to this. You’d gone through some minor confidence and judgment crises, anxiety building like a balloon about to pop. All of which he’d brushed off.

It’s all fun and games, babe. Plus he’s done this before, he’s like a pro, showed me some videos - that was something you hadn't agreed to, just some pictures for him to take on deployments.

Still, trepidation makes you sweat, makes your thighs stick to the brown leather couch when you sit and try to sip water. Your socks crinkle the sheet.

You don’t turn when he arrives, still too nervous, knees stuck together and hands slipping on the glass from condensation when they start talking behind you. There’s too many what ifs - all reasons you’d used to avoid hookups in college, all reasons you wanted to break through your shell now.

Plus, you’re sick of hearing "did you finish?"

"This must be her," says an accented voice, gruff and maybe amused, "ye feelin' shy?"

No. You’re just nervous. Exposed. One of the only conditions you'd pushed was no cuck chair, but now you weren't sure how to feel to be left alone with him soon. This man is so big, so imposing.

"Hi," you say smartly. He looks just like his photo, only bigger. Bulging muscles and the same wide stance when he comes to stand in front of you. It’s only because you can’t stand sitting face-to-face with his crotch that you stand and hold your hand out to shake.

"And polite!" Loud. He introduces himself as Johnny, which makes your boyfriend's eyebrows raise. "So cute." he takes the liberty of bypassing your hand and grabbing your waist.

Oh fuck, he runs hot. His hands burn, even through your shirt. You feel self-conscious, plain, looking up at his probing blue eyes. They’re so intense, captivating, distracting you from the feeling of him getting closer and closer, till your tits are pressed to his.

"Hey-"

The moment breaks. Your boyfriend is looking at you both, unreadable expression on his face. Is he regretting this? Feeling emasculated, maybe? Hard to feel much sympathy when you’re the one about to get fucked.

And it was his idea.

"I’m gonna go to the bedroom," his eyes squint, flitting between the both of you before he scurries away, pants tented.

"Now that that's outta the way," Johnny grunts. "C'mere." And sits down with a grunt, pulling you to him.

You try to pivot, to sit next to him, but he's strong and coordinated so you wind up in his lap, back touching the arm of the couch and your legs slung over his, bum on one thigh.

"That's more like it, no?" there's that wolfish grin again, so close. One hand rests on your knee, possessively, while the other wraps around your shoulders and plays with your shirt. "Why don't we introduce ourselves?"

The hand on your knee moves to your face, gripping your cheeks in a grip hard enough to push your lips out into an embarrassing pout. You struggle a little, pulling at his wrist, but he doesn't budge.

He pulls his phone out, aiming the camera at your face, recording a video through a text-app. You can that it's a groupchat, assured by your boyfriend before that it was totally private, babe. This is jut between us.

"Now say hello," he puts his stubbly cheek next to yours, rubbing like a cat. "And introduce yourself."

"H'llo," you struggle through it, muffled by his grip. Your name is almost unintelligible, and your jaw starts to ache a little.

"Say, can I please suck your cock, sir?"

Your stomach tightens, right down to your pussy, which gushes a little into your panties.

"Cn'I please suck your cock, sir?" he's so fucking forward, just jumping in headfirst. The loss of control, your being told what to do, makes your clit jump. Sex has never been like this - you've never been so acquiescing.

"Of course you can, bonnie!" you're almost tossed to the floor, no gentleness as he pulls you toward him by the hair so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. He scoots to the edge of the couch, leaning back against it, and uses that strong arm to rub your face on his bulge. "Get me hard."

He puts his phone on the arm of the couch.

You flounder, hands finding his knees and trying to pull back. He doesn't let you.

"Use your mouth, kiss me," his hand finds a firmer hold on your hair as you start mouthing against him, tasting denim, smelling his musk, letting it get to your head and make you dizzy. "That's right, kitten."

His cock starts to chub under his clothes, and you almost wish you could feel it in your mouth. Oral isn't your favourite, but the way your pussy clenches around nothing and drips into your panties is making you think maybe you were wrong about yourself.

"Up, up," your face is rubbed a little raw by the time you sit up, looking at him. Waiting for instruction. "Everything off, except your panties."

You obey, stripping your shirt and bra and then your shorts. Your nipples tighten in the cool air of the apartment, goosebumps dancing along your arms and your belly. Self-consciousness almost has you reaching to cover yourself, until Johnny grabs you by the shoulders and twists you just enough that you're back to facing his phone.

"Look at these," he grunts in your ear, fingers finding your nipples. Pulling them, pinching them. It's not for you, it's for the camera. You feel like an object, an accessory, secondary to getting the shot of the rough pads of his fingers teasing you into whimpers.

You've never been more turned on.

"Nice, eh?" he pulls them up and out, which hurts, but draws a line of pure electricity from your nipples to your clit. "Whatd'ye think, L.T?" the name doesn't register. Army stuff, you assume.

You're turned back around sharply again to face his actual cock. He's pulled it from his fly, thick and leaking, while you were getting undressed. It's unfair, really, nice and long and curved.

"Ask me again," a statement. A command, phone discarded.

"Please can I suck your cock, sir?" the words make your cheeks burn, your body quiver, your clit jump.

"Ye can," laughter this time, worsening your embarrassment. His hand finds your hair again, pulling you down when you're too slow to touch your lips to the head of his dick. "I'm gonnae fuck your face, alright?"

Without waiting, he lifts his hips up and thrust into your mouth. It's not as deep as it can go, but you almost gag, unprepared. The next thrust is deeper, quicker. He's letting you build up to it, letting your hands rest on his knees for balance.

Your nose touches his pubic hair, inhaling the scent of him. Any attempt at hollowing your cheeks, sucking, licking, is futile. He's so quick that the best you can do is hang on for the ride, keeping your teeth in check.

Drool builds and spills past your lips, making wet sounds compete with his frankly pornographic moaning. He's a man possessed, using you while you squeeze your eyes against overwhelmed tears.

Finally he yanks you off of him by the hair, holding you up while you splutter from the unexpected change. Your hands go to your face, trying to wipe.

"None o'that, now," he bats them away, giving you a shake when you keep trying. "Leave it." like you're a bad dog.

Strings of spit connect your swollen lips to his cock, thin and gooey, that fall to your bare chest when he sits up.

You're turned, stood up and then guided to the couch to sit. Johnny slaps your thighs to get you to open them, lifting your feet for you so that your heels rest on the edge of the couch cushions.

"Awe, look how wet she is," he holds your legs, exposing your wet panties to him and to his phone, where he takes a few pictures. Again, you wonder about the appeal of this for your boyfriend. It's hot for you. Degrading, but hot. Or maybe more hot because of the degradation.

"Oh god," you say out of shock. You've never been so fucking wet in your life, and god forbid he sees how swollen with arousal you are underneath.

"Naw, just me," Johnny says, rubbing his knuckles over your pussy through the fabric. "She all wet and frustrated?"

You don't answer, hands keeping you sat up, chest heaving. You're still a little dizzy.

Johnny licks over your panties, mouthing over them not unlike what you did for him only a few minutes before. It's nothing, really, but you're so worked up that it startles a long, drawn-out moan from you.

He continues like this, never actually making contact with where you need it, with your skin. Every one in a while he turns his head to the side and grins, taking a picture or a videoclip while you tip your head back and resist begging him to just get on with it.

His nose presses on your mound, where he drags it down to your hole and sniffs.

That's what breaks your resolve.

"Please," you whine. Your voice is rough from taking his cock in your throat.

"Please what?" he opens his mouth and puts his teeth on you, not biting, just letting you feel them. Gnawing gently.

"Please do it," you look down at him, and even though he's on his knees you know you aren't the one in control. "Please lick my cunt."

A laugh, mean and condescending. Your eyes close in shame, pussy burning for attention.

"This cunt right here?" he pulls the gusset aside, whistling. "This desperate little cunt?"

"Yes, please," you curl your toes into the couch.

Something shifts in his eyes, some unrecognizable flash. It feels like danger, like you're in over your head. Johnny takes two fingers and rubs them over your clit, slowly at first, and then quickly when he feels how slippery you are.

Somewhere, a volcano erupts and it isn't comparable to the heat or the feeling of your clit finally getting attention. It zings through you, making you squeeze your muscles, taught and trembling.

The pads of his fingers are a rough sensation on your swollen skin, the worlds best vibrator, ribbed for your pleasure. All he does is rub, up and down over your clit, quickly and until your face starts to scrunch together in orgasm, trembling hard.

Then he pulls back and slaps you so hard on your pussy you scream.

You almost come from it, shocked, legs kicking out, skin burning and clit pulsing with desperation, back bowing. You keep making sound after, a long and drawn out aaaaaahhhhh while he grins like the cat that got the cream. Takes another picture, the click of the camera loud in the face of your disappointment.

The intensity of it almost brings you to tears, looking at him with betrayal and vulnerability in your face. You feel weak all of a sudden, cored, devoured, pulled apart as soft as slow cooked meat.

Your panties fall back over your skin, a minor comfort against the sting.

"Poor girl," Johnny says with false sympathy. "Let me make it up to ye."

Then you're up again, pulled and pressed against Johnny's chest until he pulls your underwear down and rearranges you to sit on his lap over his spread legs, yours dangling on either side.

"Gonna bounce ye on my cock, alright?" you nod. "Sit on it."

You lift your hips, using his knees for balance, and he guides the head of his cock to your hole. Stops you from sitting back right away with a hand on your hip, squeezing the soft flesh there, and holding you there.

"They're kissing," he laughs. You feel it, your cunt mouthing at him like a conscious being, separate from you. "Ye think they want tae meet each other?"

"Can I?" you don't fight to keep the whine out of your voice. You want to come, you want this aching and this emptiness to end.

"Can ye what?"

"Sit on your cock, please."

"Well, since ye asked so nicely," and then he notches himself properly again, and forces you down with two hands on your waist. You shout, arching, head thrown back. "Bounce on it now, kitten. Show me how badly ye want to come."

And oh god, you do. You rock forward, shaking at the feeling of him, no technique to guide you just pure intuition, brain and cunt and body as one. Distantly, the sound of the camera registers, but it only makes you move faster.

