#Soap Mactavish

[temeyes]

missed these sillies :^(

[fludderpy]

Some sketches about ghosts healing journey…..

(Captain price would listen to his thoughts and calm him if he’s having bad dreams, and ghost would bond mich more with gaz imo)

(Also laswell would make him tea)

[steebersss]

i dont know you at all

[tobeholyistobeempty]

G’mornin, bonnie. | john soap mactavish

You wake up from a one night stand — ready to gather your shit and run just like you always do after a night of bad decisions — but turns out, Johnny has other plans for you.

cw: 18+ mdni. smut. slight dark themes ie. stalking. john price has a kid and is a great wingman apparently. reader afab. teacher!reader. morning after a hookup. domestically menacing johnny with a permanent shit-eating grin. first time attempting to write his accent so i’m sorry in advance. piv. voyuerism!kink. rip to johnny’s neighbours. creampie.

for the absolutely lovely @spurbleu. thank you for offering me this challenge. i hope i did him justice 🤍 i’m so sorry i’m so late ilysm

You wake to something warm.

It washes over you slowly — spring streams pouring into fragmented consciousness, urging you from the depths of slumber with a gentle lull. Coaxing. Warm like summer sun internalized, flowing through your hair — hazing the room in a golden film as your eyes peel open with rapid blinks, and confusion hastily nullifies it.

You shift, becoming aware of what your body is subconsciously telling you. Warmth. All of it adding to the growing discombobulation. The lingering heat between your thighs. The cocooning comfort of sheets that aren’t yours. The odd familiarity of a room that’s too bare to be recognized. The grace of a bed that’s glaringly empty save for dark sheets wrapped around bare, aching legs.

It takes you a minute, but your memory eventually resurfaces — gasping for air at the smell of coffee and the hum of movement from the other room.

Johnny.

Hard to forget that name after you’d spent the night screaming it. Your body knows before your mind does, muscles humming with the memory of hands that held too tight, a mouth that took its time. You inhale. Coffee again. A lure. A leash. It tugs at something instinctual, something inside you domesticated — until you glance at the clock sitting on an empty nightstand and realize it’s almost 9 am.

Shit. You should have been long, long gone by now.

You exhale, cursing your constant stupidity as you drag yourself out of his bed and up to your feet — fogged vision scanning the floor, brows creasing as you realize you’re wearing nothing save for a long white shirt that surely isn’t yours — and your clothes are no where to be found.

Oh. Right.

Your clothes barely made it past the front fucking door.

Another exhale, forced from shaking lungs. You’ll have to go out there. You’ll have to face him, grab your clothes and change. It’ll be awkward, but it’s not like you haven’t been here before. Not like you haven’t been through this with past vices. It’ll be fine. It’ll be easy — you all but convince yourself. And within seconds, you’re halfway down the hall, practising your fake smile and empty thank you’s when the smell grows stronger.

Your stomach grumbles with the force of it as you step into the kitchen and —

Fuck.

Johnny stands at the stove, shirtless in grey sweats, bathed golden by the early morning light. It clings to his skin, drapes over the planes of his back, the ridges of his spine. His hair is a mess, wrecked and mussed — a souvenir from your hands as he fiddles with something in a pan, humming hypnotic under his breath.

And it’s then that you forget what you were supposed to be doing.

Because this? This is wrong. This is not how this goes. You don’t wake up like this, wrapped in the scent of coffee and breakfast, staring at a man who should’ve already been nothing more than a memory.

Your breath sticks in your throat, limbs made of cement as he turns. Catches you standing there.

And grins. “G’mornin’, bonnie.”

You blink, the exertion of it painful. You should leave.

Instead, you exhale. “You’re making breakfast.”

His lips twitch, amusement and archaism synchronized swimming in his ocean eyes. “Aye. Tha’s usually what it’s called.”

He is so at ease here, it’s unnerving. You can feel it, see it in the way he moves. Unfettered. Relaxed. It makes a knot of tension bindle between your shoulder blades — because this is familiar to him, but not to you.

Two plates. Two cups of coffee. You should leave.

“You—you don’t have to do that.”

Johnny just shrugs, turning that canvas of a back to you — red parallel lines catching under karat coated rays. Your own painting on display — you find yourself admiring it as if it wasn’t created by last nights drunken fingers.

“Ye thought I’d jus’ kick ye out?” He flips eggs in the pan. Your chest aches. “Ye were tryen t’sneak off first then?”

Your lips press into a thin line — indignant as you force your eyes to the floor. “Admittedly, that was the plan, yes.”

He tsks, shaking his head like that’s the most disappointing sentence he’s heard all week before he glances over his shoulder at you again — all beaming blue eyes and grins.

“Shame. Poor things nae used te bein taken care of, is she?”

That indignation spreads, grows a vine around your throat. Twists your tongue. “Well, I mean—I don’t—“

Johnny cuts you off with a hum. Or, more like you cut yourself off, because you have absolutely nothing to say to that and what you did offer seems to be more than enough of an answer for him.

“Ye think too much, bonnie.” Something sizzles in the pan — you watch the veins in his arms shift against whiskey skin as he lifts it off the element. “All tha’ time plotting yer escape, ye coulda’ been enjoying breakfast.”

Christ. You really should leave. You should slip back into the skin of someone who doesn’t stick around for things like this. But it’s like your feet have grown roots, burrowed beneath his floorboards. You blame it on the smell of coffee, the warmth of the kitchen. The way his fucking muscles flex as he moves.

It’s all nurture to something long rotted in your soul.

“It’s not like I was expecting breakfast.” You mutter, tugging his shirt down your thighs before crossing your arms across your chest. “Wasn’t expecting any of this, really.”

Could you be anymore fucking awkward about this?

“Tha’ right?”

You can’t see it, but you can hear the grin on his mouth. It should scare you that you are beginning to predict him — expecting something smart to come out of him next.

“Didnae expect the shag either, but ye still took it real well.”

Perhaps it should scare you more that you were right.

You clear your throat, but the heat is already rushing down your spine. Settling somewhere inconvenient. He just gives you a quick glance, lopsided leisure tilting his lips as he turns with a plate and coffee cup in hand, gesturing with his head toward the table.

“Come o’nae, I won’t bite ye.”

————————-

Turns out, Johnny MacTavish is real easy to talk to. Too easy.

Mostly because he doesn’t stop talking, but nonetheless, it whiplashes you. You came here expecting the usual routine — get in, get out, leave nothing behind but the scent of mingled sweat on strange sheets — but the one-night stand has somehow stretched into morning and now you’re sitting at his kitchen table, fork scraping against porcelain, coffee steaming — actually talking like this isn’t just borrowed time.

He tells you about Scotland. About real pubs, the kind where the floors stick to your boots and old men sing ballads in voices ruined by smoke. He talks with his hands. His shoulders. His fucking eyes — restless and full of movement, always wandering. Blue. Though that hardly cuts it — the colour of a storm sky split by lightening. Cool in the shallows and rich in the depths.

They hold contradiction well. Like they’ve seen enough of the world to be cynical but still manage to burn bright enough to keep that warmth kindling under your skin.

Perplexing.

That’s the word that sits on the tip of your tongue as you stare at him. Wondering if he was truly just another notch on your bedpost, would you still be here, trying to make sense of what you missed in the dark last night.

“So,” he says, ripping a piece of butter soaked toast in half. “Ye always bolt after?”

You pause mid-bite. Then your mouth moves dumbly. “After what?”

Johnny smirks. “After ye ride a bloke like yer life depends on it, scream his name loud enough tae wake the dead, and wake up wearen’ his shirt.”

“Jesus—“ you choke, grateful you at least swallowed your food prior to him starting that sentence, otherwise he’d be halfway to giving you the heimlich right about now. “You don’t do subtle, do you?”

“Aye.” That grin grows over the rim of his mug. “Subtlety’s a waste on a woman like ye.”

Before you can’t think better of it, you find yourself grinning back.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes flick away to catch the sunlight.

“Ye dinnae’ strike me as the half-measures type, bonnie.” Then they wander back to yours. “Means ye like a man tha’ says what he’s really thinken, tha’s all.”

That makes you pause, and you try to tell yourself you’re not blushing. It’s the warm sun at your back, or the coffee sitting thick in your belly. It’s certainly not those eyes — still on you, unashamedly, taking in whatever it is they see behind your own.

“You think you know me?” You try to make it sound as casual as possible. You know you don’t accomplish it.

“Aye.” A lazy nod. “I do.”

And that — that makes you squirm. Makes you drop your eyes to his hands as they sit against the sides of his coffee mug. Capable fingers calloused with strength, a few bruised knuckles. Your gaze drifts up to the veins on his forearm, and you stop yourself before you stare too long.

“Why?”

You hadn’t even realized you’d asked it out loud until his lips quirk like he was waiting for it.

“Wha happened te all yer self-preservation?”

You blink. Your tongue is heavy, but you make yourself use it.

“...self-preservation?”

He leans forward, arms on the table between you.

“All it took te keep ye here was a little forward hospitality. Ye got no blasted clue who I even am — yet yer still here, asken questions ye shouldnae be asken in a voice tha doesnae belong te someone looken te run.”

