#guns are for the weakest

[x-heesy]

​𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖛𝖔𝖈𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖚𝖗

Pᴜʙʟɪᴄ sᴄʜᴏᴏʟ, ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅs

Tᴡᴏ sᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛs, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ

Lᴏᴀᴅᴇᴅ sᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀs, ᴘᴀᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴇᴀᴛ

Iɴsɪᴅᴇ ᴀ sʜᴏᴛɢᴜɴ, ɢᴜɴ ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ

Tᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴛ, ᴅᴏᴡɴ

Wᴇ sʜᴏᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏᴡɴ

Wᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ

Aɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴏғғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ, ɢᴇᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ

Wᴇ sʜᴏᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏᴡɴ, ᴡᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ

Tʜᴇ ɢᴜɴ ɢᴏᴇs ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ, ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ, ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs ɪs ᴡᴇ ‚ʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏsᴇ?

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs, ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs?

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs ɪs ᴡᴇ ‚ʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏsᴇ?

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs, ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs?

Nᴏ ᴠᴇɴᴅᴇᴛᴛᴀ, sᴇᴇᴋɪɴɢ ғᴀᴍᴇ

Bᴏᴍʙs ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜʟʟᴇᴛs, ɪᴛ’s ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴘʟᴀʏ

Bᴀʙʏ sᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀs, ʙᴀsᴇʙᴀʟʟ ғɪᴇʟᴅ

Iɴsɪᴅᴇ ᴀ sʜᴏᴛɢᴜɴ, ɢᴜɴ ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ

Tᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴛ, ᴅᴏᴡɴ

Wᴇ sʜᴏᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏᴡɴ

Wᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ

Aɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴏғғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ, ɢᴇᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ

Wᴇ sʜᴏᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏᴡɴ, ᴡᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ

Tʜᴇ ɢᴜɴ ɢᴏᴇs

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs ɪs ᴡᴇ ‚ʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏsᴇ?

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs, ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs?

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Hᴀᴠᴇ ғᴜɴ

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs ɪs ᴡᴇ ‚ʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏsᴇ?

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs, ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs?

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs ɪs ᴡᴇ ‚ʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏsᴇ?

Gᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ, ᴍᴀʀᴋ, sʜᴏᴏᴛ

Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs, ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍs?

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Rᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ-ᴛᴀ

Cᴏʟᴜᴍʙɪɴᴇ (ғᴇᴀᴛ. Bɪʟʟ $Aʙᴇʀ) ʙʏ SKYND

𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖐𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖆𝖟

[duffslut]

Slash at the opening of Halloween Horror Nights 2024 in L.A.

[undercooked-spaghetti]

We don't talk enough about the part near the end of Lost Judgment where Higashi is in danger of getting shot and Sugiura saves him by jumping from his safe spot, kicking the gun away from Soma, and risking getting stabbed by the man in retaliation.

Sugiura took a bullet at the end of Judgment, lives, and then stops Higashi from potentially having a worse fate because the gun is pointed directly at him. It's also not Higashi's first time at the bad end of a gun.

The power couple we deserve in the Judgment series. 😤

[variousqueerthings]

VERY RAMBLY BUT I think rose and martha are like the inverse of one another in terms of narrative, in that they both meet a doctor who is deeply deeply hurt, but the doctor interacts with them about it so differently, because of where they're at with that hurt, and the doctor is like "hey, I'm suave and vulnerable beneath the surface, which is quite attractive, want to travel in space and time in my whimsical timeship?" and they both go "oh heck yes!" and then it's like splintered glass from that point on, like martha lives in a funhouse mirror of rose's story -- up until she makes it her own of course and she does call the doctor out on it relatively early on, although rose continues to have that haunting effect

so rose has this bubble created around her that is perfect and unchangeable almost, in which nothing bad can ever happen (except for all the times it does but huuush, we'll be together forever forrealsies don't look at that big ol hurricane hurtling our way), which then inevitably bursts, but is always there-as-memory, because rose becomes something of an impossible ideal to some extent

and martha isn't protected at all, and has all the badness spilling out on her because the doctor is unable to contain any of it (and maybe is relieved to finally give up on being strong), and subsequently all of the promise of wonder has an air of sourness to it, and the doctor will always feel incredibly guilty about how it all ended

but crucially there's a lot they have in common, that is quite different to, say, donna (who is woven in in her own, interesting, way) -- they both become attracted to this powerful, interesting, and suuuper traumatised being, they're both taken along on a journey of promised wonders, they're both incredibly reliable to the point that the narrative is retroactively fitted around how much the doctor's belief-systems revolve around belief in their companions, with many others from the past given their dues (starting with sarah-jane), and they both do see wonders beyond their comprehension (and so does donna, but again, there's something a bit different there to poke at in another post...),