He spreads your cheeks, exposing where you're connected, putting the camera close to the wet clench of your cunt around his cock and - oh, he's filming it. There's no click, just the wet sounds of you riding him.

"Thas'right," he murmurs lowly, maybe for show. "You wanna come?"

"Yes!" you lean back, then, sweat slicked back sticking to his shirt, forgetting where you are and why you're here. Everything narrows down to your pussy, but you feel compelled to keep your hands off your clit even though you know it would make you come quickly.

You want to listen to him, to wait for permission. The thought is searing heat through your core.

Fingers find your face, slipping into your mouth. Your lips wrap around them, sucking like you would've his cock.

His other hand lifts his phone in front of you both, snapping shots of your unfocused eyes, your tits pushed into the air, his smarmy expression. He hooks his fingers then into your cheek, pulling back like a fishhook.

"Good girl," his lips against your ear, stubble scratching the hot skin of your neck. "I'm gonna fuck you for real now, alright?"

You nod, desperately. He pushes you up and off of him, face down in the cushion. He's still clothed, for gods sake, jeans rubbing against the backs of your thighs when he drags your ass back toward him.

The mushroom head of his cock finds your cunt again, pushing in, driving you nuts. You're moaning helplessly, letting him take your boneless arms to hold them behind you.

He fucks you like a man possessed, in a short strokes, barely leaving the hot clutch of your pussy. The sounds, if they were bad before, are worse now, wet and humiliating.

Every thrust feels like he's slowly inflating a balloon inside you, like something pulling taut, like pressure about to burst.

"Fuck, wait!" you shout and turn your head. The pressure is insane, mixed up with a building orgasm, twined together. He hasn't even touched your clit, and yet you're on the precipice.

Johnny leans down, lips on your ear. He slows, but doesn't stop.

"What is it, bonnie?"

"I have to pee," you'd have mumbled it before, but the feeling is so strong you can't help but whimper and cry. "Please let me up."

"Ye aren't gonna pee," he laughs. "Trust me, just trust me." Then keeps pistoning into you.

You feel like jello, like mush, the only solid part of you is about to burst and somehow it makes you feel real anxiety, dampening your enjoyment.

"Johnny-" you whimper, emotion clogging your voice. You feel vulnerable, held down and bared.

In need of reassurance.

"You're alright," he leans back down and nuzzles your wet cheek. "Ye can let go, kitten, I've got ye."

You gasp, pulsing hard around him, the feeling back again, before you gush around his cock, a spray so intense you cry as it forces him out of you.

"Good. Fucking. Girl!" he slaps your ass once, twice, on both cheeks. Rubs your flank like a horse and then plunges back into you when you finish dripping down your legs.

This is purely selfish, him fucking you hard now, jackrabbiting his hips into yours. You hear the phone again, just barely, as your ears ring.

You're raw from coming without any touch to your clit, a weird limbo between being on-edge and oversensitive.

"Gonna give me another," he's growling now, getting impossibly faster. You actually really cry when he reaches around to twist your clit, thrashing under him, not sure if you want to leap off the couch or crawl right back into him. "Come for me!" he shouts, pulling up the hood of your clit to really get at you, rubbing rough circles around your beleaguered little nub.

The second orgasm melts your brain out of your ears, so long and drawn out that you're still shivering with the aftershocks as he pulls out of you and paints your back with his release.

You pant, arm one arm dangling over the edge of the couch while you the other covers your eyes.

Johnny rubs a hand on your thigh, light and gentle, patting your bum as he stands. You move your arm just enough to squint at him.

His jeans are soaked.

You laugh, uninhibited, delirious. He laughs with you.

"All you, darlin'!" he takes another shot of you, pulls your legs apart and takes a picture of your wet, sore hole.

"Is she good?" ah, your boyfriend. He has his own wet spot on the front of his pants.

"She's good," Johnny confirms. "Ye need to take care of her now, right?"

Something in his voice changes. A different kind of authority to the one he used on you, one reserved for soldiers. For men beneath him. At that thought, your pussy makes a valiant effort to clench.

"Yeah, yeah," you hear. Your boyfriend has his phone out, his cheeks flushed with excitement. "These are great man, thanks."

You start to sit up, still shaking, but not wanting to have him see you that way.

"Man, you weren't kidding!" he goes on. Johnny frowns and steps forward to clap him hard on the back and grab his nape.

"Run a bath, do it now. Ye got granola bars?"

"Uh, yeah. Hold on."

You're touched by his concern, and wind up soaking in warm bubbles after he leaves. You wonder about the photos, about what you look like. If your boyfriend is satisfied, if Johnny is.

If you were good.

Feels like you were, but somethings changed. Johnny found a soft spot knife-deep inside you and dug himself in, made you fly and made sure you were brought back to earth after, tenderized and then wrapped in comfort.

Beneath the water, you touch your pussy. Not to masturbate, just to feel the soft sore flesh, to remember the feeling of fullness.

Maybe, after his deployment, your boyfriend will want more pictures.

Fresh material.

Beneath the water, your finger curls into yourself and you sigh, satisfied.

[hollowistheworld]

Thinking about that post about the show murderbot characters not being as 'developed' (as in, are still in the beginnings/middles of character arcs) as their book counterparts, and I think a big plus of it is it lets Murderbot be in the same category as them.

The most obvious example is it and Mensah - both of them struggling with anxiety and fighting through it because there are people counting on them. But the one I'm really thinking about is Murderbot and Ratthi.

Ratthi didn't get weapons training like he was supposed to because he 'slept through it' which was because he was hungover (would love to know if Mensah already knew that before he accidentally announced it over the comms). His very feeble, obviously shame-filled excuse is that he didn't think he'd need it. Just like Murderbot didn't think it'd need the hopper repair manual.

These are dumb, youthful things to do. Go out and party and be too hungover to make it to class the next day. Watch your favorite TV show instead of copying down your homework. These things happen and 95% of the time it's no big deal.

And then one time it is. It's a big deal and now they can't help when they really want to be able to help. And Murderbot and Ratthi react to their mistakes the exact same way - by giving themselves a lecture on what big fucking idiots they are. Ratthi then does something dumb and dangerous to try and make up for it and Murderbot has Mensah crack open its spine. It's a very fun parallel between them and I think it's going to add some really nice depth to their friendship as things go along. You fuck up. You do dumb shit to get the short-term gratification.

And people love you anyway.

[hyperesthesias]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Character

summary: Simon "Ghost" Riley makes the mistake of intervening on the behalf of a woman stuck in an abusive relationship. The only reason it's a mistake -- he has six months of leave, and he's falling for her. When he ships out, he promises that if she's ever in danger again, to call him and he'll come running. Ten years later, he receives that call -- only to find it's her daughter who's asking for his help.

author's note: this idea came to me while i was falling asleep, and it bothered me all night until i could write it today. i apologize for the chicken scratch. it's really just three ideas in a trench coat. i love this idea so much i might turn it into a book at some point. if that happens, i will probably delete this. but for now -- enjoy!

content: unformatted & not proof-read; references to past sexual assault; references to torture; abusive relationship (not perpetuated by Ghost); graphic sex; kidnapping; canon-typical violence; PTSD.

words: 10,692.

if you'd like music while you read, these songs are what i wrote this to: whiskey sunrise by chris stapleton // just pretend by bad omens // vore by sleep token.

He is on leave. He is attempting to assimilate into the usual crowd of a parking lot, but no matter how aware he is of his gait, or how many times he looks over his shoulder, he can't shake the feeling that he is inherently out of place. He's been home three weeks, back on English land, where the sea and river air feel damp on his skin, and he realizes home is an idea, not a place. He'll never feel the way he did all those years ago, when he was once a person he no longer recognizes.

He is content to stock up on the regular supplies: alcohol and caffeine -- caught in the perpetual sedative-stimulant cycle. He can make do with whatever else he has at his flat; it's sparse and barely furnished, but he's certainly had worse. He doesn't want to think of worse right now. He wants to think about getting a couple of six packs, and sitting in that in the living room chair that's too soft, and that's too difficult to get out of, he wants to think about putting his feet up, and pretending to watch football. He wants to pretend to be normal, if only for a few hours, until night falls and sleep waits in the corner for him.

But he's too observant for his own good -- it's always saved his ass, but sometimes, like today, it's a curse.

He sees a man in the far end of the parking lot, with the distinctive glint of a blade in his hand. He's growling behind grit teeth something Simon can't hear clearly. The man has gotten out of his car, and is slashing the tires of another man, who's trying to stay as far away from the sharp end of the knife as possible; there's a woman seated in the passenger's side of the aggressor's car, she's still as stone, terrified to move.

Simon swears under his breath, knowing he's not obligated to do a damn thing while on leave -- and knowing he's more than obligated, despite. His appearance is still obscured, he's wearing a black surgical mask, with a black aviators, and a cap; he looks like someone pretending to be tougher than they are. But no one needs to know otherwise.

He intervenes in the situation, trying to deescalate as quickly and as quietly as possible. Using a light pole and the position of the two cars as cover from the security cameras in the parking lot, he places himself between the aggressor and the victim -- who is now taking photos of the tires for insurance. Simon has one eye on the girl inside the man's car, and the other on the shaking hands of the coward in front of him. After his attempts to talk him off the ledge fail, Simon easily disarms the man and sprains his wrist as he twists the hilt of the knife out of his palm. He lands a punch into the man's gut, and tells him to stay down as he doubles over onto the pavement. When he doesn't obey, Simon kicks him in the head to make sure he doesn't wake up for a while. He briefly glances at the man whose tires were slashed, but he only turns a blind eye, still preoccupying himself with his insurance photos.

Simon makes his way to the passenger side, still avoiding the cameras, where the woman remains paralyzed from the violence that has occurred in front of her. He leans one arm on the roof of the car as he peers into the window, and ushers her out.

"You could do a lot better than him, you know," he says.

She looks her behind her to the man on the ground, then to the one who is standing above her. She doesn't say anything, but follows the instruction to exit the car.

"My advice --" Simon says, without prompting, "take this as a win. Leave him behind. A man like that will only bring you down."