And you don’t know what to say to that, because admittedly it knocks everything off kilter. Leaves you wrong-footed. Lands a little too close to being right. There is safety in one-night stands and running before the sun breaks. There is safety in not learning anything about the man you share a bed with for a night if you don’t have to. You’ve been good at it. Practiced it like a bad habit.

You didn’t realize, until now, just how easy it’d been for Johnny to make you break it.

“I said I know ye,” he whispers. “Because I do m’research on who I share m’bed with.”

He leans back in his chair after that — and your eyes follow. Milliseconds stretch to seconds which stretch thin to what feels like minutes before you find some sort of wherewithal to move. You don’t want to know what he means by that, and you don’t want to look too deep to find the answers — the incrimination dunked just beneath the ocean tides in his irises.

“You are so bloody full of it.” You surprise yourself by not stuttering, staying steady as you stand. “I—I have to go.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Aye, I am.”

His eyes find yours again before you head for your clothes still scattered all over his living room floor. You swear to all kinds of unholy things that you feel the heat against the back of your skull as the flashes of last night flood your memory — his tongue on your cunt, your nails in his skin, his name on your lips—

“Ye’ll be back though, aye?”

You pause somewhere by the window, turning to note the morning light painting his hair a hundred different shades of gold. There’s an easy smile on his mouth, no trace of last night’s drunken humour in his expression.

“What?”

His smile stretches to something devilish, and you are so not used to the feeling it elicits. Not used to being charmed. Being disarmed.

“Y’like a man who says what he’s thinken.” He wets his lips. You can’t look away. “And what I’m thinken, bonnie, is tha this willnae be just a one time thing.”

He rises, then, and you get the unsettling, stomach-punching feeling that he knows. That he can see the words spinning up and dying on your tongue, can see the flush rising up your neck knowing it’s something he put there.

“Ye want te leave, go right ahead.” Your pulse thrums as he draws closer. “Just know tha when ye come back. I’ll be starven.”

Asinine, you tell yourself, but your heart is in your throat — that suffocating something licking up your spine and curling beneath your sternum. Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. Time. Work. Reality. The real world standing just beyond the exit of whatever the hell this currently is.

You decide, then, that you actually do want answers.

“You—you researched me,” you find your voice, though it doesn’t come easily. Drags itself up from the pit of your throat, scraped raw by the claws of confusion . “I don’t—”

Glass touches your back through the thin veil of his t-shirt as you take a step back, snow white fabric still lazily draping the curves you let this man get well acquainted with last night. A stranger who wasn’t all that estranged, you realize.

“Relax, lass,” his voice drops to a soothing pitch. Something suiting for the cornered animal you currently feel like you are, as he steps closer again. “I didnae run a background check on yer whole bloodline, if tha’s what’s got ye hackles up.”

You clear your throat, sun beating at your back through the glass. Suffocating.

“Then tell me. What you meant.”

Tongue over teeth, he nods, palms going up. Playful as a puppy, if the puppy was rabid.

“I jus’ know who ye are. What ye do.” A pause, glimpsing down at the way your chest is rapid firing, before flicking back up. “Know someone whose kid ye teach. Speaks real highly of ye, actually.”

There’s no amount of blinks that can make those words make sense, yet you hope 10 might do it.

A parent of one of your students is talking about you. To Johnny MacTavish.

“I’m s-sorry?” You’re stuttering, now. Goddamnit. “Who? What’d they say?”

He exhales, props an arm on the glass beside your head and crosses his ankles as his body brackets yours — watching the silence drag. Watching you ruminate in it.

“S’nothin bad, bonnie. Quite the opposite.”

You’re staring at his mouth. “Johnny, who was it?”

He makes you wait, the bastard. And then—

“Price.”

The name punches the air from your lungs. “What?”

Johnny’s smile turns smug. “Captain’s kid. Ye teach ’em, aye?”

It hits you somewhere between the grin and the way he leans in. Captain.

“Price,” you repeat softly, the name tilting sideways in your mouth. “John Price?”

He stills. Just slightly.

“Aye, Captain John Price.”

You blink once, twice, brain whirring. He’s referring to him like an official superior. Routine. That means he’s either a cop. Or detective. Or FBI. or Military—

“You work with him,” you murmur.

“Work, kill, drink. Depends on the day,” he says, that thick Glaswegian accent wrapping around the truth like it’s not heavy. Military. “Didnae put it together, did ye? All tha time I was sittin’ across from ye. Ye never asked what I did. No idea I had credentials.”

You huff, stunned. Unsure what to say. Less unsure what to feel. “Christ.”

“Oh, now yer sayin’ His name,” that smile is back. Rankles you in a way you never knew until him. “Where was tha earlier when I had ye on yer knees—“

“Johnny,” you warn. “Keep talking or I’m leaving.”

He laughs, easy, leaning in until all the air feels like it’s his.

“Didnae have te dig deep, bonnie. Prefer te do all the dirty work m’self.” Eyes narrow, at that. He just keeps going. “Capn’s kid. Jamie. Talks bout ye like yer some kinda’ fairytale. Real sweet. Price said he’s never seen the kid so bright-eyed about school.”

The name finds your ears with a soft ache chained to it. Jamie Price — broad-shouldered for a ten-year-old, barely spoke unless coaxed, drew galaxies on the backs of worksheets when he thought no one was watching.

Gentle kid. Brilliant, too.

Johnny shrugs, that easy, terrible shrug like it’s all nothing. “Price asked me if I knew ye. Ranted on about how ye treat ‘em. Said he overheard ye talken to someone about the bar ye frequent. Said ye had a backbone, a kind heart, and the sort of stare tha makes grown men straighten up like schoolboys.” Blue eyes glimpse your lips, again. “But ye ain’t ever been treated right.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’re still pressed against the glass, still unsure if you’re more flattered or frightened.

“He said that?”

The amusement falls off his face, something stern replacing it, and nods.

“There’s some things tha just stay with a man.” He shifts closer. Doesn’t touch you, though. Doesn’t need to. “He said it. Like he was tellen me not te fuck it up.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a weak exhale, like your body doesn’t trust relief just yet. He swallows, continues.

“I just cannae figure it out. Pretty thing like yerself. Real good with kids.” He breathes the last part thick, like it curls in his throat and tugs. Like it does things to him. “Bit of a wild ride, clearly. And somehow — yer alone. Settlen’ for quick fucks instead.”

You don’t answer immediately. You can’t. You just peer up at him, breathing made heavy by everything you’ve learned and everything he is.

“Choice, Johnny.” You whisper. “It’s by choice.”

“Aye. Choice.” He whispers back, other hand finding the glass beside your head, knees knocking as he leans in impossibly closer. “But all those men who let ye walk. Who didnae fight for ye, they’re fools.” He’s close enough your lips almost brush. No grin on them, now. Just gravity. “I’m no fool, love.”

It’s all hitting you at once, in the same place you’re pressed — against the cool pane of the balcony door. It was all set up. Johnny pulled the entire night from the ether thanks to a man you hardly know. Captain John Price. You’d only ever thought of him as John — the friendly, albeit quiet man who showed up to parent-teacher meetings with stories in his eyes. Said little. Watched everything. A ghost in your mind until now — until Johnny pieced it all together with soldiers determination and an easy tongue.

Sat beside you at the bar. Didn’t come on too strong. Didn’t press or sound too rehearsed. Made it real easy to believe it was all a coincidence.

How foolish you had been to not see through the performance.

But now, the shows over — there’s no final act. No audience to entertain. The masks have come off, and you hear it. The sincerity in the way he says I’m no fool. Like it’s not just about last night but about tomorrow and the one after that. Like he’s telling you he’ll fight for you and he’ll mean it. That this isn’t just a night. That he doesn’t want it to be.

And you’re still reeling from it when your hands find the heat of his chest. Curling around his neck without ceremony, pulling him in the final inch.

He’s kissing you.

Not like he earned it, but like he means it — and you’re kissing him back, hard, moaning as his teeth find your bottom lip and tug. He pulls back before you’re ready for him to, and your head slumps back against the glass. Breathing. Trying to will the ground back into place beneath you as he traces your jawline with his thumb.

“What else,” you croak out as he drops his head into the crook of your shoulder and exhales. “Do you know about me?”

He hums, pressing closer, hips pinning your ass to the glass as you drag your digits down his chest, tracing scars like braille.

“Enough,” he answers, fervent fingers dragging the fabric of his shirt up your hips, torso. “Enough te drive me insane.”

You feel the moment your heart stutters — mouth parted with nothing to fill it but a gasp as your bare ass is exposed against his glass balcony door — giving neighbours and street dwellers a goddamn good view should they be glimpsing up—

“Wait. J-johnny.” He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even blink as you catch his wrists, pleading for reason. “Your neighbours—“

“Donnae care.” He mutters, tugging the fabric up over your head. “Let the bloody bastards watch.”

You don’t want to know what sound slips from your throat at that, but you’re sure it’s some ugly, gorgeous thing. Torn somewhere between lust and indignity as he moves — one hand bracing against the glass beside your head while the other wrestles with the waistband of his sweats, shifting until you can feel him — hot, heavy, throbbing — pressing low against your stomach.