except where for rose this wonder helps her break out of the path that was set down for her and become who she always had the potential to be in a way that is mostly framed as a positive (although with some -- I think -- under-analysed caveats...) and she will be forever thankful for the doctor arriving in her life, martha's is more like an awe that the universe is so hostile and so lonely and so heartbreaking, and so she needs to become more resilient and more ready to make choices that are terrible (from travelling the broken world for a year to the osterhagen key....), and so there's another story about someone who becomes strong and tough (just like rose) but it's because the doctor wasn't really able to be there for her, and while I don't think the show (from memory) ever has her totally regretting the doctor dropping into her life, there for sure is some solemnity to how her story ends, a bit of a dampener in comparison (even tbh in comparison to donna, who yeah, gets her memory taken, but is suggested -- now confirmed perhaps? -- to get more of her life in order/feel more self-confident, also partially because of that subliminal influence of her time with the doctor)

and this isn't to say that it's all-bad for martha! her working for UNIT and Torchwood has a lot of very interesting facets to it, and she is fulfilling her potential to be this impressive, capable person, but the ways all of this was built up to is so heartrending

rose coming in and "saving" the doctor, except it was a bit of a lie, because the second she wasn't there they crashed even harder than before, and martha coming in with the idea that she could save the doctor and walking away when realising what it was doing to her life, and both rose and martha irrevocably changed to the point that the person pre-doctor is barely recognisable in them anymore, both take on the doctor's self-sacrificial traits...

and also the idea that rose gets the fantasy, but it's the fantasy a-bit-to-the-left (funhouse again) because there's always something a bit disconcerting about the lengths the doctor goes to to maintain the bubble, to the point of offering up the alternate-him/tentoo so that she can still have it, even though the actual physical doctor that shared it with her isn't actually there! and martha gets the glimpse of the fantasy, and then has to come to terms with the fact that she's not the person it's "for" and reassess her relationship to the idea of a fantasy in the first place (it helps that martha is an incredibly practical, pragmatic person, but it's still so... ouch)

I don't think it was intentional, but this also fascinating from the perspective of rose as a white woman and martha as a black woman -- who is the fantasy for, to the extent that strange and universe-breaking events go into maintaining it, and who has to be practical and pragmatic and self-reliant?

and also, it's got more tragedy in both cases -- rose as a spectre/haunter of the narrative is always a little bit intangible when she's looked back on (even though in the story she's in she's incredibly real and well-rounded, every time I go back to s1 I am struck by how grounded she is in reality), and I think that's something interesting in terms of her mother's warning in s2, how if she travels with the doctor "forever" she'll become something else, something not her

and martha's mother warns her as well, although she's not completely sure of what, and in contrast to rose this warning comes into very painful fruition, harming her entire family (except, maybe her brother? I wonder if there's anything written about that), but where rose is so omnipresent, martha tries several times to take herself out

(also something about both of their mothers being their anchor-points)

there's something there that's at the centre of both rose's and martha's arcs:

is the change they're going through because of the doctor... good? good for them? good for their families? good as in they're becoming better people than before? good for the world they inhabit? is it good for the person they used to be? did they become better than that person? can they ever truly deal with or even begin to comprehend how these events made them who they are? can they even connect who they are now to who they were then? was this good?

they both become these larger-than-life people, somewhat without noticing on both parts (but the narrative does notice), one of them a ghost, and the other a soldier -- one of them an increasingly intangible, ever-present idea, and the other someone who has to fight every step of the way

it's just a bunch of things I've had going through my head that I can't quite formulate in coherent essay-like sentences, but for sure it's there

opposite sides of the coin, rose tyler and martha jones

I do wish they'd had space in the story for them to talk

[iero]

I will never get over how getting tattoos leads to more body positivity. Getting the two tattoos I got in the UK makes me want to show off my arms even more now. It's not even for a guns show reason, I just roll up my sleeves to be like, "Bam! Both of my forearms are nearly covered and they look nice."

[amplexadversary]

Honestly, I think if Rain Mikamura's issues were explored more rather than sanded down by both the show and fandom when they aren't convenient for a joke, she might have had a chance at being one of my all-time favorite characters.

I've alluded to the idea that bringing her jealousy issues to the forefront would thematically strengthen the back end of the show, and tackling her communication problems on the same level as Domon's would have made them work much better as a pairing.

(they have polar opposite issues where Domon needs to be told "hey, people would like to know this, so say it," while Rain expects people to read her mind) (I'd still ship her with Schwarz though tbh)

Also, she owns multiple guns and threw a wrench at Domon's head at one point. This woman is violent and repressing it.

FInally, there's the fact that Rain seems to think that she can, and is expected to, control the behavior of other people. Her meltdown over her father's actions where she concludes that she is equally responsible kind of suggests this, and she spends a lot of time trying to control Domon's behavior even when he's not doing something reckless. I would have really liked if the final arc had some kind of element of the inherent horror in taking that to it's logical conclusion, since we know the DG can literally control people.