It takes her a moment to register what he's said, but ultimately she agrees. She half expects him to be gone by the time she looks back at him -- like a vanishing stranger clad in all black -- but to her surprise, he's still there. He's standing beside her, looking at his smartphone. "Th--Thank you," she says.

He gives her half a look as he continues to fiddle with his phone. "Don't mention it."

She takes it as a command, rather than a pleasantry.

"I can call you a ride," he tells her, and hands her his phone -- a burner. "Put your address in, and I'll make sure the bastard doesn't start coming to."

She shakes her head. "I live just down the block. I'll just...walk home."

"He know where you live?"

"Yes," she answers, a cling of shame to her voice -- for a reason she can't quite discern.

Simon deviates from his plan, and instead puts in an anonymous tip to the police about a man causing a disturbance at the grocery’s address. The victim with the slashed tires isn't going anywhere any time soon, and would still be there to give a statement. "He won't be bothering you for a few days, at least. Long enough for you to get somewhere he doesn't know about." He walks her home.

She introduces herself as Cecelia, and all he replies is: "Simon".

He never got that beer. The next day, he goes to a different store, hoping he doesn't run into another moment of conscience.

The next week, he makes the misguided attempt to check on her. He debates for a while on whether or not it would come across as predatory that he remembered where she lived. He never vacillates in the field, but every time he remembers he's not in the field, he questions whether his decisions are appropriate for 'normal' life. He's made peace with never being 'normal', but for a moment, he'd like to not feel so unfit for human society.

Cecelia answers the door, and a part of him is disappointed -- disappointed that she wasn't far away from her ex-boyfriend, and disappointed that now he has to actually speak to someone.

"Simon," she welcomes him, to his surprise.

At her bidding, he steps inside her flat; he checks the corners around the door and the foyer, a habit of which he's painfully aware. "You always invite masked strangers in?"

She chuckles at the oddity, and closes and locks the front door. "You would be the first. But I don't consider us strangers -- not after your help last week. I am grateful."

"You able to find somewhere safe?" he asks.

"They're keeping him for now. He can't afford bail."

He nods and looks around at her apartment, that prickly feeling of being out of place starting to get worse, and more intense at the forefront of his skin. She has houseplants, a warm, well-used couch, paintings hanging from the wall. There's an electric tea kettle on a breakfast bar, with a lipstick stained mug sitting next to it. Her home looks like something out of a dream he had on occasion as a child -- after watching too many sitcoms on television. Everything always looked happy, everyone always laughed and got along. It was just as well it was on television, nothing like that could be real. Until it is, and until he's standing in the middle of it -- ill-fitted.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he says, hoping for a quick and quiet exit. "Just wanted to make sure he hadn't come back to give you trouble."

"Please -- can't I offer you tea?"

She had the good kind in a glass jar on that breakfast bar, and his well-engrained comforts gave him a moment of pause. It was just enough of a pause to let her move from him to the kettle, where she was already making him a cup. She tells him it's the least she can do for him. He waits until she takes a drink of hers first. It is damn good tea.

She tells him her ex's hearing will be in a couple of weeks. Simon tells her he'll check on her then.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps in regular contact with Cecelia. Every time he comes over, she makes him a cup of tea, updates him about the case against her ex, and then they sit in silence. It's become a routine. After two months, he starts coming to her house even without cause from her ex's case. He starts to feel like those feral cats she feeds on her patio. But the silence is nice. Sitting in the warmth of her living room, instead of his own -- cold and rigid -- it was a pleasant change. There's a subtle, subconscious thought that he's afraid to let come to the surface -- that in a way, she has saved him as much as he helped her that day.

"When do you go back?" she asks one afternoon, breaking the silence between them.

Immediate suspicion grows within him, and he doesn't answer for a while, he only stares at her.

"It's not a difficult assumption that you're military," she explains. "I had a brother in the Navy." She pulls out a gold pendant necklace from beneath her sweater and shows it to him, hoping the display of vulnerability might help him feel more comfortable to answer. "This was the last thing he gave me. He sent it to me while he was overseas. He never stopped worrying about me, even while he was in active duty," she smiles, but it's a sad smile.

The stiffness in his shoulders softens only mildly, and he breaks his gaze from her. "I ship out in four months."

She only nods. A part of her was hoping that it'd be longer, that they'd have more time to get to know one another. The mystique was enticing, but the comfort she felt sitting in his company was something she hadn't felt in a long time. She would miss it when he was gone.

"What happened to your brother?"

"He was killed," she answers. "In a training exercise. That never sat right with me, though. I always felt they weren't tell me the whole truth."

"Probably weren't," he says.

"I don't know whether or not that's a comfort or if it just makes it worse."

"Whatever the truth is, probably worse. Better to take what they give you."

"You always take what they give you?"

He looks at her again. This time, not with suspicion, but with guilt. Guilt of following orders, guilt of not. The weight of betrayal. The heaviness of killing the people who were meant to have his back -- the people he was meant to trust. The anger and despair that he keeps caged somewhere just below the surface of being double crossed by those meant to guide him. It's a long time before he answers: "No."

They don't speak again for the rest of the afternoon. He leaves, as he always does, but this time he washes the mugs before he goes.

Another week passes, and in the middle of the night, he's startled by his phone ringing. It doesn’t wake him, but it disrupts the cycle of blended thoughts and memories that blanket him at night. He has half the mind to let it go to voicemail; it's just his burner phone, no one important has that number -- besides Cecelia. The static of worry crawls beneath his skin, and he looks at the caller ID. It's her.

"You alright?" he answers.

"Simon --" panic is set into her voice. "I think someone's trying to break in."

"Lock yourself in the closet. I'm on my way."

He's armed to the teeth when he gets to her flat. The glass patio door has been jimmied open, and her apartment has been tossed. The paintings are broken and hanging crooked on the wall, the soil from the plants is spilled and pressed into the carpet by footprints. Simon stalks from room to room, until he hears Cecelia scream from her bedroom. He raises his weapon and pushes open her bedroom door -- the ex is pulling her out of her closet by her hair, with a baseball bat in his other hand.

"Drop it!" Simon demands. It surprises her attacker, that his grip lightly loosens from her -- she's trying to wriggle free from his hand beneath him. "Drop it, or I drop you."

"You! -- You bastard!" he yells back. "This is your fault! Look what you've done, huh! Look at it!"

Simon doesn't take his eyes off her attacker, but he can see Cecelia clawing at the man with every might of strength she has -- she's pulling blood from his arm. "Let her go. I'm not telling you again."

The man releases Cecelia's hair, and grips the bat with both of his hands. He lunges at Simon with full force. Simon deflects the bat with one arm, feeling the impact of the wood absent of any armor. He follows his hand around the bat and grabs its handle, flipping it out of the attacker's grasp. He holsters the gun -- wanting to draw as little attention to himself as possible; and in that same sentiment, he refrains from hitting the man in the head with his own bludgeon -- regardless of how much he wants to. With a powerful swing, Simon cracks the bat against the man's tibia. The bone snaps audibly and the man collapses to the floor, wailing in agony. Whether out of the assurance of safety, or out of the flame of revenge, Simon takes one more pass with the bat and breaks both of the man's kneecaps.

He once more calls the police, and her attacker is taken to the hospital for his injuries under police escort. Simon encourages Cecelia to be seen by the paramedics, even though she insists she's fine. But no matter how many times she refuses, Simon tells her she needs to. They take her to the hospital for a concussion. He makes himself scarce.

He debates visiting her the next day. Much to his chagrin, and no matter how much he tries to deny it, he's grown attached to her. He knows it's not inherently a negative thing, but it is a liability. Regardless of how much of an asshole her ex was, Simon couldn't help but feel there was some truth to what he said: that if he hadn't intervened that day, nearly three months ago, that none of this would've happened. He tries not to think about the long term consequences of his actions.

He visits her in the hospital anyway.

He brings her flowers in an awkward gesture -- though it’s no less heartfelt.

"You have someone you need me to call?" he asks.

She's lying in her hospital bed, scraped and bruised, still mildly concussed, but grateful her injuries weren't worse. "No. It's just me."

"No friends?"

She sighs. "Not anymore. He made sure of that."

He nods, knowingly. His own father isolated his mother, Margot, as much as he could, until she'd had no one left. "I heard the doc say he’s gonna release you later today."

"I wish I was happier to go home."

"You don't have to be happy," he says.

As cynical as it sounded, it relieves the pressure from her shoulders of having to put on a front. "I could use some clothes, though."

"I'll get 'em for you," he tells her.

He returns to her flat and packs her an overnight bag. Her flat is a wreck, and the doors are still compromised. When she is discharged, he brings her to his place instead.

"You take the bed," he tells her when they step through his door. "I'll have the couch. I'd offer you tea, but it isn't any good." Even when he's joking he never sounds like it.

She's gotten accustomed to this timbre, and looks at him with a smirk. "I guess I'll have to settle for a beer, then."

She can't see it, but he's returning the smirk. At his place -- which he doesn't call a 'home' -- he takes off the black surgical mask, and the cap; he takes off his gloves, and puts them all by the front door. It's one of the rare times she's seen him so bare.

He helps her get settled, and gets her the beer. She's seated on his couch and he joins her. "It's as cold as it's gonna get."

She stays with him for a week; the patio door is being repaired by the insurance and the landlord. She doesn't mind, she feels safer at his place anyway -- even if it is lacking warmth. He's always awake before her, and every morning, she's woken by the scent of coffee. When she comes out of the bedroom and into the living area, there's always a cup waiting for her on the table.

Simon adds reinforcement to her front and patio doors. "Don't tell anyone where you got this," he tells her as he installs the locks and alarms for her. He helps rehang her paintings, and scrub the carpet. It takes his mind off of other things that try to come to the surface. His mind is emptier of its evils than it has been in a long time, and he's acutely aware that this is temporary.

When Cecelia is settled in her place again, she asks him to stay. He doesn't want to say no.

So he doesn't.