And maybe there’s a moment where you think you should tell him you can’t do this. Something because of the neighbours or the noise or the glass sticking to your back. But his hand finds your face, eyes flooding you like atlantic as he leans in to kiss you before lifting you up, legs curling around him— teasing with false thrusts, dragging his tip slow and sinful over your clit just to swallow the noises pulled from your throat. He doesn’t need words to silence your protest but manages all the same as you’re rocking against his shaft in tandem — one hand holding his lips to yours and the other gripping his back until you’re slick and half out of your goddamn mind with need.

And if you thought he’d be gentle — well.

He doesn’t ease you down. Doesn’t waste time. Just slides into you in one heavy thrust until you’re stretched to your edges and his name is caught on a sound you don’t recognize.

“Johnny! Ohf-fuck!”

He curses, teeth grazing your jaw, hips driving forward like he’s punishing you. Or maybe himself. Probably a little of both. Regardless, there’s nothing easy or soft about this — the kind of frenzied effort that takes you apart and leaves you hoping he’ll stitch you back together. Makes you realize you needed this — the pressure, the friction, the drive deeper into your belly with every excruciating inch as you choke on the sounds he’s drawing out.

You can’t control the pleasure that pours out of you, dripping like honey over his lips as you grip the back of his neck—

“Oh—f-fu—ohgod—“ you can’t find the right words, though you’re not even trying to anymore. It’s better than a dream. Better than last night when it was all alcohol and adrenaline. This is raw. Real. And you realize, through the fog, just how easy it was to get lost in him. To let yourself. Even with nothing but the sound of his voice and the skin on his back to hold onto. “J-johnny—fuckingdeep—yes—“

He sets a frantic pace, teeth sinking into his lip like he can taste the curses you’re whispering against it.

“S’good. S’tight, mmfuck.”

Feral. Best word to describe this. Gnawing you from the inside out, leaving your thighs quivering as you fight to hold onto him, back slicking against the glass as he buries himself so deep you can barely choke out an inhale.

“M’gonna—ohmygod—“

You’re going to cum. You can feel it in the way your belly knots and your thighs tense. His smile gets lost in the crook of your neck as he grunts — not daring to slow down or give you a moment to breathe. Instead, he just slips a hand around your throat, pinning your head back to glass that’s just as humid as you.

And when his eyes finally find yours, they’re a million shades darker than they were five minutes ago. All the blue eclipsed by dark, midnight hunger as he devours like you were served to him on a silver platter.

In some metaphorical way, you know you were.

“G’on. Make a mess of me, bonnie. Know ye need it.”

You want to look away. You can’t. Not when he squeezes your throat like you’re his. Not when he rocks deep and hard and your blood is singing for more. Your pulse thumps wildly and you wonder if he’s trying to slow it with his fingers as he tightens his hold.

And so you moan, because it’s all you can do — while the words you whimper as he thrusts hard enough to make you keen don’t sound like you. They sound like someone he owns.

“Ohfuck, Johnny—yesfuckyesyes—“

It hits you like the shatter of stained glass.

Your mouth falls open, soundless at first, a broken gasp caught somewhere between your throat and tongue. Your whole body tightens, back arching off the glass as you tremble, drowning in it, orgasm dragging you under like a rip current — teeth clenched, thighs shaking, fingernails digging so hard into Johnny’s shoulders you’ll leave marks. You want to leave marks.

“Christ, lass. Tha’s it. Tha’s fucken it, baby.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you breathe. He fucks you through it, jaw clenched, hips snapping forward like he’s chasing your high to the end of the world — like your pleasure is the only map he’s following. You’re crying out now, helpless and shaking and soaked, clenching around him so tight it borders on painful — more for him, you think — as he grunts, one hand bruised into your hip and the other braced against the glass, eyes locked to yours as you fall apart for him.

“Tha’s it, bonnie—” his voice is wrecked, sweat dripping from his brow. “Jesus Christ, s’tight—fucken’ look at ye.”

And you do.

Your head falls forward, forehead against his, eyes burning with the kind of emotion you don’t dare name as you watch him drive in and out, slick coating everything flesh. You sob a noise against his mouth, some choked half-curse, and he swallows it with a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and possession as his thrusts grow sloppy — rougher, more desperate, chasing his own breaking point.

“Can I—fuck—can I cum inside ye pretty cunt?” He pants, voice hoarse against your jaw. “Tell me no. Christ, I’ll pull out, jus’ say it—”

You don’t say it.

You just grab his face, kiss him hard, and whisper; “don’t you dare.”

That’s all it takes.

He groans — a guttural, broken sound — and slams into you once, twice more before he’s spilling inside you. Hips twitching, mouth open against your neck. And for a moment, the world goes still. Nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing. The steam on the glass. The thrum of blood in your ears.

You close your eyes. Let yourself float. You don’t know what this is — but you know it wasn’t just a fuck. Not with the way he’s still holding you. Not with the way you’re already aching to let him do it all over again.

It’s a few moments before he pulls out. Another few before you find your head.

“Christ,” you breathe, rubbing your face as he fixes himself back to modesty. “I can’t believe I—”

You cut yourself off, because what’s the point. Johnny doesn’t move, just watches you with that maddening calm — sweat still cooling along his temple, chest rising and falling slow like he’s got nowhere better to be than right here. Looking down at you the same way he did when he sat beside you at the bar.

Like he’s well acquainted with the taste of your name.

“I told myself,” you try again, “that this was a one-night thing. Just a fuck. Then breakfast. Then I leave.”

His gaze never wavers. “So why didn’ye?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Because you don’t have an answer that doesn’t make you sound like a fool. Until you give up caring.

“Maybe part of me still thinks you’re bluffing.”

“Bluffen,” he echos, leaning closer — eyes soft like snow. “Ye think I sat down beside ye at tha bar for just a fuck? You think I made ye breakfast just to be polite? Nah. I did it cause’ I already knew I wasnae’ about te let this be just once.”

You exhale — stepping back like you’re reclaiming ground, but the glass is at your back and his voice is in your blood now.

“Johnny,” you breathe. “This is mad.”

“Aye,” he agrees, extinguishing the space. “But I’m no’ lettin’ you bolt just ‘cause it scares ye.”

You blink at him. “And if I try?”

Lips at your temple, he grins.

“Go ahead. But ye best put all tha practice te good use, bonnie. Cause’ I’ll find ye.” His fingers trail up your side, electricity coursing. “And each time I’ll fuck ye harder than the last. Leave ye walkin’ funny and thinken’ of me every hour after.”

Those fingers pause, and you jolt, a shockwave behind the ribs as his words drive through you. It’s maddening and it’s sick — how fast reason betrays you. How fast you clench around nothing, aching like he’s made good on that promise. Like part of you wants to be hunted, dragged back by your hair and wrecked until all your rules blur into white noise.

It’s nonsensical. But all men before him were dull — a realization that makes your mouth dry. And all you can think about is the way his voice dragged over that sentence.

The way each time implies he’s already counted them.

“Quite the promise.” You reply.

He smiles all teeth and truce — and you know you’re already too far gone. He knows it too. Judging by the way he hums, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone.

And adds. “This wasnae’ chance. Wasnae’ luck. I came for ye because I meant te. And m’stayen’ for tha same reason.”

[reynisxxsimart]

Soap ALONE mission 🧼

[fablehaven-rulez]

need to see this with the entire team ngl

taking one (& another & another & another) for the team | soap x reader x ghost | inspired by: @softaestluv johnny's pent up blurb

It started as a joke. "I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."

At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.

When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."

Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.

Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."

You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.

But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.

"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"

Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop. Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.

You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.

He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.

"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"

You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.

"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"

You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming. He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.

"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."

He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.

"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."

You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.

Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."

Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders. Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.

"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.

"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"

You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.

"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."

Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.

"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."

Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.

Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.

"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."

You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.

He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.

Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."

Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.

Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.

"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."

He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.

"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."

Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.

"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"

You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.

He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.

"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."

And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.

Ghost.

He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.

Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell. Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.

Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.

Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.

"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.

Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."

Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.

Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.

He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.

Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.

"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."

Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.

He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.

You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.

Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.

Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.

"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."

You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.

And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."

Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace. The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.

You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.

Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.

You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.

You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.

Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.

Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.

Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."

And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.

Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.

You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.

Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.

You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.

And Johnny, of course, was already awake.

He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"

You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.

"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."

You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.

"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"

His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.

You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.

Johnny's grin turned wolfish.

"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."

He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.

You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.

Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.

"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.

Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.

Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."

And from the wicked glint in his eye, you knew you weren’t getting a break anytime soon.

[calqkey]

mmm hambur

[lay-z]

He bought the shirt himself and presented it to you like a proud peacock while you're having a coffee in the kitchen—Winnie Pooh-style. 🙂

[coralviola]

• I love this trend sm!! 💫

[vxv3n0m]

Poor Ghost 😆

Now no one can sleep hehe

[druap]

Full under the cut

↓ CW for blood ↓

[fludderpy]

They didn’t see each other for 3 days so it’s understandable that they crush each other 🫤

[gazstations]

Part 3 of Serial Killer!141. A random thought just popped into my brain, and so I wrote it down. This is probably bad, but it's fine.

first part

TW: implications of torture

"Darling..."