I really think my biggest gripe about her is that most people follow the writers in pretending that the flaws they gave her don't exist, and without them, Rain is kind of a boring, can-do-no-wrong type that I really cannot stand, so as a result I can go between really liking her and avoiding the hell out of her.

[thelomlisfictional]

Had a dream about being a naval aviator last night… chat am I cooked?

[compacflt]

i'm so curious: what's your favorite thing you've written? something that makes you nod and go, "yeah, that's it right there. i did that." just the best combination of words you've ever churned out in your personal opinion. it makes you proud just Thinking about it. could be a sentence, a paragraph, etc.

very cute ask anon, thank you. im going to assume for your benefit that you mean specifically my icemav writing—obviously I write outside of top gun and am very proud of that stuff but it wouldn’t make sense out of context.

There’s a lot of more recent stuff that I’m extremely extremely proud of on a technical level, but I’m prouder of this paragraph below on a deeper more existential level.

This paragraph was one of the first parts of WWGATTAI i ever wrote—august 12, i think, well before I had fully realized the characters’ voices or their attitudes towards life/each other; I only had about 5k written of what is now a 300k+ project (at the time of writing this paragraph i wanted it to be 10k max) and had no real outline, didn’t know who or what I was dealing with, hadnt seen TGM in two months, had done no research (so it’s not at all politically/militarily accurate or anything, why the FUCK is ice going to fucking GUAM)—and STILL this wound up being my favorite paragraph in the entire fucking series. not to suck my own dick or anything. I’m STILL so proud of this paragraph, 9 months and 275k+ words later, even though i Absolutely Would Not write it this way now.

[americanrecord]

do u ever watch an album reaction video and click out halfway through because they're reacting wrong

[denjispinalcordsword]

Genya: *is the only human character in the entire series with a real, tangible super power*

Absolutely everyone in the whole series, including Genya: wow it would be great if Genya wasn’t so weak and shitty

[cyarsk52-20]

he could have been arrested 100 times and murdering him is STILL WRONG!

Go to hell if you justify it! I will even burn y’all myself!

[x-heesy]

@bigbonzo

[phvnthom]

Every single time I see one of those stupid posts that's like, "Being in your 20s is the worst decade of your life, you're not a person yet, oh you're such a baby still, stop glorifying youth, being in your 30s and 40s is where it's at, etc." Older people are not a pinnacle. Being older is not the great thing you think it is and it just sounds super infantilizing on top of it. Just absolutely rage inducing. Sorry, but worry about yourself and how your 20s lacked bc of your own personal failures and stop equating that to some profound realization.

[munch-mumbles]

(dehydrated starving voice) weep. i miss weep i need weep..................

[slater-baby]

Money Shot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags - Squirting, voyeurism, toys, mentions of breeding

-

“Simon?” Price calls from the head of the boardroom, arms crossed in deep contemplation, “What do you think? Is it feasible?”

“Feasible? Sure,” He glances at the tactical plan with a minute shake of his head, “Advisable? Not so much. I mean, that structure is...what? Three, four meters? Unless the drop point is on the fuckin' roof, there’s no way the cunts won’t see us coming.”

“Hm,” Price grunts, running a hand through his beard. Around the boardroom, various members of the congregation shift in their seats.

“What about…” Gaz begins, and then, Simon hears it.

BZZ.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers beneath his breath, leaning forward in his chair to pull his phone out of his pocket. Just recently, he’d installed a set of cameras about the house and porch.

‘Just for extra security, love,’ he’d told you. Since you moved in with him—and what with your name now written into his will—his time away on deployment and in the office had become…a liability, to say the least. 

On a good day, Simon didn’t like to leave you by yourself. But for extended periods of time? When he couldn’t so much as pick up the phone to send you a text?

His fried nerves had all but demanded it. The cameras were his only failsafe. His only means of connecting with you, even when you were oblivious to it. In his mind, when he was deployed to some desolate war zone, slumming it in drafty safehouses, sustaining himself on MREs and cigarettes, then just seeing you quiet and content in your usual place on the sofa, flipping through a book or doing a face mask, would be enough to tide him over. 

Though, he’d failed to consider just how goddamn annoying the notifications would soon become.

Hurriedly, he glances at his phone under the table, halfheartedly listening to the meeting.

‘MASTER BEDROOM - MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ his phone so helpfully supplies him.

He scowls.

Movement detected. Yeah, right. Just like the other twenty times it’d told him that in the past hour alone. He digs his index finger into the ringer switch, but just at that moment, another notification comes.

And with it, another…And another…And another….

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ it says to him yet again, as if he were an idiot too dull to even read.