It's a whirlwind romance -- one they both know will end in only a few months' time. Despite the fact that he's only known her for a brief period, he can't recall feeling so comfortable. He won't say safe. He'll never say safe. Because he never is. He won't say at peace. And he won't say happy. But he is comfortable. It's a foreign feeling, one that he distrusts if he thinks about it too long. But when he's lying next to her at night, the brutal images in his head are less vivid, the screaming voices are quieter, sometimes he even sleeps.

They haven't had sex. It's not a subject he's even broached, and neither has she. When she lies beside him, the most contact they have is her hand on his chest, and her face nestled into his side.

She kisses him on the cheek once, and it takes him a moment to process it. He's still and quiet, his eyes are downcast as he's contemplating it. She asks if she's done something wrong. He tells her no -- not at all.

One evening, when he's staying at her place — as he often does — they're on her couch after a couple of drinks. They were at one point watching television, but they've since been ignoring it -- talking, and in between whispered words, soft kisses. One thing leads to another, and she's sitting on his lap, his arms are around her, and he's kissing her deeply. He forgot how to kiss like this -- he didn't think it was still possible within him. That there was still some form of passion and intimacy that was in his spirit. He's hungry -- and with every kiss he's getting hungrier. She's laughing and enjoying herself. The way she feels on top of him feels good, it's just enough movement and pressure to turn him on. It feels good -- until suddenly it doesn't.

Simon immediately pulls away and stops. The passion in him is walled up, shut up, and where there was once heat beneath his skin, it's now cold, concrete.

Cecelia stops and looks for his eyes. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He tries to get himself to talk. But nothing comes out. He's not supposed to talk. He's not supposed to say anything. He's trying to squirm away from her now, and she takes the signal quickly. She gets off his lap, and sits beside him, still trying to figure out what happened. She gets them ice water instead of asking any more questions. He looks like he's still dissociating by the time she comes back, and she has to prompt him to take the water.

Simon goes back to his place that night. He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, until the nightmares come.

He's startled awake the next morning by a sound that doesn't exist. It takes several minutes for him to catch his breath -- his heart is in his throat, and he can't focus on anything in front of him. Eventually, he's able to discern his own sheets, he's able to tell he's in England, that he's nowhere near Mexico — his captors. He's still shaking by the time he finally reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

There's a text from Cecelia. He opens it, expecting the worst: that she never wants to talk to him again after what happened last night. That his rejection of her was insulting, and that he was less of a man for it. It was for the better, he thinks. It saves him a messy departure later.

But the text is very different than what he thought:

She apologizes. She thinks his reaction had something to do with her.

It couldn't be further from the truth.

Cecelia was indescribably incapable of the evil done to him. He just doesn't know how to explain that to her.

Well, how to explain it to her and still maintain some kind of dignity and confidence.

It would be easier if he doesn't reply, he thinks. Again, it would save him a messy ending with her. If he ghosts her -- no pun intended, he thinks to himself, but fitting regardless -- he never has to explain himself. He never has to tell the truth. Even to himself.

But that would be cowardly.

He's a lot of things. But a coward isn't one of them.

He doesn't reply.

Instead, he's on her doorstep later that evening. Just like one of those feral cats.

Cecelia answers the door, and he can't look her in the eye. "I come in?" he asks, his head still on a swivel, both out of instinct, and also to provide an excuse as to why he won't look at her.

She agrees, and closes and locks the door behind him. She doesn't say anything for a minute, waiting for him to make the first move, but instead he's standing in the middle of her living room, awkwardly -- like a video game character in the loading lobby.

"I didn't think I'd hear from you," she says. "I hope I didn't --"

"It's not you." He cuts her off. "You didn't do anything." He takes his hat off, and runs a gloved hand through his hair as he tries to figure out what to do with himself. He still won't remove the mask. He needs something -- some kind of barrier.

"I'll put the kettle on," she says. It's going to be a long night, she can feel it.

It's been years, it's been a lifetime ago. But some things don't stay dead. Like memories. All those weeks under Roba's influence of torment, retreating into ugly corners of his mind to escape the evil being done to him at the drug lord's hand, and all those under Roba's command -- viscerally having his body and mind being used and crushed in the attempt to break him. He hasn't talked about it, except in veiled mutters under his breath -- only once -- to Price. Even then, he wasn't entirely sure he understood, Simon made no effort to clarify.

He doesn't go into detail with Cecelia. She doesn't deserve to hear about the gore, the blood and violence. But he gives her clear implications, with bullet points of what transpired after he clawed his way out of Roba’s torture, out of Vernon's grave: the deaths of his mother, his brother and sister-in-law, his nephew.

Hours have passed since he showed up without warning, and yet their time together has been mostly silence. His words few and far between, he said most of what he meant without speaking. She didn't interrupt him.

At last she asks: "Did you get them?"

He looks at her, for the first time since he arrived. But he can't hold her eyes long, and he nods. "I got 'em."

"Good."

The next week, they're on her couch again -- two drinks in, with the television mindlessly on mute -- and this time, he lowers her onto the cushions, where he settles on top of her.

Foreplay last for several days. He gets to a point where he can be shirtless, or have his pants unzipped, until he backs down. He lies on her chest instead, and falls asleep as she runs her hands through his hair. She tells him more than once he doesn't have anything to prove. He knows, he tells her, it's something he wants to do; his mind and body need to do some catching up, is all. She waits.

It's the weekend, and she's invited him to stay over the next few days. She'll make them dinner. He comes by with a six pack and some fresh bread. There's a box of condoms in his back pocket, but he's not going to tell her that -- he doesn't want to promise anything and then not deliver.

But it happens. And it happens because they're not trying to make it happen.

They move to the bedroom; he has half his clothes off by the time she follows him. She's in her bra and panties as she gets on the bed -- she regrets it's not the matching pair, but it doesn't even look like he notices. At his request, she doesn't sit on top of him, she sits beside him as she rubs her palms into his chest, down his abdomen, trailing every outline of his body with a single finger.

She has a cute nose, he thinks -- it scrunches as she smiles, and she hasn't stopped smiling since they ran to the room like teenagers trying not to get caught. He cups a hand on her face, tracing her nose and the lines of her smile. He leans to put a kiss on her mouth, her hands taking his jaw gently. Every movement is gentle and deliberate. She moves her lips from his, down his neck, where they follow his sternum, his stomach, to the trail of soft hair that leads beneath his briefs. With his help, she removes them, and puts them with the pile of clothes on the floor.

He's already getting hard, and she wraps her hand around his cock, gently pumping him to help him along. She feels him twitch as he takes a deep breath, and when she looks at him to see if he's alright, he brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. She dots gentle kisses along his tip and frenulum, and his hand moves from her hair to twist into the sheets beneath him. She laughs as she takes him into her mouth, and the vibration of her laughter onto his cock makes him swear.

Simon takes another breath and watches as she bobs up and down his length, now fully erect. As she feels his body tense, she stops and returns to putting kisses along his shaft.

"You're teasing me," he says.

"I'm warming you up," she laughs again.

He reaches for the box of condoms on the floor, and rips open the package to use one. He sits up and pulls her close, onto his lap. He buries his face into her the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent.

Cecelia takes him, inch by inch, as she sits on his lap, and the moan that escapes her sets his mind on fire. He pulls her closer to his chest, and grabs the pile of her hip as she starts to rock back and forth against him. She's whining as he tenderly bites into the soft skin of her neck -- leaving a pleasant mark behind in his wake.

He starts to feel unsure of himself, unsure of the position they're in, when Cecelia stops and nestles her nose into his hair. She puts another kiss on the top of his head, and they sit there for a moment -- barely moving, except for the rising and falling of their breathing.

Simon initiates the next movement, where he begins to thrust into her. One hand behind him among the pillows to balance him, the other holding her hip to keep her steady, he's looking into her face as she puts her hands on his shoulders. She begins to rock back and forth again, finding a rhythm with him, and as she does, she puts her hands behind her head, fanning out her hair as she seems to dance on top of him.

He has a brief moment of feeling foolish -- in believing she looks like some ethereal spirit, or a nymph. Like one of those paintings that he's seen on the walls of great leaders. But his doubts are drowned out by her leaning on him and putting her mouth on his.

They stay in this rhythm for some few moments, until he gently turns her on her back, and settles himself between her legs. He takes one of her feet and kisses it, before he wraps her legs around his waist.

He keeps a steady pace into her, the feeling of pleasure wafting through his body with unfamiliar electricity, his appetite suddenly whetted, and his thrusts become harder. Her moans and whimpers getting louder, more intense, as she touches herself. Simon reaches his hand to massage her sex, and her whole body tenses -- her core grips around him in soft waves. He comes -- intensely, and at the feeling of her, at the sight of her lost in the pleasure of him. A gasp sputters from him at the sensation of satisfaction that takes hold of his mind and body.

She reaches up to him and takes his face in her hands again as she puts her brow to his. His breathing is heavy, and it washes over her damp skin, sending a shiver of cold throughout her.

He lies beside her again that night, as she puts her hand on his chest, and her face into his side. Except this time, he turns to her, to see her -- face on. He usually tries to obscure himself as much as possible, but just for this moment -- just for the time he has left with her, he wants to be seen. Just for now.

Simon lives at her flat for the remaining weeks he has left of leave. He tries not to lean into the fantasy as hard as he wants to -- but when she invites him to the market to get ingredients for dinner, he can't refuse her. He's on edge the entire time -- searching the crowd for anyone who might become a threat, the sinking feeling of waiting for a detonation to occur when there isn't one keeps his eyes fixed on the periphery of the farmer's market. He briefly loses track of her, and he's ready to pry her from the arms of an enemy that isn't present -- he finds her picking fruit from a basket at a vendor's stall. It's the moment he knows he can't ever have a normal life. It's something he's always known, but the image of its reality is materialized as he watches her smell peaches from a distance.

His recall date is approaching faster than he wants it to. As strong as he is, he can't slow Time. Every night when he lies awake in bed, he watches her sleep. With the images of her bedroom, and of her living room, and the breakfast bar with the kettle and well-worn mugs upon it, with the image of her sleeping peacefully, cuddled beneath her blankets beside him, he builds a new place in the dark corners of his mind. Somewhere into which he can retreat when the night gets ugly. When the job gets uglier.