No answer.

"Darling..."

Footsteps approached.

"Darling, that pencil did nothing to you."

Your head was lifted, and finally, you blinked to meet John's stormy blue eyes. You sighed, spell broken as your thoughts left you. You blew air out of your nose in exasperation.

"Writing is hard." You complained.

John chuckled, offering you his hand. You took his large paw, letting the calloused warmth bleed into your skin. You didn't realize how cockeyed your posture was until you groaned and felt a pop in your shoulder blades.

"I'll take your word for it," he said as he naturally found his hand resting on your lower back. A possessive manuveur. He even bunched you up close to his side, making sure you were right there.

He was about to guide you towards the backyard before he suddenly pivoted on his heel, making you raise your eyebrow in confusion.

"How 'bout I take you on a drive, eh?" He declared.

"A drive?" You asked. "Why?"

"Doesn't nature help you jog your brain?" John asked quickly.

He gave one not at all subtle glance towards the backyard before pressing his lips into a firm line. He mumbled something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

He helped you put on your shoes, not at all concerned that you were still in your pajamas. He started to drag you across the living room floor when you broke out of his grip.

"Wait..."

"Darling," John started, but you cut him off. Maybe his nerves were a special surprise for you. You, now giddy, played along. Even though you could smell his nerves--which wasn't common.

"Can't go into nature without my journal, duh," you said as you held up said item and your pencil.

John just sagged, tension coiling tight in his body. You kissed his cheek softly; assuring.

"Should we invite the others?" You asked sweetly.

"They're busy, darling. You don't want to be alone with me?" John asked lowly.

You just smiled. "I love being alone with you, sir."

John eyes narrowed, and he clenched his jaw.

"Get in the bloody car," he ordered, suddenly very eager to go on his impromptu drive.

You giggled and skipped towards the garage.

♡◇♡

What you didn’t see was one of their latest victims giving the other men the slip. They were turned around and desperate as their bloodied form clambered out of Price's workshop at the edge of the property. They managed to get halfway across the yard before Johnny tackled them roughly to the ground--a crimson stained hammer in hand.

John was already heavily considering installing some locks on the inside of the door and knocking some sense into his men for the close call.

But he had you to attend to first.

[johnprice-asks]

like i said, worth it. 😈 i’m actually eating ts up

angst, no comfort, everyone involved in this fic got hurt including the author

inspired from: this song, (english) + this old indonesian song (from reader's perspective) (english)

tw : Dead dove: do not eat, infidelity, depression, mention of abuse, mention of PTSD, implied suicidal thoughts, self-harm, dark theme, heavy ass shit, toxic relationship, one-sided hatred, one-sided love, self-loathing, major character death, violence, mention of blood, probably inaccurate medical scene, implied past-Ghoap, post-Soap's death

last warning : it started bad and it got worse before everything burned in flames

Thanks to @ahobaka-trash & @herdarkangel for beta-reading :3

word count : 9187

rated : E

You can't fix him

Ghost x f!Reader

AO3

The sun was shining brightly in the sky, specks of white decorated light blue. Everything was too bright, too colorful, that he needed to squint his eyes and pull his hoodie to cover his face more. He hadn’t worn his mask for a while now, not since he was discharged. He just couldn’t be bothered to anymore, not finding any use for it when he didn’t need to separate himself between two lives.

But he regretted not wearing any now.

Despite the warm temperature, he was dressed in all black, with his jacket zipped up all the way. His appearance was a contrast to the pretty thing holding onto his forearm. You were skipping beside him, smiling cheerfully as you cooed at babies and greeted every dog passing by.

He made a mistake by glancing at you, to which you responded with a bright smile that made him grit his teeth.

“Don’t be so grumpy, Simon. We’re almost there” You said to him in such a sweet voice that sent a shiver down his spine- not the pleasant kind.

This was not a scenario Simon thought he would ever be in.

It all started when he first met you. His neighbor who wouldn’t leave him alone ever since he moved into the flat beside yours. He didn’t know how you even had the courage to approach him, he knew he was huge and imposing, intimidating everyone in and out of field. He was not charming in any way like you were, he was broody, even more so now that he was medically discharged from the military.

He got his heart punctured in a fight—a near-fatal wound. He was rushed to a field hospital, then airlifted back home, where surgeons fought to keep him alive. Hours of open-heart surgery. Internal bleeding. A cardiac patch to repair the damage. But somehow, he survived.

“Your heart took too much damage. Even with the surgical repairs, any extreme exertion could worsen the scar tissue, cause arrhythmia, or lead to heart failure. If you push too hard… you’ll need a transplant.” He remembered a doctor explaining  it to him.

The very last thing he liked about himself, his strength, was now useless since he couldn’t get his hands dirty. He was angry, but he knew there was nothing he could do, couldn’t argue with Price to at least get him to have Johnny’s revenge and kill Makarov.

You kept pestering him. Starting with knocking on his door to offer him some baked goods, approaching him for small talk even though the most he would respond with was  an annoyed grunt.

It was very obvious that you had a not-so-little crush on him. And he tried to make it obvious that he wasn’t interested, that you were better off trying to charm some better bloke out there that wasn’t full of emotional baggage.

But he was starting to learn that you were a stubborn little thing, and it started to get on his nerves.

And so, that’s how he got here. Letting you drag him to some cozy cafe in the city, you looked so pretty in your flowy sundress and white wedges. He hated it.

You clearly made an extra effort to look pretty for this date. For him.

While he couldn’t even be bothered to shower.

He only agreed to this date so you would see how uninteresting he was, so you would finally leave him alone for the better. 

“So.. we talked a lot before.. but you rarely talked about yourself” You said to him after you both were sat at a table by the window. He had to hold back the urge to roll his eyes at that, because no- we didn’t talk a lot, you did, while he just endured listening to you.

“Why should I talk about myself..” He responded while looking down at his tea, stirring it so he had something to do with his hands to make this whole thing less awkward.

You giggled at that, and while he was used to you being such a sweetheart all the time, it still irked him. “Well.. this is a date.. so, that’s kind of the thing you have to do..” You replied.

“Only if you’re comfortable of course..!” You quickly added when he looked at you with his soulless eyes.

He grunted in response. Like he always did in every interaction with you.

“Well.. let me go first then” You uttered before rambling about yourself like he hadn't  heard it  all before already. You worked as a vet and often volunteered at various local shelters, you liked baking and always shared some with the others, especially him even though he still had quite a few stuffed at the back of his cupboard, uneaten.

Now, Simon knew he had been really cruel with you, especially with how you’ve been nothing but nice. But he couldn’t help it, he didn’t know why but the way you looked at him like he mattered,when he thought the total opposite, just rubbed him the wrong way. 

You clearly fell hard for him for some reason, but he didn’t feel the same way. And he was not a total asshole, he made it very clear with his words and action toward you. “I’m not interested,” He said curtly when you asked him for a coffee yesterday. “..Please? Just this once, then I’ll leave you alone..” You responded. So he only agreed because he hoped you’d keep your word and leave him alone after.

But he couldn’t say that he hated you either. It’s what you do that pissed him off. He was not used to being treated this way, receiving this much affection, when he didn’t deserve it. He felt like a feral animal being forced to wear some cozy sweater. Made his skin itch, Irritating, left him wanting to tear it all at the seams.

It was him that he hated, not you. He shouldn’t be receiving this kind of attention for being the person he was.

“So.. that was all about me, your turn,” your voice snapped him out of his head.

“..Fine, what do you want to know?” He responded,  then took a sip of his tea that tasted horrible on his tongue. But he gulped it down anyway.

“Um.. what do you do for work? I don’t think I’ve seen you out much..” You asked with a tilt of your head.

“Was in the military.” Simon’s answer left out as many details as possible, telling you it’s classified when you asked questions about it. 

He still had a lot of savings to survive living without working for a while. Until he got himself sorted out at least.

A soft giggle left  your lips at his secrecy. “Well.. alright, how about things you do in your free time?” you asked in a gentle tone, being so patient with him as always.

“Nothing much” He answered as he looked anywhere but at you who tried to blind him with your sunshine. He wasn’t lying, he spent most days distracting himself from his thoughts by working out, and when he wasn’t, he was content staying in his flat to zone out at anything playing on tv, at full volume to drown out the voices in his fucked up head. He was sure you could hear him from your place whenever he did that, but you never complained so he wasn’t really sure.

You didn’t respond for a few seconds, which was odd because you were usually so quick to fill the silence with anything you could think of. It was as if you were being more careful with him now in hopes that he would open up to you more eventually.

Stupid thought.

“I noticed you work out a lot, ” you then said with a cheeky smile as you eyed his biceps that were still obvious under his thick hoodie. “Once I saw you went on a run at 2 am,” you added.

He grunted again.

Yeah, he did that sometimes.. woke up in the early hours from nightmares, then tried to tire himself out by running. At least until his body deemed it enough, he didn't want  to put a strain on his heart like the doctor had said.