The night before he's recalled, they make love again. He adds the blissful memory to that place in his mind. He holds her tighter, fucks her with an intensity and a desperation he couldn't speak in words; he keeps her as close as he can until the moment he has to give her up.

Cecelia wakes up early the next morning, before dawn, to see him off. His bag is already packed, the coffee is already made, with her mug, full on the counter, just as it always is.

"Will I ever see you again?" she asks.

He stops. He heard her get up, heard her come out of the bedroom, but even still, he was hoping to leave unseen. He doesn't have an answer for her.

"No," he says. He still doesn't look at her.

She stays quiet, but sits at the breakfast bar, where her cup of coffee is waiting for her. He's still in the kitchen, washing the dishes he used to make her breakfast. She sees him put his head down, thoughts flooding themselves behind his brown eyes. But still, he says nothing.

After he finishes leaving no trace of himself in her home, as he readies himself to leave, his duffle bag in hand, his mask and gloves fitted against his skin, he stops before he opens her front door.

"Come here," he tells her.

A part of her hopes that he'll change his mind -- that he'll say he'll be back whenever he gets leave again. But she doubts they will let him go for a very, very long time.

"Look at me."

Her eyes are wet, but she tries to hide it. She does as he says nonetheless.

"If you are ever -- ever -- in trouble..." he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, "...you send this to this address." On it is written a word: 'MAYFLOWER', along with an encrypted email address. "I will come running." He hands her the paper and she takes it with a trembling hand. "Memorize this. Then burn it. Do you understand?"

She nods as she studies the paper. She tries to hold back her crying, but the harder she tries, the louder she sniffles.

Cecelia wraps her arms around his waist and holds him, just for a moment. Her tears stain his jacket, but she can't bring herself to care. When she lets go, she kisses his mask. She feels him return it, despite the barrier between them.

She watches him leave, before the sun is up. He vanishes from her life as quickly as he entered it.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

TEN YEARS LATER

Ghost is preparing to ship out on an assignment to Eastern Europe with the rest of the 141 in two weeks. He and MacTavish are paired together to arrive first before the rest of the crew. They are currently both in England, going over the plans for the next assignment.

He sold his flat a long time ago, he no longer has permanent residence in England. He rents out places in cash when he needs a temporary place to stay. Simon and Soap are staying together while they prepare, then they will fly out to the drop zone.

As Simon prepares for the next assignment, he receives a transmission on an encrypted email. It is reserved only for emergent scenarios, usually used by his other teammates or superiors when an assignment goes sideways. As he opens the encrypted message, he anticipates that he and Soap will have to ship out sooner than expected.

The message reads:

'MAYFLOWER'

He gave this specific code only to Cecelia. No others have it. He remembers his promise.

In the ten years since their separation, he has not heard from Cecelia, nor has he sought her out in the time he is on homeland. But he thinks about her in moments when the dark begins to suffocate him. He thinks about her during the springtime, and when the world comes alive again. He shares this with no one. Not even Soap. Now, he might have to.

MacTavish sees Simon gearing up, as if he were ready to leave for the hanger at any moment. "You goin' somewhere without me, Lt.?"

Simon stops, and deliberates. A gnawing feeling tells him not to confide in a teammate again -- to not make the same mistake he did with Sparks and Washington. But when he turns and looks Soap in the eye, he knows that honesty -- even obfuscated honesty -- is what will help Cecelia in that moment. "You trust me?"

He tells Soap to pack as they talk, and he debriefs his partner with as little information he can get away with: he promised a woman a decade ago that if she ever needed help, he'd come running. She was calling in the favor.

"What's so special about this woman, then?" Soap asks.

They're driving to the location from which the message was sent -- a house in Manchester, that was bought under her name. She moved, then, he thinks -- from a flat to a house, he hopes she's doing well enough for herself. And whatever family she might have. It would be foolish to think she wasn't married with kids by now. It was just statistics.

"Lt.?"

Ghost takes a breath, as silently as he can, before he answers: "She helped me out. Just returning the favor." It's as close to honesty as MacTavish was going to get for now -- if ever.

The house is visibly disturbed by the time they get there -- the front door is broken, there are signs of a struggle in the living room. There are no police on the scene, neighbors seem to mind their own business. Simon takes the front of the house, while Soap takes the rear. Every room he enters is clear, the house is empty.

"You seeing anything, Lt.?"

"Negative," Ghost answers. "The house is clear."

"I'm doing a perimeter sweep," Soap says.

"Report back."

"Copy."

Ghost tries to piece together what happened as he steps through the chaos that transpired -- they entered through the front door, and tossed the entire place. Desks and dressers tossed; a file cabinet thrown on its side and emptied. The nightstand in the master bedroom rifled through, the closets emptied. There's a child's room adjacent to the master bedroom -- also tossed and empty. A child’s bedroom…It was just the statistical probability that she'd moved on, he reminds himself.

A noise comes from the secondary bathroom in the hallway, and Ghost raises his weapon. He pushes the door to the bathroom open and sees nothing. He prods at the shower curtain — nothing.

There's a linen closet. He raises the rifle, stands to the side of the door, and opens it -- waiting to hear a barrage of gunfire. But there was nothing. He sees the interior of the linen closet in the bathroom mirror:

A child is hiding inside of it, huddled with her hands over her head.

"Perimeter check," he radios Soap.

"Clear, Lt.. Converging on you now."

He checks her for weapons before he continues. "What happened here?" Ghost asks the child.

She's shaking and looks up at him with terror.

"Your mother called me to help."

"She -- She told me to c-call you."

"You sent the message?"

She nods.

"Do you know who did this?"

She shakes her head.

Ghost lets a silent breath, as he looks around the bathroom again -- even the medicine cabinet was tossed. "Whoever they were, they were looking for something." He lets his rifle fall to his side, and he helps the girl out of the closet. "Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"Was there anyone else in the house?"

"No. Just me and mum."

"Is anyone supposed to come home?"

"No. It's just us."

Soap arrives at Ghost's side, surprised to see the girl. "Casualty?"

"Just shellshocked. Get ‘er a blanket."

MacTavish does as he says, and pulls one from the girl's room. "We're the good guys," he tells her. "Give it a minute, an' when you've had a breath, tell us what you remember." He leads her from the bathroom, to somewhere warmer in the house, careful that she shouldn't step on anything broken on the floor. "D'ye have someone we can call, then? Gram? Da? A friend from school?"

"I -- I don't know."

"Alright, it’s alright. Let's start with somethin' easier, then." He adjusts her blanket and helps her put on a pair of shoes that was left by the doorway. "How 'bout we start with your name? How 'bout that? What's your name, love?"

"My name is Margot."

Simon stops. He looks at the girl, he studies her. She looks much like her mother, yet a part of him thinks he saw a resemblance of himself. But it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, he insists. It makes no difference anyway.

"Margot. Pretty name, lass, very classy," Soap tells her.

"Call child welfare," Simon says.

"No!" Margot turns and stops him.

"It's only temporary -- 'til we find your mother," Soap tells her.

"No --"

“This isn’t a discussion," Simon snaps.

Soap looks at the Lieutenant, knowing him well enough to hear something other than the weight of the mission beneath the surface of his voice. He looks back at the girl, who keeps trying to take off her blanket, and ties it around her. "Like a cape," he tells her. "We're very good at what we do, lass. You'll be back with your mother in no time."

"You're not listening!" the girl finally says, she stands, facing Simon. "I don't know who they were," she tells him, still trembling, "but I know what they were looking for."

The girl doesn't seem to be intimidated by either him or Soap, and he finds it unusual. That sinking suspicion settles itself at the forefront of his mind, and he keeps it in check. "What were they looking for?"

"They said -- they said they were looking for something my uncle gave my mum." Tears are coming back to her, and she cowers at the feeling of guilt.

"The necklace?" Simon asks.

"But she doesn't have it. She gave it to me." She pulls out the gold pendant from beneath her shirt.

"Sir, can we have a word?" It's more of a demand from Soap, rather than a request and he turns to Margot. "Don't take off the cape." He pulls Ghost to the side, and speaks as quietly as he can, hoping not to scare the girl: "They're gonna find her eventually. I don't think child welfare is the best option for her."

Simon still hasn't taken his eyes off of Margot, he's still studying her -- her features, her nose, her eyes. She has brown eyes, but so does her mother. Even if his suspicion is true, it still doesn't mean anything, he convinces himself. He wouldn’t be able to be there for her in any way that matters, he tells himself.

"We can offer her better protection. We track the bastards, neutralize the threat, and get her mother back. We send her into foster care, she's a sitting target once they realize her mother doesn't have what they want."

He hates it when Soap is right.

Finally, he looks at his partner, and they mobilize. Soap helps Margot pack a bag out of what remnants of clothes and necessities are strewn all over the house. Simon is standing in the master bedroom, he tells himself he's looking for any sign of what the attackers were after, but he knows it's a lie. He wants to see what has become of Cecelia. But he knows he shouldn't linger.

They regroup at the house Soap and Ghost are renting. Simon asks Margot to hand over the necklace; she does, although she hesitates for a moment, a thought crossing her mind that it might be the only thing of her mother's she'll have left when this is all over.

"I'll give it back," he tells her.

She looks up at him, into his eyes -- he's still wearing that balaclava and all his gear. The greasepaint obscures the depth of his eyes, but she can see their glint in the low light of the living room. She's trusting him as much as he's trusting her. She gives him the necklace.

Simon holds it in the center of his gloved hand -- it looks no different than any other pendant one might find at a jewellry store. It was a plain circle, with no ornamentation, except for an asymmetrical raised texture in the center. He turns it over, there's no stamp indicating the carat or quality.

"All that trouble o'er a necklace?" Soap asks, looking over Simon's shoulder at the small thing.

"She said it was the last thing she ever got from her brother," Simon tells him. "She tell you anything else about him?" he asks Margot.

She shrugs somewhat, still clinging to the blanket around her shoulders. "He was in the Navy. But he died, though. I never met him."