And when he couldn’t bring himself to go outside, he’d just stare at the wall while unconsciously picking on the stitches from some of the wounds he got from the last deployment. Finding comfort in the sting that distracted him from the heavy weight in his chest. Sometimes it caused him to bleed slightly, but it’s not like he couldn’t stitch it up again  himself. If anything, the pain he felt when doing so  grounded him.

But he couldn’t say that.

“Last time I did so much of a workout was when I got chased by a dog, ” you joked and laughed at yourself. Simon gave no reaction, he was staring at you in the eyes but it was obvious his mind was elsewhere.

You fidgeted in your seat at his lack of response and put on a smile. “So.. if you need a workout buddy, I don’t mind being one.. been wanting to start exercising regularly anyway” You then said shyly, looking up at him with those damn doe eyes.

Simon shrugged. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up”.

Wrong answer.

Because instead of taking it as a rejection, you took it as a challenge.

And you totally broke your promise to leave him alone after this date.

His time of solitude was filled with your sweet voice and giggles.

“Hey, why don’t we rest a bit..” You suggested the first time you invited yourself to his early morning run, panting and sweating already even though it had only been a short while.

He rolled his eyes and kept running at his pace. “Told you, you wouldn’t be able to keep up, ” he responded without looking at you, keeping his gaze forward.

Expecting you to give up and leave him alone, he was surprised when you instead started sprinting, laughing at the way his eyes widened. “Race you..!” you yelled over your shoulder.

Your footsteps kept getting farther and farther, and he could feel himself relaxing again. Finally some peace and quiet.

Simon didn’t bother to race you, content with being with himself along with the feeling weighing him down in his chest. From the damage he got on his heart, or something else, he wasn’t sure.

And as he continued with his run, he caught up with you eventually,  sitting on a bench.

“I won! ” You teased  him with a grin.

Simon didn’t respond, didn’t say that he wasn’t even interested in participating in the stupid race.

You didn’t take the hint of him wanting to be left alone, like  usual . And so, Simon had to endure with your yapping the whole way back to the flat.

“That was fun, Simon. I’ll join you again sometime, yeah?” You headed inside your own flat without waiting for his response since you were used to it by now. And for the first time, Simon appreciated your act of kindness.

It was not surprising when you kept tagging along with his morning run despite him being obviously bothered by it. He was pissed at first, but then your presence became familiar to him, so much so that he found himself looking for you when you didn’t show up.

He quickly shook his head. Damn, you were starting to invade his mind.

Grumbling under his breath, he dumped the thought of you before resuming his run.

Without your cavity-inducing voice to accompany him, he found himself lost in thoughts. Drowning in the cacophony of noises in his head: his dad’s yelling, his mum’s cries, the sound of gunshot to Johnny’s head.

“I said, I already have a boyfriend!” Out of nowhere, your voice snapped him out of his head. Just then, his eyes locked with yours.

“See?  That's him!” You looked relieved and immediately left the guy who had been bothering you to stand by Simon’s side. With a simple stare from him, the guy immediately tensed before hurriedly walking  away. He didn’t mean to intimidate him or help you, but you thanked him anyway.

Boyfriend. Him.

He didn’t think much of it, no. It was obvious that you only said it at the time so the guy would leave you alone.

That was until he heard you telling everyone else that. He overheard you talking to some neighbors who were curious about him, the brooding loner who lived beside you. He didn’t know why he stood back  and refused to  say anything when you told them you’ve been dating him. Maybe it didn’t matter to him what you or everyone else thought , or maybe he didn’t mind the thought of it. The former was more likely.

He thought about it  when he was back at his flat. Since when did you start thinking that?  Was it since  that so-called first date? He probably should say something about it. Not probably — definitely.

But then he remembered how fucking stubborn you were. How you kept pestering him even though he clearly ignored you, how you managed to convince him to go on a date with you, your uninvited presence during his morning run, the insistent knocking on his door whenever you wanted to share your baking with him.

He could already feel his head pounding at the thought of your reaction if he were to make it  clear to  you. Initiating a break-up already felt like a chore, especially with someone like you. His life already felt like hell ever since he was discharged, he really didn’t need another shit on his plate, and didn’t want to start any drama.

Alright, he’d play along for now. Your silly little fantasy would eventually pop after you saw what a burden he truly was.

…

“I can tell you never had anyone over, huh? Well, I feel honored..” You beamed when he invited you over. Big eyes sparkling as you took in the mess that is his apartment, piles of laundry he didn’t bother to fold after getting them out of the dryer, some leftover takeout on the coffee table swarmed by a trail of ants, dust particles in the air, the stench of it all.

“Go sit wherever.” His voice rumbled before he went to the kitchen and prepared the only thing he could even be bothered with: instant noodles.

When he got back from the kitchen, he found that you had tidied up a bit, windows opened for some fresh air, and you somehow found some trash bag  to put some of the mess in, which was now gathered in the corner. “I hope you don’t mind me touching your stuff..” You said with an apologetic smile.

“‘S fine” He responded. It was not fine, he didn’t like having other people in his private space, and now you had made it worse by messing up his familiar surroundings. But he didn’t feel like arguing.

He sat on the couch and ate in silence, didn’t even bother to hand you your plate, instead  letting you get to it yourself.

“Is this what you eat every day?” You asked when he felt your presence beside him. The tone indicated that you were genuinely curious and not judging. You probably noticed the trash in the kitchen was filled with instant noodles packages when you were retrieving your food.

He answered with a hum.

“Well.. you know, I like to cook so I don’t mind doing it for you too..” He heard you say and grunted in response.

But of course, you took it as an invitation to invade his personal space even more.

Simon’s previous plan of getting you to turn your nose up at him backfired. Now you didn’t only come over from time to time to give him cookies, but twice a day to feed him proper food.

And you didn’t stop there, no. Because when he opened the door to receive whatever it was that you  were giving him,as always, you had now begun inviting  yourself inside to eat with him, telling him about your day without him having to ask as he tried to not show how much he enjoyed the food. But you seemed to pick it up with how you started bringing larger portions, packing up the leftovers to fill his empty fridge.

You also turned his dump of an apartment livable. No more trash scattered around, his clothes are contained in his wardrobe, smelling of flowery laundry conditioner rather than the musty smell he was used to, the layer of dust on his furniture is  gone, and the nasty stench that used to linger in his apartment has been replaced with sweet lavender.

He didn’t like it at first, not a fan of his world being flipped upside down. To some people, the state he was in was miserable, sure. But it was comforting in a way because that was his personal sanctuary isolated from everyone, he was used to the darkness consuming him that he recoiled at the blinding light that was you.

Now however, he had just accepted his fate. His previous expectation of finally having you leave him alone once you see how miserable he was had  failed. Does it frustrate him? It probably should, but he was used to how stubborn you were by now.

You took his lack of response as acceptance. But is it? Not  really.

Being around you still made him feel on edge since everyone would see how much of a sweetheart you are, which automatically meant he was an  asshole. He pushed your hand away every time you tried to touch him because even just the thought of it made him want to flay himself alive.

Why do you even like him? Do you really like him? Or do you have this hero complex and saw him like one of those poor animals you rescued at work?

Well, he doesn’t know, but if he paid attention to the way you looked at him, he’d notice how you never looked at him with pity, just pure adoration like how despite everything he was worthy of love.

He eventually found the answer when he slept with you for the first time. It was something that he did just to get his needs filled.  He was only a man after all, and you were there, pretty and willing. He saw faint marks on your thighs, some neat lines from cuts that told him you did it yourself.

Leaving your sleeping form on the bed, he went to the bathroom and saw more confirmation of what he suspected. At one of the cabinets, he found some pills, anti-depressants. A few of them were left in a cylinder container with a label that was fading like it’s been left untouched for a while. Did you give up trying? Or maybe did it not help you  the way that you thought  it would?

You two weren’t as different as he thought after all.

So perhaps you saw yourself in him in a way that he couldn’t. That you were so kind to everyone,even to an asshole like him, to make you hate yourself less. How you were so nice and patient with him to make up for how you couldn’t treat yourself that way.

You thought his life was worth more, so you didn’t care if loving him took pieces of your own.

He didn’t say anything about it, but he found himself  being less  hostile towards you.

…

“-They’ve been ganging up to bully me, acting so tough until I stand for myself?” You vented to him about your day at work one night, lounging on his bed as he scrolled on his phone. 

“Can’t believe people like them exist. Adults —some of them married with children — but act so childish. ” You continued despite his lack of response.

“I know I should tell HR about it.. but doesn’t it just make it worse? Basically everyone at work is in on it.. plus I don’t know if HR would actually do something about it anyway-” 

“Why don’t you just quit your job?” He mumbled, cutting off your sentence which made you look up at him, surprised at his response. And then you smiled with a faint blush on the high of your cheeks, like you were happy that he was actually listening.

Wow, you really need to raise your standard if having your partner doing the bare minimum made you gleam.

He didn’t push you away when you snuggled to his side.