Simon shakes his head once. "No, you wouldn't've. He died overseas, she said. Training mission gone wrong. MacTavish, check records," he tells Soap. "We find out what he was doing when he died, we might find out who's after this little bugger."

The adrenaline finally wears off, and Margot crashes. She's asleep in the master bedroom, curled underneath the blankets, still terrified, even in her sleep. Simon can see it -- her shoulders are tense, her head is tucked, her breathing is rapid. He wonders if every Riley is cursed with poor sleep.

Soap isn't having any more of his bullshit. They're talking in the other bedroom, while combing through personnel records and calling in favors to find out more about the 'training exercise' Cecelia's brother was involved in.

They haven't spoken in a while, which is unusual for Soap -- the air almost feels absent without his gabbing. But Simon knows he isn't being silent for courtesy's sake, Soap is irritated with him.

"Is she yours?" he finally asks, without looking up.

But Simon looks at him, unsure how to reply. Unsure of the answer -- but certain all the same. He doesn't reply for a long time, and Soap doesn't push him; even no answer is an answer.

Simon looks back at his laptop. "She's the right age."

They don't say anything for a while more. Simon is finding it difficult to concentrate, but he compartmentalizes, until Soap interrupts his thoughts again.

"You know I've got your back."

His other teammates, Sparks and Washington, said the same thing. Until they were taken, and turned. Until his family was all murdered in cold blood during Christmastime. He tries to tell himself it's not the same -- the present isn't the past. Yet, the past has a funny way of repeating itself.

He wasn't turned by the torture inflicted upon him, he tells himself. He'd like to think MacTavish wouldn't be, either, whether or not it's true.

"I know, Johnny," he says.

"You need your rest," Soap tells him. "I'll take watch and keep looking. You get some shut eye." He leaves the bedroom and sets up in the living room.

He tries to sleep -- he falls into a restless slumber. It feels like he's closed his eyes for only a moment, when Soap comes back into the room to tell him his watch is over.

It's still dark outside. Simon gets up. He checks on Margot.

She's still lying in bed, curled into a ball. But her breathing has changed -- he thinks she might've fallen into a deeper sleep, but he realizes she's awake, she's crying. He's tempted to turn and leave, to give her space, or to absolve himself of vulnerability. But he knows it's not the right thing to do.

"You should be sleeping," he says.

He hears her sniffle. She doesn't move for a while, until she sits up and looks at him. "I tried. I can't."

He sighs and enters the room, closing the door halfway behind him. "What's keeping you awake?" He sits on the edge of her bed.

"I keep...thinking." She wipes her tears on her sleeve.

"About what?"

She's trying not to look weak in front of him, but she can't help it -- she starts crying again. "All I did was hide. Mum told me to hide. But I didn't want to -- But I was scared..."

He doesn't think less of her. He sees a lot of himself in her, from when he was a boy. "Sometimes the best strategy is to hide. You're no good to anyone dead. Especially not to your mother."

Margot settles, taking hiccupped breaths until she can breathe again. "She said you'd come."

"I told her I would."

The crying has passed for now, she doesn't feel like she can anymore. But she likes sitting beside him. She wonders what he looks like -- he's still wearing that balaclava. "Do you sleep with that on?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"So people don't know what I look like. To protect myself."

"That must be annoying."

He scoffs. "Sometimes."

"Mum told me you wear a mask all the time. She told me a lot about you."

Immediate suspicion rises in Simon, and his mind interprets her words as a threat at first. But he proceeds with tempered rationality. "What'd she say?"

"You both loved each other, she said. You have a job that's really dangerous. She talks about you all the time."

It would've been better if Cecelia had forgotten all about him, it would've been easier for him. But to know that she kept him alive, in memory, somehow hurt worse than being forgotten. "She tell you anything else?" he's fishing, and he hopes Margot takes the bait.

She hesitates, she's thinking, debating -- unsure of herself, unsure of what he'll say. "She said...she tells me that you're my dad. Is that really true?"

He's never one to believe something without concrete proof, he's distrustful by nature. But he knows it's true. It's more than conscious, it's something visceral inside of him that knows something better than the doubt at the forefront of his mind. He only nods. "It's true."

Margot sits in silence, thinking.

"I'm going to find your mother," he promises her. "I’m going to make sure both of you are alright." He speaks to her, but also to the family he lost all those years ago: to his mother, to his brother. He has the chance to right the wrongs of the past. To change the future. "Get some sleep."

"What if I can't?"

He takes a deep breath, trying to find some kind of parental guidance to give her. "I don’t sleep good, either. A long time ago, I saw a shrink. He told me to relax your body -- from head to toe. And imagine you're floating in a canoe on a lake, with nothing else around. Don't think about anything else. Just you...in the lake, breathing deeply. Can you do that?"

She nods.

"I'll wake you when it's morning."

He leaves Margot to her rest and continues to search for reasons why Cecelia's brother may have been a target.

He wakes up Soap at dawn. "We've got a lead."

Simon explains that Cecelia's brother, Gabriel, was involved in a classified assignment to infiltrate a weapons dealer syndicate. He was supposed to eliminate the head of the syndicate, and destroy his compound. Gabriel completed his assignment, and eliminated the syndicate head, and burned the compound to the ground. However, the official report states that Gabriel was killed during the raid -- he was killed by his other teammates, for treason, and for turning on his superiors. Simon managed to find a buried statement from another teammate who had been on the mission, which said Gabriel was killed days after the raid, and his body was dumped at the compound after it was destroyed. Gabriel found that the officer in charge of his assignment was supplying a portion of the weapons being sold. The officer was using his team to clean up evidence of his involvement in the syndicate.

The officer buried anyone else who knew the truth. 

Simon and Soap conclude the necklace must have something else to it, that Gabriel had to have sent it to for a reason. Simon examines the ridge in the center; he finds that the circular pendant is made with two pendants flat pieces soldered together. He halves it with a knife, jimmying the pendant open like an oyster. Inside, is a micro-SD card.

"That's what they were after."

"Obair mhór, Gabriel," Soap mutters.

"Mum's necklace..." Margot stares at its pieces in Simon's hand as she comes out of the bedroom.

"It was for a good cause," Simon says.

"But why --" Soap asks. "Why after all this time? Why go after it now?"

"The good Admiral is up for a political promotion. He's trying to clean house."

"So the Admiral finds out that Gabriel had a contingency, and he knows that the last contact Gabriel had was with his sister. So he puts the pieces together, figuring she knows more than she's saying."

"We need to find her. Now."

They're holding Cecelia at an abandoned farmhouse. It takes them thirty-six hours to track her down, by nightfall Ghost and Soap are converging on the target. Margot is left behind, locked inside their safehouse, with the doors and windows fortified.

They're outnumbered, but they have the element of surprise. Quietly, they close in on the farmhouse from opposite directions, using blades to wound and eliminate the men in their way, utilizing the ignorance of their presence to its maximum capability. Until an enemy fires his rifle, and the secrecy is over.

Ghost breaches the front of the house, firing two shots into the guard at the other side of the door -- chest and throat. He pushes the body to the side, and crouches, hearing more men on their way. He takes cover against the corner of a hallway, and fires two shots into the face of the next assailant who charges him. He uses the bleeding body as a shield, and moves into the line of fire, feeling the impact of the bullets pierce the corpse in his arms. He fires around the body propped against him, and lands three bullets into the torso of the man in front of him.

He throws the corpse to the floor, and moves into the center of the house. There's a locked bedroom door, and he pushes his blade into the jamb to free the lock. He can hear Soap's bullets from the opposite side of the house.

The lock breaks, and Ghost stands to the side of the door as he opens it -- he enters with his rifle raised. There are no men inside the room.

Cecelia is tied to a chair in the center.

"I've got eyes on the target," he radios Soap.

"Copy, Lt.. Three more guards inbound on the east of the complex."

"Copy." Simon cuts her bonds, and helps her stand. "We need to move. Can you walk?"

"Yes," she says, panting.

Ghost has one arm around her, practically pulling her out of the house as he rendezvous with Soap.

Soap covers them as the two limp off the complex -- into the cover of a copse in the distance. Their vehicle is waiting for them there, and Ghost puts Cecelia in the back, pushing her head down beneath the seats. Bullets collide with the metal sides of the doors, and Ghost returns fire as Soap jumps into the driver's seat and finds cover in the trees.

"They won't follow us," Ghost says.

"You'd better be right."

"Margot -- Where's Margot?"

"I got her -- She's alright."

"I'm sorry --" Cecelia says, out of breath.

Simon shakes his head. "Don't be."

They get back to their safehouse, and Margot is holed up in the bedroom until she hears the door. Simon gave her a pocket knife, and she's ready to use it -- when she hears her mother's voice.

"Mum!" she runs out of the bedroom, into her mother's arms.

Cecelia holds her tight. Simon only watches, and glances to Johnny when he puts a hand on his shoulder. He feels that out-of-place sensation once more, seeing mother and daughter embrace. Cecelia is checking Margot over, holding her small face in her hands, wiping away her tears. Simon doesn't know what to do with himself. He leaves them to their reunion. He hides -- in the other bedroom.

Later, he's triaging Cecelia's wounds. She's scraped up, she's got a black eye. The sight of it sends a rage through him that he can't put into words.

"I wanted to tell you," she says.

"I know."

He's bandaging her wrist, but he can't look at her. It's the same dance between them as it was a decade ago. Somehow, it feels like home.

"I don't know what they wanted from me," she tells him.

"I do. Your brother was a smart man. He knew he couldn't trust anyone above him. So he sent the intel he gathered to the one person he could trust. You." He looks up at her.

"What are you going to do with it?"

He gently puts her hand in her lap. "I'm going to do...what I wish I could've done many years ago." He grinds his teeth, and swallows. "I'm going to expose the bloody bastard for what he is: a traitor."

Simon arrives at the Admiral's office the next day. The Admiral is not expecting him, but he is aware of Ghost's reputation, and it precedes him. The Admiral has no reason to suspect Ghost is behind the attack on his off-books operation the previous night. As far as he's concerned, Ghost is scheduled to ship out in less than a fortnight, and he believes his visit has something to do with the upcoming mission.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

Simon chooses his words carefully. Everything he wants to say -- everything he's endured at the hands of men without honor -- floods to the surface of his stomach, to the surface of his face, and he holds the man's eyesight with a sharp edge of hatred.

He's kneading his fists open and closed as he stands there, still trying to get himself to speak. "I want to know if it was worth it."

"I'm sorry?" the Admiral scoffs, bemused and insulted.

"You're not sorry now. But you will be. Before that -- I want to know if it was worth it. The money. The job. The commendations. How many lives was it worth to you?"

The Admiral now realizes it was him who attacked the farmhouse the night before. His face grows hard, and he narrows his eyes. "I'd tread carefully if I were you, Lieutenant. Your reputation can only protect you so far, before enemies in high places turn on you."

"Was it! Worth it!" Simon yells. "You pricks -- who decide who lives and dies, who decide who turns on who -- you pricks, who let the job lead you to believe that you're God," he points. His face burns, his throat hurts. Memories claw their way to the front of his mind, just like he clawed his way out of Vernon's grave.

"If you kill me, you will be hunted for the rest of your life."

Simon shakes his head. "I'm not gonna kill you. You're not worth my bullets. I'm going to watch...as the world tears you apart. As you lose...everything."

The Admiral scoffs again, and moves towards his desk, where his service weapon lies locked in a drawer. "I doubt that. Surely, you didn't think you could come here and threaten me, and get away unscathed." He loads the chamber, and aims the barrel at Ghost's chest.

Simon doesn't flinch.

"Where is the SD card?" the Admiral asks.

"I've already given it to the press."

Military police storm the office, and take the Admiral into custody.

Ghost and Soap are taken off their upcoming assignment, they're needed for debriefing on the scandal that is unfolding regarding the Admiral. Cecelia and Margot are also asked to give account of what happened. The doors of their home are repaired, and they're left to pick up the pieces -- figuratively and literally.

Three weeks have passed; the trial is still in preparation stages; Margot is back at school, and Cecelia has set up therapy for her. Simon encourages her to be seen by a shrink, herself. She refuses, and he pushes her, telling her he'll take her himself if he has to.

"This feels familiar," Simon says, as he helps rehang a painting in her living room.

"Let's hope it never feels familiar again."

He wants to laugh, but he can't. He just shakes his head, and straightens the frame. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow."

"Wait -- can't I make you a cup of tea?"

It's the offer that got his heart into trouble in the first place. But he still can't say no -- the pause he gives, gives her enough time to head to the kitchen, where she boils some water, and hands him a well-worn mug of tea. The good kind.

He stays with them for several weeks. Weeks turn to months. He tries not to give into the fantasy. Cecelia knows as well as he does, that he can't stay. Even if he wants to.

He wants to.

He has too many enemies. If he retires, if he gives into the dream, it will only put targets on their backs. Cecelia knows. She doesn't fight him on it.

"Just...don't let another decade go by...before I see you again," she tells him.

"I won't." He has her hands in his, pressed to his mouth. He's getting ready to leave, a new assignment is waiting for him on the other side of the door, and for the first time -- ever -- he feels human enough to wish there was nothing waiting for him. No assignment. No dossier. He feels human enough to wish — for anything at all. Even a family.

He takes a deep breath, and lets go of her hands. He pulls from his pocket an envelope filled to the brim with money, an accumulation of many years' worth of combat pay. "Use this. For her. Anything she needs -- anything at all. You get it for her, with this. Get her into a good school, get her an education -- don't let her do what I do. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kisses her, and turns to Margot's bedroom to say goodbye. She's holed up there -- she doesn't understand why he has to leave. He doesn't think she ever will. He doesn't understand it fully, himself.

Simon sits on the edge of her bed. He doesn't know what else to say.

"Will we ever see you again?" she asks.

"You can't get rid of me that easy, love."

She crawls to him, and embraces him.

Something flips inside of him, feeling her arms around him. His own child -- the bone of his bone, the flesh of his flesh. A weight sinks into his heart, and he takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling like it's the first and only breath he's ever taken. He puts a kiss on the top of her head, and they linger there for a long while.

When he, at last, pulls away to leave, she follows him. "Goodbye, Dad."

It's a searing knife wound to the center of him. But he turns and touches her face. "Goodbye, love."

Simon leaves, seen off by the two at their doorstep.

It's a home he can return to. Over, and over again. A feeling, and a place -- people who welcome him. Where his bed is always warm, where arms wrap around him and the blood washes down the drain. And where December never hurts as much.

[gomzdrawfr]

Merry Christmas!! they're exchanging gifts by the tree :3

[120daysofsodomm]

[gothghostiie]

Please don't apologize! And just to um... To add to the horny anal thoughts what about Johnny using a vibrating dildo in your ass as he pounds your pussy?

nodding, nodding

him flipping you around into lazy doggy while he plows into you, not stopping for even a second while plunging his fingers into your tight pucker, using your slick as lube to finger you open just enough so the vibrator brings you more pleasure than pain when he pushes it in, the loud yelp turning into a wail as he turns it all the way up. it makes your hips stutter, your eyes roll back, his cock constantly kissing your cervix and the vibrations making your fat jiggle, forcing you closer to cumming by the second and all you can do is drool into the sheets

[cupidsworstcrime]

jealous!johnny x f!reader x pathetic!könig

reader and könig are virgins for 5 whole seconds

[fauxcest / stepcest]

It starts soft. Too soft for what it becomes.

You're in his room again, pretending not to notice how he keeps looking at your thighs when you sit cross-legged on his bed. He's been restless all day—fidgeting, glancing at the door like someone's going to burst in and catch you.

And then, suddenly:

"Can I kiss you?"

You blink.

His voice is hoarse, desperate. His face already flushed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he’s been sweating.

You nod. Just once.

He surges forward like he’s starved, but still—still—he kisses you like you’re holy. Like his lips don’t deserve yours.

His hands shake as they touch your waist. His whole body trembles like he's afraid you'll vanish.

"Have you... ever?" he whispers against your lips.

You shake your head. His breath hitches.

"Me neither," he says, almost ashamed. "But I dream about it. About... you."

You kiss him again before he can spiral—pull his hands beneath your shirt and place them on your ribs so he can feel how fast your heart is pounding.

"You can..." you whisper. "I want it to be you."

You end up beneath him. His hoodie’s gone. He’s all flushed skin and taut muscle and soft sounds that escape his throat whenever you touch his chest, his neck, his thighs.

His cock is huge—you always suspected—but it’s different seeing it now, angry and flushed and dripping. You touch it and he gasps, hips bucking, like he didn’t expect the feeling.

"Are you sure?" he keeps asking, over and over, even as the tip starts to nudge against your entrance.

"You can tell me to stop. I’ll be good. I’ll wait."

But you’re already wet. Already open for him. Already nodding.

"Please, König. I want it. I want you to be my first."

He goes slow. So slow.

You both gasp when he starts to push in.

He’s thick, stretching you inch by inch, face twisted in agony like he’s holding himself back from slamming into you and losing it.

"So warm," he pants, "so tight—ah—fuck—Liebling—I can’t—"

You cry a little when he bottoms out. He freezes, kissing your tears, whispering,

"I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’ll stop—"

"Don’t," you whimper. "Feels so full—feels so good—just don’t stop—"

He groans, low and deep, thrusts once, twice—slow and trembling—and then stillness, except for the way you both shake.

He buries his face in your neck as he spills inside you, sobbing, whispering your name like it’s a promise:

"Mine. Mine. You’re mine now."

Johnny wasn’t even trying to listen.

Well—he wasn’t not trying.

He just always keeps an ear out for you. For König. That sweet kid's been dancing around you for months. Blushing like a sinner in church every time you call him baby brother. Looking like he’s about to cry whenever Johnny so much as leans against you in the kitchen.

But this?

This is different.

It starts with the creak of König’s bedframe. Soft. Innocent. Johnny’s about to ignore it until he hears the first broken, pleading little moan:

"So warm—fuck—so good, bitte, please—"

He would have been proud his brother was finally getting fucking laid, maybe head stop being fucking pathetic, but—

Then your voice. Whispering:

"Don’t stop—feels so full—"

Johnny sits up in bed. Jaw clenched. Cock already hard.

No. Fuck no. That wasn’t what he thinks it was.

But then König groans—loud, helpless—and gasps:

"You’re mine—mine—"

And Johnny fucking knows.

He fists his sheets. Groans. Palms his cock through his boxers with a snarl.

That fucking lucky little shit—König.

Didn’t even know how to talk to you properly, and now he’s the one who got inside first?

Made you cry with it, probably. Whimpering and wide-eyed and begging to take his cock first?

He grits his teeth.

You let him split you open first? Not your older brother, the one who taught you how to flirt, who was always just a little too close when the others weren’t looking?

He can still hear it through the wall. König whimpering, your voice barely there:

"Feels so good, baby—want you to fill me up—"

And König, wrecked:

"Gott, I love you—I love you—"

Johnny doesn’t even bother hiding it now. Why should he? Its his room.

Lets his jeans fall open, cock flushed and leaking, fist pumping angrily as he listens to you get taken—sweet, shy König’s cock buried to the hilt inside you while he’s left alone in the dark, panting like a fuckin’ dog.

"So that’s how it fuckin’ is, huh?" he growls under his breath. "You let baby brother in first. Gonna fuckin’ remember that."

And oh—he will.

Because next time?

He’s not gonna let you look so innocent when you cry his name instead.

You're glowing.

Sweet little ache between your legs, König's cum still warm inside you, thighs sticky, heart full. You limp back into your room in nothing but a big hoodie—his hoodie—and settle under the covers with a soft sigh, dazed and dreamy.

And then—your door creaks open.

Johnny doesn’t knock. He never does.

But there’s something different in the way he stands in the doorway now—dark eyes locked on you, fists clenched, jaw tight.

"You look real proud of yerself," he mutters.

Your stomach flips.

"Johnny—"

"Don’t play dumb with me, sweetheart. I heard every fuckin’ sound you made."

He’s already closing the distance, heavy boots slow and deliberate.

You try to speak again, but he cuts you off with a look—sharp. Burning.