“Well.. the thing is, I’m really stubborn. So resigning feels like I’m quitting the battlefield, losing. And I don’t lose.” You answered with a cheeky smile that actually made him snort. What a ridiculous mindset, but it was not odd for you.

Your smile widened at his amusement.

“What are you gonna do then?” He asked when you didn’t say anything and just stared at him with those loving eyes. Ugh, he was still not used to being looked at that way.

“Well.. I’m gonna act like an adult unlike them, be professional and show that their words don’t affect me.. kill them with kindness and all. Maybe it won't stop them, maybe I’ll get fired eventually.. but that’s the only realistic thing I could think of..” You rambled again.

“Am I pathetic?” You then added in a more somber tone, like you already thought that about yourself. That usual shine in your eyes dimmed and for a second he thought he saw the you that was hidden from the world.

“Yeah,” He thought to himself out loud without meaning to. And seemed like it was an incorrect response from the flicker of disappointment seen in your eyes before you hid by nuzzling your face to a pillow. Were you expecting him to comfort you? Did he raise your expectations of him just because he listened?

Simon looked away, he was never good at comforting people so he didn’t know what to say. After a moment of silence, he heard you snoring softly.

As he too closed his eyes, he thought to himself about what he had been feeling. While he still found himself disappointed  waking up another day, the thought of you feeling the same void in your chest made him feel better because he knew he wasn’t alone. He didn’t know how you could live everyday with a smile,everyday which made him respect you a bit.

He was used to your company by now, you cleaned his place, fed him, and fulfilled his sexual needs, and he was content with that.

But did he start feeling the same way as you?

Receiving your affection still gave him goosebumps, he never touched you tenderly like a boyfriend should, he was still as grumpy as ever around you. Though he didn’t push you away like he used to, he let you touch him, let you talk his ear off. But did it really mean anything? He  merely tolerated you. No more loathing, but he couldn’t say that he liked you. He just didn’t care to feel for you, positively or negatively, indifferent. So perhaps not.

He can’t love you anyway. It was one thing to be loved, it was another to love. The latter would give you power over him.

He can’t let himself be vulnerable again. He remembered how it was with Johnny, the hurt he felt when he got taken away in front of his eyes, dying in his arms.

He didn’t want to feel that loss again, so he settled with not having.

But then he let you kiss him. 

It wasn’t like you two never kissed before but this was different, it was not something that would end up with the  two of you having sex. 

He was smoking outside late at night, watching the flickering stars, and thought of the time he did the same thing a long time ago.  He was on  deployment, . taking a break at a hideout after a long day of fighting and running.

He had felt more alive then , despite the horrors he’d seen everyday, compared  to the peaceful yet boring life he had now.

Johnny was with him that night, yapping his ear off like he always did, exchanging shitty jokes. He kissed him that night.

So maybe that’s why it happened. When you somehow found him and invaded his solitude- like you always did, filling the silence with whatever rant you had  in store from the day.

Then the conversation slowed down, and he noticed you kept glancing at his lips. And when you stopped talking, you leaned in.

And he didn’t move, didn’t turn his head away.

Didn’t reciprocate the kiss and just stood still as you kissed him.

But it still made you smile. And you told him how life had never been great to you for a long while. How the universe has been  testing you harder lately.

And then you said that he was the best thing you had at the moment. You thanked him for whatever reason.

And he felt his heart stop .

He was half-listening to all that, was lost in thought about why he let you kiss him so softly, why hadn’t he pushed you away. But this? It made it all clear.

He had , in a way, developed  feelings for you. He didn’t want to call it love, but he cared at least.

If not, he wouldn’t have reacted so negatively to that remark. Would’ve stayed nonchalant and stayed there, continued to smoke, and acted indifferent.

Instead, he left. Leaving you who only stared at his retreating figure.

Because you were wrong, he wasn’t the best thing you had in your life. But for some reason, you saw him as your savior. He gave you a purpose, loving him was giving you some kind of fucked up hope. A reminder to yourself that your heart wasn’t broken because it was still beating.

He had to stop you there because he was the last person on earth who was able to give anyone salvation. He couldn’t save you, you couldn’t save him. He needed to get away from you.

You would be better off without him. That was proof that he cared about you, not wanting you to  chase  after some false hope. You deserve better.

But he could just leave, move out, and go far away. It would give him a nasty itch that would bother him wherever he goes. And he had a lot of shit haunting him already.

No, he needed to get it to your thick skull that whatever this was, was not happening.

He still didn’t like the thought of initiating a break-up because it was such a fucking chore. But he had to do this, for your sake.

…

And so the next day, he knocked on your door.

When you opened it, you looked up with those big eyes sparkling and beamed like you didn’t just spill  your heart out last night.

“I want to talk,” He said as he looked you in the eyes.

He was hoping you’d get the message with how intense his stare was but you just smiled and nodded. “Sure, come in-”

“No,” He cut you off immediately. It was better this way, so he could leave immediately after.

“I want to break up,” he continued.

He watched you stay silent, not showing any emotion, and then blinked before smiling again.

No hint of surprise, anger, or sadness. Like you had been expecting this conversation for a long time. Perhaps you’ve been hurt too much and more, and now you just felt numb.

“No,” you said with a giggle like he was just telling a joke.

“What do you mean, no?” He asked incredulously.

“I meant no, Simon.” You responded a bit more firmly.

“Why? I’ve never even loved you,” He said harshly. Cold and sharp, masking the feeling that was starting to bloom poorly in the cold vessel that was his heart.

“I don’t care..” You said in a softer tone, locking your eyes with him for a few seconds before looking down. “I don’t care if you  don’t feel the same way, Simon. Being with you makes me happy”.

“I’m being selfish, I know, I’m sorry..” You added, looking up at him again.

“How?” He couldn’t help but ask, feeling bewildered.

“It just is.. I can’t explain it, can’t really explain love..” You answered with an empty chuckle.

“No, why do you even love me? ” He asked again.

You smiled and tilted your head, the smile reached your  eyes as you looked at him with adoration. “You didn’t need to do anything to deserve love, Simon, ” you answered.

And he wondered if you could say that to yourself.

Simon let out a long sigh, letting out all the frustration he felt ever since he first met you. “I’m not really in a state for a relationship right now..” He didn’t mean to say anything about himself, it left his lips before he could stop it. But he hoped it would do something.

“Just give it some time..” You responded.

He frowned.

“I’m not giving up on this relationship, Simon.. or you,” You then continued and looked him dead in the eye.

Stubborn little thing.

He shouldn’t be surprised, should be used to how stubborn you could be, but he was.

He wondered if there was a limit to your stubbornness.

He really regretted agreeing to that first date, he was stuck with you now.

And if he was hurting you before by simply being himself. Now he would actually put in an effort.

Being back to square one where everything you do irritated  him. He did his best to avoid you, shut you down with a look whenever you tried to talk to him, not leaving a gap for you to have any hope of things changing. 

But despite all that, you still loved him.

Still looked at him like he hung the moon, somehow always managed to find him when he was out for some fresh air. And so he tried leaving his flat less often, but you still knocked on his door every day. He didn’t answer, but when he eventually opened the door, he saw your homemade food packed nicely with a little note.

Like you thought this was just a little fight that would eventually pass if you kept treating him nicely,as you usually did, and kept apologizing.

Always so fucking stubborn.

You were too kind, never cried, didn’t know when to quit, and never run away.

That's why you’d just hurt each other. That's just the way you two lived.

And It really pissed him off.

If being loved made his skin crawl before because he didn’t think he was deserving, wasn’t used to receiving any, like a feral snarling and hissing at some innocent girl that tried to pet it. Now he felt even worse because you made him  treat you like this, made him an even more horrible man than he already was . For him to be so cruel to such a sweet little thing, he hated himself even more.

There were worse things he could do. He could make it very clear if he put a hand on you, slapped you across the face just once. But he couldn’t, no matter how horrible he thought he was, how irredeemable his soul was, there was always a voice at the back of his head saying "Don't be like your father" eerily similar to his mum's.

He doubted it would work anyway, seeing his mum still stayed with that piece of shit.

So he did the next worst thing he could think of.

…

Heavy boots stepped into the dimly lit bar, and with a slow, deliberate motion as  he settled onto a stool and ordered a glass of whiskey. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the low hum of conversation. His eyes flickered sideways, scanning his surroundings with a sharp unreadable look. The bar was filled with a mix of tired regulars and weekend wanderers. He made no move, but there was something in his posture, in the way his fingers drummed lightly against the bar, that suggests he was waiting for something. Or someone.

His presence attracted attention immediately when he stepped in. Curious glances strayed to him before trailing away at the sight of his intimidating demeanor. He was used to that, he was not new to this game. And as expected, soon enough a pair of eyes lingered. A woman, confident and clearly interested, slid into the seat beside him, nursing a cocktail. She glanced his way, smirking slightly. 

“You look like you got a lot on your mind..” She purred with a tilt of her head.

“Maybe.” He lifted his glass, voice still quiet.

The woman took a long sip of her cocktail, humming with intrigue.

“You waiting on someone?” She asked.

“No,” He responded.