"So that’s it, then? Gave it to him? Let baby brother have it first? You really couldn’t wait for me?"

Your breath catches. Your thighs press together, and Johnny notices.

"Fuckin’ knew you were a needy little thing," he growls. "Couldn’t even make it one more week without cock, huh? Let him stretch you out while I sat in the next room jerking off to the sounds of your moanin’?"

He’s in front of you now. Looming.

You feel tiny—practically naked under the blanket even though you’re covered.

"Did he even know what he was doing?" he sneers, leaning in. "Did he make you cum, or just cry a little and tell you he loved you?"

You whimper. He smirks.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought."

Then—his hand slides under the blanket.

Calloused fingers between your legs, pressing against your sore, used little hole. You flinch, hips twitching, still oversensitive.

He exhales. Low. Possessive.

"Fuck me—he did cum in you, didn’t he? Look at that—"

Two fingers slide through the mess, cum and slick coating his fingertips.

"You let him breed you, sweetheart?" he snarls. "And didn’t even think to ask your big brother first?"

You try to say his name. Try to explain it wasn’t like that—König was gentle, sweet, you wanted it—

But Johnny presses his fingers deeper and you gasp, thighs spreading without meaning to.

He groans.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought. Still fuckin’ open for me."

Then a whisper, darker:

"I’m not gonna be gentle like he was."

And just like that—you know you’re not getting any rest tonight.

Because Johnny’s not going to stop until he fucks the memory of König out of you.

Until you’re crying his name next.

Sick little grin, palm heavy on your lower back, using that newly stretched pussy like it’s his job to ruin it for everyone else who ever touched it and anyone who ever will—including poor, sweet König.

You're on all fours, face down in the sheets, back arched just how he likes it—

And Johnny? He’s already buried to the hilt, cock thick and hot inside you, both hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

"Still sloppy from him," he grits out, dragging his cock almost all the way out before slamming back in. "Didn’t even bother to clean up before lettin’ me have a turn, huh? Fuckin’ filthy."

Your moan turns into a sob—but it’s needy, desperate.

He chuckles. Cruel.

"Aw, don’t cry, sweetheart. You wanted this."

A sharp thrust—your hips jolt.

"Wanted big brother to take care of it right. Fuck you proper."

His hand slips between your thighs, fingers finding your clit just to be mean. Circles it rough, like he’s trying to force your body to admit how much it loves this—loves being used.

"You know he didn’t fuck you like this. He couldn’t," he snarls in your ear, bending over you. "Bet he apologized every time you whimpered. Whispered how much he loved you, how pretty you were—"

His teeth graze your shoulder, a sudden bite at the base of your neck. You cry out.

He grins.

"Not me, baby. I'm not gonna coddle you like that. You wanted a real fuck, didn’t you? Wanted big brother to split you open and tell you the truth."

Another brutal thrust, and your voice cracks.

"Truth is—you're perfect like this. Dumb little hole droolin’ all over me, beggin’ for more, fuckin’ made to be ruined."

You try to nod, words failing.

He laughs again, breath hot against your ear.

"Good girl. Knew you had it in you."

He pulls you back onto his cock, filthy squelch echoing with each stroke.

"Can’t believe you let him in first. Gonna have to fuck the memory of that outta you."

And he does.

Again. And again.

Until you can’t think of anything but the sound of his voice, mean and sweet at once, praising you like a fucking curse:

"That’s it, sweetheart. Take it like a good fuckin’ girl. Show me who you really belong to."

Oh you knew something was off the moment Johnny opened the door—

That smug, mean little smile on his lips, that tilt of his head like he’s already planned the next hour down to every whimper you’ll make.

You just didn’t expect to see König on his bed.

König doesn’t even look you in the eye at first.

He’s flushed red to his ears, thighs spread awkwardly where he’s seated on Johnny’s bed—still fully dressed, hands on his lap, trying desperately not to let you see the bulge in his jeans.

(Too late. He’s already leaking through the fabric.)

Johnny steps aside with a flourish.

"C’mon, then, sweetheart. Don’t get shy on us now."

His fingers graze your back, press between your shoulders. "You already let him fuck you once. ‘S only fair I get to watch it this time. Guide him a little."

You swallow thickly—heart pounding.

"Johnny—"

But he just tilts his head. "What? You like it when I talk you through it, don’t you? Like when I tell you how fuckin’ perfect you are—how deep you can take it—how sweet you sound when you cry for it—"

Your knees buckle. König finally looks up.

His eyes are wide, blown with lust and guilt and need. He whispers your name like it’s sacred.

Johnny’s behind you now, hands sliding under your shirt, up your ribs.

"She’s nervous," he tells König, low and mocking-sweet. "You remember how she shakes a little? How she does that needy little whimper when you first push in? Watch for it—there it is."

And he pushes you forward, guiding you to straddle König's lap.

You can feel him trembling under you.

His hands hover, unsure—until Johnny reaches around, grabs König’s wrists, and sets them on your hips.

"Good boy. Go slow—she’s sensitive. Might pretend she doesn’t like it, but you’ll feel the way she grips you."

You gasp as König’s hips twitch upward, cock pressing between your folds—already rock hard, thick, leaking.

"Johnny—"

"That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Show your big brother how greedy you are for it—even when he makes you share."

He leans close, mouth against your ear. "Don’t worry. You’re gonna come on his cock this time, but I’ll still be the one to make you scream."

You’re gasping now—full, stretched, stuffed on König’s cock while Johnny kneels behind you, voice low and wicked in your ear like the devil on your shoulder.

"Go on then, move those hips. She can take it. Can’t you, baby?"

You try to answer but all that comes out is a desperate moan. König lets out this helpless little “Scheiße—” under his breath, hands trembling on your waist as you grind down on him. His cock hits deep, thick and flushed so hot it aches, and he looks like he’s about to die from the way your cunt squeezes around him.

Johnny laughs.

"You’re lucky I’m lettin’ you go first, mate. She’s tighter’n a fuckin’ fist, ain’t she?"

König nods wildly, mouth falling open.

"S-so warm—"

You cry out as he jerks his hips, sloppy and too eager, chasing more friction.

Johnny tuts. "Ah ah, slow down. She’s not a toy—"

He presses a hand to the small of your back, steadying your rhythm.

"You fuck her right, or you don’t fuck her at all. Understand?"

König whimpers, nodding again like he’s grateful for the rules.

Johnny’s hand slips lower—between your thighs—thumb finding your clit with practiced ease. You twitch, hips jerking, and König nearly loses it.

"She likes that," Johnny murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. "You feel her pulse around you? She's close already. My good girl’s always desperate for it."

You're whimpering now, straddling the edge of release.

And König—sweet, blushing, filthy-mouthed König—can’t stop himself.

"Bitte, please—can I—can I cum inside?"

You choke on a moan.

Johnny grins like the devil himself.

"Course you can, brother. Fill her up good. She needs it—doesn’t she, baby?"

He pinches your clit. You scream.

And König snaps.

Buries himself deep with a strangled moan and floods you with it—hot thick, helplessly twitching inside you while you clamp down and follow him over the edge.

But Johnny’s not done.

He waits until you slump back against him, dazed and wrecked and dripping.

Then he grabs you by the chin, tilts your head to face him.

"Now say thank you."

You blink at him, lips parted, still panting.

"Say thank you to your little brother for filling you up so nice."

And when you do—still trembling, cunt squelching around König’s softening cock—

Johnny groans like he’s starving, unzips himself, and mutters:

"My fuckin’ turn."

König’s still inside you, cock twitching, his chest heaving beneath you—

his eyes glassy, sweat dampening his fringe where it sticks to his forehead.

“So good,” he murmurs, barely audible, still holding your hips like you might float away if he lets go.

But Johnny doesn’t give you a moment.

You feel the blunt pressure of his cock behind you before you even realize he’s stripped down.

"Gotta say—" he mutters, one hand gripping your throat, the other guiding his tip to your overused, cum-filled entrance, "—watchin’ your cunt swallow your little brother was the hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve seen in my life."

You squirm—but your body’s still shaking, wrecked, unable to fight it.

You’re soaked. Messy. Open.

And Johnny doesn’t ease in.

He pushes, slow but insistent—cock head catching against König’s still-thick length inside you.

You scream.

"God, listen to her," Johnny groans, nails biting your hip as he presses deeper, stuffing you to the brim.

König moans softly—his cock twitches again, still buried in your heat as Johnny starts to bully his in beside it.

"That’s it, baby. Stretching so fuckin’ wide for us. Think you were made for this—"

He grabs a handful of your hair, yanking your head back so he can kiss your neck, teeth grazing your pulse.

"—made to take both your brothers like a good little thing."

You're crying now—from pleasure, from the stretch, from the feel of being so full you could break.

And König?

He's watching the bulge in your belly move every time Johnny thrusts, eyes wide with awe.

He feels it too—feels Johnny’s cock dragging against his inside you, every stroke setting off sparks in his brain.

"S-scheiße—" he moans. "She’s—so tight—I can feel—"

Johnny laughs, filthy and mean.

"Yeah? She’s squeezin’ both of us, love. Can’t get enough of her brothers, can she?"

And then it starts.

Johnny fucks you, hard and slow—grinding König’s cock against your walls with each thrust.

He’s panting, growling in your ear, talking you through it the whole time.

"There you go—let me stretch you open proper. Don’t hold back, sweetheart. Let him feel how good I make you cum."

You're already shaking again, sobbing his name, hips trying to rock back into him as König groans helplessly beneath you.

And when you do cum, it’s blinding—

White-hot, raw, body convulsing between them as Johnny bites your shoulder and König gasps your name like a prayer.

Johnny doesn’t last long after that.

"Gonna fill you up again—stuff you so full you’ll drip down your thighs for hours—gonna make sure everyone knows you’re ours—"

And then he’s spilling into you, pressed flush, cock pulsing beside König’s inside your ruined cunt.

They stay there, both buried to the hilt.

And you?

You just whimper, head lolling back, thighs twitching, lips parted in a blissed-out, broken smile.

Because you’ve never been more full, more filthy—

or more loved.