And then there was silence, not uncomfortable but thick with something unspoken. He let her watch him, feeling her gaze trailing from head to toe, admiring his physique, and seemed to like what she saw. 

But he didn’t meet her gaze directly. Taking another sip of whiskey, he then set the glass down.

“Just.. seeing who’s around.” He mumbled before he finally looked at her.

The woman raised a brow, interest sparking. She then smirked, stirring the ice in her glass with a lazy flick of her wrist. And then leaned in slightly, testing the waters.

“So, just looking? Or hoping to find something?” She asked as she fluttered her eyelashes.

His eyes settled on her like a slow burn which made her blush. Even though his mind was somewhere else, she didn’t seem to notice though.

He lifted his whiskey, taking a slow sip. “Haven't decided yet.” He spoke, not quite answering, not quite denying.

She exhaled a soft laugh. “Mysterious. That your thing?”

He responded with a shrug. “Just don’t waste words”

She watched him for a moment, like she was trying to figure out if he was a challenge worth pursuing. “And if I wanted to waste a few?”.

He didn’t smile, but he set his glass down, turning his body just a fraction more toward her. She was pretty enough, and clearly interested in him. He wasn’t picky anyway, just needed anyone to get this done with.

“Guess that depends on how you’d do it.” He responded.

“Well... I could start with a name..” She said before telling hers and asking  for his. But he couldn’t care less. His mind was a mess, making it a struggle to pay attention.

Without hesitation, he gave her an old name he hadn’t used in a while. A name that separated who he was and what he did. And what he was doing right now, was almost as horrible as what he had done in the military.

“Ghost?” She asked playfully like she thought he was joking.

He took another sip of his whiskey and said nothing. 

“Alright.. Ghost,” She purred and leaned in even closer, being bolder. “What’s a man like you doing here alone?”

“Maybe I was waiting for someone worth wasting time on,” He answered bluntly.

That seemed to intrigue her even more rather than discourage her. She tilted her head, grinning. He was quiet, but not passive. He was waiting, watching, letting her step into his space but not too close. It was a different kind of confidence. The kind that makes people lean in without even realizing it.

“Lucky me, then,” She said before taking another sip of her cocktail.

The conversation stayed slow, measured. He didn’t flirt the way most men do, didn’t try to impress. He just listened. Let the silence stretch when it needed to. And somehow, that made her want to fill the spaces with more.

Another drink. Another shift closer.

“You gonna make me do all the work here?” She said after a lull in the conversation, tilting her head playfully, teasing.

He blinked at her, slowly. “Thought you were enjoying yourself.” He mumbled, keeping his eyes on her.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You gonna take me somewhere quieter, or are you just going to keep watching me like that?”

Finally. He didn’t know if he could take another back and forth. He just wanted to get to the point.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just finished his whiskey, set the glass down, and stood up.

“Let’s go,” He said. She followed.

The rest of the night was a blur. Lips locking with each other as soon as he opened the door to his flat, his feet moved on their own, stumbling in a dance that led them to his bed. Her hands pulled on his clothes, and soft giggles escaped her lips when he went down on her.

Came to think of it, it was the first time he had  brought  a stranger over to this flat he now called home. It wasn’t like he was a stranger to one-night stands , but he never could be bothered to ever since he moved here. There had been too much going on in his head, even more so when you started invading his mind.

He regretted it.

Regretted not doing this sooner.

It felt good, to be able to release some steam without feelings attached. To be lusted at without being loved, engaging in pleasure with some faceless stranger he wouldn't meet again. He didn’t need to endure a loving whisper of ‘i love you’. It didn't make him feel vulnerable like when he did it with you, he was fully in charge.

…

The morning light slipped through half-closed blinds, casting long streaks across the room. The air was  thick with the remnants of last night—alcohol, perfume, the quiet warmth of tangled sheets. The woman stirred, stretching languidly before she turned towards him, only to find his back facing her as he stood by the balcony, tending to a cigarette.

“Morning,” She said softly, still drowsy.

“You should go,” Simon uttered flatly.

While he couldn’t see her face, he could hear the frown in her voice. “..What?”

He ran a hand through his already messy hair before finally meeting her gaze, his expression unreadable —cold. “Time to go” The words are clipped, no room for argument.

She sat up, gripping the sheet around her, studying him. “Wow. Straight to that, huh? No coffee, no small talk?”

He exhaled  sharply through his nose, but it’s not quite a laugh. More like an acknowledgment of how predictable this must look. “This wasn’t that.”

He kind of forgot how the morning after was. How some people expected something more and didn’t get the hint from the get-go. He was used to you who tolerated his behavior, never expecting  him to be soft or tend to you  after. You’d get up and prepare  some breakfast , while he laid there and stared at the ceiling.

He turned his head and watched as this stranger’s face contorted in irritation. She was searching for any trace of the man from last night, the one who let her in just enough to make her think there was something worth chasing. But now he’s a wall, solid and immovable. 

He was ashamed to say that he had been thinking of you previously and at the moment. That was why he was like this, so this stranger wouldn't hope, just like you who were already attached to him.

“Guess I should’ve seen this coming,” She said harshly, a pity to herself.

“Probably,” He responded just as blunt.

That probably stung more than it should. Good.

She exhaled, shook her head, then threw back the covers and stood up, grabbing her clothes from where they were carelessly discarded the night before. He didn’t turn away, didn’t offer to help— because why should he?

She pulled on her dress, shoving her heels onto her feet before facing him one last time. “Are you  always this charming in the morning?”.

“Just honest,” he said flatly, flicking his cigarette.

“Honest? Please. You act like you don’t want anyone close.” She sneered.

Then, he finally turned around to face her. “Now you get it” he said as his soulless eyes met her fiery ones.

Just like that, it’s over. She didn’t say another word, just grabbed her things and walked out, he followed her behind to lock the door.

And then he saw you.

What happened last night was obvious from his appearance alone, looking disheveled, shirtless, with some lovemarks across his chest. And he let you take it all in, he waited for the pang of regret to appear in his chest, for you to react, cry, yell, run. But instead, you just sighed and smiled at that woman when she passed you by.

“I have to go to work earlier today, but I  already made you some breakfast,” You said and handed him a Tupperware, kissed his cheek before walking away. Like he didn’t just cheat on you, like you were used to pretending  everything was okay.

There was a lump in his throat and he swallowed it down immediately. Regret.

He shouldn’t feel any regret, didn’t allow himself to feel it.

It was cruel to pull the knife out after he’d stabbed you deep. It was better to leave the knife in so you wouldn’t bleed out.

So he didn’t call out to you to apologize or explain himself. He simply turned around and got back inside, closing the door behind him.

Because he knew if he were to change for the better you would just forgive him, and that would be horrible. He didn’t deserve to be loved by you then and even more now after what he just did.

Best thing he could do right now is to continue what he’s doing. To hurt you so you’d eventually hate him and leave. 

This is for your own sake.

And so, he continued. Bringing strangers home each night and fucking  them without making an effort to be subtle. One time, he did it when you were home, when you could surely hear every noise  through the wall. However, it didn’t affect you in the slightest bit. You still brought him food, still greeted  him with that fucking smile, still talked to him with endearment. Like nothing happened, or that you refused to acknowledge anything had happened.

His only hope is the almost unnoticeable flicker in your eyes as you tried to hide how this had  started to affect you, how you approached  him less and less.

But you never left him.

So he’d keep doing what he could do best, to hurt. And maybe, eventually you’ll get it. Hopefully.

…

The night was calm, draped in a velvety darkness that stretched endlessly above, safe for the moon shining brightly. Its light poured through the window, stretching long, pale streaks across the floor, illuminating dust motes drifting in the still air. A distant murmur beneath the hush of the wind. The air was cool, slipping through the open window, carrying with it the faint scent of rain on the pavement.

Outside, the world was at peace, yet his room was steeped in shadow. The  air was thick, heavy, pressing down like an unseen weight. The curtains swayed slightly from the draft, their slow movement the only sign of life in the dimly lit room. 

He laid on his bed, zoning out as he stared at his ceiling. The stillness around him wasn’t peaceful—it was hollow. The kind that settled deep, coiling in the spaces between breaths. It was one of those days when he didn’t feel like doing anything, content to stay in one place all day.

So he didn’t go out for another conquest tonight. But he did need to eat, so when he heard a knock at his door, he let you in.

Now, the silence was filled with a sizzle of oil, the quiet clatter of a pan being shifted. The warmth of it seeped into the air, cutting through the lifeless stillness that had settled over him like a second skin. He stayed on the bed, while you were there, just beyond the doorway, tending to whatever was on the stove. The soft scrape of a spoon against a bowl, the rhythmic chop of a knife against the cutting board—it was all steady, unhurried, you’ve done it a hundred times before after all. Made him feel like he wasn’t alone.

His breath came a little slower now, his mind drifting between the weight of exhaustion and the quiet pull of that warmth beyond the door. He didn’t get up, not yet. But with you around the corner, the dark didn’t feel so endless.

Whatever bit of calmness he felt then was taken away when he heard another sound coming from the door.

Not a knock, but an insistent banging.

There was a feeling of unease at the back of his head, but he ignored it.

Which he soon realized to be a mistake.

“Coming..!” He heard you yell and approach the door. Being so understanding since you knew he didn’t want to meet anyone at the moment.

He closed his eyes and couldn’t help but listen to the conversation.

When you opened the door, you saw some men dressed in all black towering over you. Their expressions were hard, sharp eyes pinning you in place, giving  you goosebumps.

“Is Simon Riley around?” The one at the front asked.

Your hand gripped the handle of the door, wanting to slam it shut but you knew it would make it worse, might get them agitated, and would try to break in anyway.

“Who..? I think you got the wrong place- sorry..” You said as calmly as you could, but it seemed like you failed with how they didn’t seem to buy it.

“Don’t think we do, sweetheart.” The other said and pushed the door open with his feet when you tried to close it. His eyes caught a pair of large boots, Simon’s boots, and then glanced at the other.

Despite your best efforts, the men made their way in and immediately scattered around to search the place. Furniture  pushed around, drawers were pulled out to spill  all of its content onto the floor.

Eventually, they headed to the other rooms in the flat. And you made a mistake by trying to prevent one of them who approached the bedroom.

You sighed in relief when you saw the bed was empty. But it was too late, they noticed your reaction and knew you were hiding something.

They were now gathered around you, talking in a language you don’t understand. And then, your arm was yanked, you were being pushed around, forced to follow them as they exited the apartment.

“W-wait, where are you taking me..!? let go..!” You screamed in panic which made one of them clasp his hand to your mouth. 

“Don’t worry about it, if you’re important enough to him he’ll come to us immediately to save you..” He said, before clicking his teeth when you kept struggling.

“If not- well..” The other one behind you chuckled and reached out to grope your curves. “We could have a little fun before getting rid of you.. you’ve seen too much anyway”.

You froze at the way they leered at you. Tears welling up in your eyes before you fought back like your life depended on it– because your life depends on it.

You bit the hand on your mouth hard, kicking around, pulling, and hitting anyone at arm length.

Didn’t need to win the fight, just needed to keep struggling, make some noise until hopefully someone– anyone noticed and called for help.

They overpowered you easily, and you were starting to give up hope when a damp cloth was pressed to your nose and mouth. But of course, you were stubborn and made them struggle as much as you were.

Everything went in a blur. Suddenly, you were tossed aside when something huge rammed the one holding you to the wall. You laid on the floor, holding your head which was pounding as you tried to focus on the scene in front of you while  the world spun. Black dots danced in your vision.

Bloodshed.

A masked figure moved with lethal precision. You couldn’t see his face fully but you were certain of who he was. A knife gleamed in his grip, flashing under the dim light as he drove it into the first man’s throat. Blood sprayed, and before the others could react, he turned, slashing across another’s chest. The man screamed, stumbling backward, clutching at the gaping wound.

He moved like his old name, slipping between them, dodging fists and blades, his knife finding a home in the flesh over and over again. His body still remembered who he was before everything. The Ghost.

One man lunged at him, but he ducked, driving his knife up into the attacker’s ribs. Another came from behind—too late. The stranger spun, slashing his throat in a single, fluid motion. Bodies fell around him, the floor slick with crimson.

It was a massacre.

Simon was hiding outside all this time. He climbed out the window and kept himself flat to the wall as he waited. And he should have just stayed hidden, should have just waited until the help he called would come. That would be smarter, safer.

But he couldn’t bring himself to. Hearing your screams, your cries. He just couldn’t bring himself to do nothing. Perhaps, it was because it was the first time he saw you truly break. And he didn’t like that, even though all this time he tried to break you. Hypocrite.

For the first time ever he wanted to see that damn smile on your face.

It was as if his body moved on its own, slipping inside and going on a rampage.

You didn’t run nor hide, looking around for something to do, to be useful yourself despite how  you lacked any knowledge in combat.

A click.

The last man standing, who was trembling, raised a gun. Aimed it at him.

And you didn’t think—you just moved.

He watched you throw yourself between them. A deafening gunshot rang through the air. And  white-hot pain exploded at the side of your head.

His eyes widened at the familiar scene flashing in front of his eyes, from when the one he loved died the same way.

Your knees buckled and you fell.

Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed. His own voice that he didn’t recognize, low and furious, filled the air.

He could feel his heart thumping in his ears as he froze.

Another mistake.

Simon was too shocked, too focused on you to pay attention to the last man. 

A blinding pain exploded in his chest. His breath hitched as he stumbled, the world tilting. The force of the impact sent him to his knees. He pressed a shaking hand to his shirt, feeling warmth bloom beneath his palm.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself up. His body protested, his heart hammering wildly—too wildly. His pulse was erratic, his vision blurred, but he wasn’t done yet.

The gunman aimed again.

With the last of his strength, Ghost lunged, knocking the weapon aside just as it fired. The shot went wide. Knife lodged deep into the man’s throat, sending him gasping to the ground.

Then—silence.

His legs gave out, his body slumping against the bloodied carpet. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, blowing warm air beneath his mask. The wound was bad but worse than that—his heart was failing. He could feel it, every skipped beat, every strangled attempt to keep going.

The last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was the distant wail of sirens.

…

When he woke, everything hurt. The sterile scent of the hospital filled his lungs, monitors beeping steadily beside him. He found himself disappointed for waking up once again, for surviving everything, to live another day. Just when he thought it was all over.

His former captain and sergeant,who had been waiting outside, were allowed in after the medical staff checked on his condition.

“How are you feeling Simon? ” John asked as he pushed his former lieutenant back down when he tried to sit up.

“Horrible,” He responded curtly.

John then explained everything that happened. Some old enemies he made in the past seeking revenge. How everything was taken care of during the time he was unconscious.

Simon just stayed silent the whole time. Not relaxing a bit at the news.

Then, John’s voice softened, as if to speak more carefully as he told him about your condition.

Brain death.

Just then, he finally relaxed. His shoulders sagged and he had to hold himself back from sighing in relief

Finally, you were gone.

A cruel thought. But really, it was better for you to not be around him anymore. You would only get hurt more whether he tried to be better or worse, it didn't  matter. And if death was the only thing that could save you from him, then so be it. Your life was torture anyway from what he’d seen, as much as his life was. If anything, he was envious.

But then John didn't stop talking.

Simon felt his heart stop as he processed every word, his limbs went cold, and his throat felt constricting.

“The gunshot had torn through scar tissue from your previous injury, weakening your heart even more. The doctors had stabilized you, but your heart wouldn’t last much longer. Without a transplant, you were living on borrowed time.” John explained his injury to him, which made Simon turn his head to look his former captain in the eyes.

No.

John smiled, not  noticing  how Simon looked at him with horror. “You would’ve died if it wasn’t for her, Simon”.

You were an organ donor.

Of course you fucking are.

He was in need of an immediate transplant and you were there, compatible with him  in a way that you two weren’t before.

His ears drowned every word  after that. He caught fragments—something about them trying to reach your family, but no one responded, and the consent form you’d filled years ago from when you signed up for the program, became a greenlight to save his life. To give up yours entirely.

"You're a lucky bastard Simon, a rare bird she was." Kyle finally spoke up beside him, and Simon looked at him who sported an apologetic smile. He wanted to punch that smile, because no- he didn’t feel lucky at all.

His heart- your heart, thumped in his chest. Climbed up his throat, to his skull, defeaning.

Simon Riley considered himself to be  a level-headed man, all the way from his childhood to his days in the military and after. He wasn’t one to make a scene.

So he didn’t recognize who was being held down to the bed by the men beside him as he started screaming and trashing  the bed, almost pulling the tubes that were  attached to him.

You were a part of him now.

He could never get you away from him, huh?

taglist : @niazrzl, @iiriam, @defronix

[mactavishenjoyer]

Ghost, on the phone:""where are you?"

Soap:"....base..."

Ghost:"I can hear that rat's voice!"

Soap, who snuck out to chuck e cheese:"HE'S A MOUSE!"

Ghost:"HE IS NOT! fuckin poser."

[simonsbalaclava]

"Soap has seen this man kill without hesitation, get blood on his hands, fire a gun without flinching and throw a knife into someone's jugular. But he doesn't mind, at the end of the day, watching Ghost do that. Because when they're alone, just them, he can see him; he can see that little piece of himself he'd buried, Simon Riley. He can fill his face with kisses, caress and trace his scars, make him chuckle and watch his little eyes crinkle at the sides. Soap might have zero sense of preservation in messing with him, he might be crazy.... But he was crazy in love. And he wouldn't trade that for anything."

They are in love, your honor.

I'm not going to lie; I 100% HC Simon as a big softie for Soap or his loved ones. Simon doesn't have a family, in fact, before of the TF's members, he didn't had anyone. So I like to think that after years of isolation, of the buried longing to be loved and seen... Soap arrived as an intruder that he couldn't kick out. Soap broke through all his defenses, so easily that seemed like a mockery and came to his heart to stay. Hope y'all liked my version of Ghoap :) I don't like to see them as violent lovers (only sometimes) but as a couple carefully built on layers of trust and vulnerability amidst the chaos of their line of work.