“MOVEMENT DETECTED!! INTRUDER ALERT!!!” It seems to screech, “GRAB YOUR GUN, SOLDIER, THE DAY ISN’T OVER YET!!’

Annoyance climbing by the minute, Simon hurriedly flicks through his apps, all too eager to return to the meeting at hand. Within seconds, he’s staring at the grey display of your sparsely lit living room.

If anything, it’s a bit messy, but hardly remarkable. The TV is on, some soapy romance show still rolling in the background. There’s a pillow on the floor. The cat is lounging in a flickering patch of dying sunlight. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

He switches to the kitchen. Nothing but the hum of the old fridge greets him. And in the dining room, it’s a similar story. So, attention wavering with every word that Kyle speaks, he angrily flicks through the porch cameras and straight to the master bedroom. 

And that’s when he hears it.

The smallest, weakest little voice…

“God, Simon…”

At the sound—barely audible over the noise of Price’s lecture—his heart rate spikes.

Physically, he can feel his blood rushing, nerves shredding themselves to pieces as he hurriedly presses the rotate button on screen. Slowly—almost as if to taunt him—the janky camera begins to turn. And with every second longer he has to wait, darker possibilities begin to flood his synapses.

You’d fainted.

You’d fallen.

You’d broken a bone.

Or, perhaps the very worst, he’d find someone else standing over you.The exact reason he’d installed the cameras in the first place.

He waits with bated breath, practically unblinking, until he finds the source of the movement. The blankets atop the bed jostle, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees your familiar form swathed in pillows and fluff. Safe, warm, and most importantly, alone.

“Simon…” you say again—voice strained. Almost as if you were…crying?

Again, he glances at Price. The man is distracted, going on about the MTC once more. Surreptitiously, Simon looks back down at his phone, confused.

Were you sick? Laid up in bed with a fever?

No, somehow that didn’t feel like the right description. Last month, when you’d caught the flu, you could hardly stand to sit still. Simon practically had to chain you to the bed just to force you to get some decent rest.

Then, what could it be?

Did you miss him, perhaps?

At the thought, his chest warms. In all his years of service, Simon never had someone to miss him. He had his friends, sure, but they were his home away from home, the family he’d never known he’d find. Off service, however, before he’d met you, home wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t dear to his heart. Hell, it was little more than a house, with a sofa and television. 

But when you came along….

You, with your shining eyes, witty jokes, and unending support…

He’d never known that the most precious gift a man could receive is someone to come home to at night and to miss him when he leaves in the morning.

Fondly, he looks at his phone screen, hardly listening to the meeting at hand.

Within your cradle of old blankets and sheets, you shift, a whimper escaping your mouth. It echoes in the grainy speakers of his phone, and he hardly even thinks to lower the volume…

That is, until you move again, and the blankets fall down.

One of your arms pushes the blankets down, and suddenly, Simon has an eyeful of your bare tits. Naked, shining with sweat, and nipples raw from being tweaked.

Instantly, his eyes go wide, and he jolts forward to hide his phone in the shadow of the conference table. 

Not crying. Definitely not crying, his brain rambles, watching as the curve of your breasts squish into the mattress as you twist beneath the sheets. The flimsy fabric, threadbare after so many long nights together, wraps around your legs like a vice. 

And that is exactly when he sees it.

Your back arches way from the mattress and your entire body thrums with electricity, hips moving fast and hard, every roll just as desperate and jagged as when you slide into his lap during movie nights, unbuckling his belt before he can even think to open his mouth.

“Fuck!” You nearly scream—and Simon literally flinches, hurriedly whipping his head around to look at the other men.

“Simon?” Price suddenly questions, “You alright? Was that your phone again?”

“Um,” he begins tactfully, clearing his throat, “Yeah—just m’girlfriend walkin’ in front o’ the camera again.”

“Oh,” Price nods, “She doing alright? Haven’t seen ‘er recently.”

“Yeah—she’s…” he huffs, blindly rapidly down at his phone where you writhe against the sheets, fingers thrusting between your thighs.

“She’s doing…great,” he manages, swallowing thickly when you reach a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits.

“Well, give ‘er my regards next time you talk to to ‘er.”

“‘Course, sir.”

“Now, back to what I was saying about the perimeter…”

With that, Simon holds his breath for a few torturous minutes. However, when the other men continue on as if nothing had ever happened, he surreptitiously leans back in his chair…and looks down at the phone again.

His hearing fades to nothing but a distant buzz, pulse racing in his chest, like his heart might explode at any moment. And even though he’s muted the volume, he swears he can hear your moans ringing in his ears, vibrating in his very bones.

In the black and white video, you throw your head back against the pillows, hips jumping so hard the flimsy sheet falls down to your ankles. And soon enough, he can see every part of you. The softness of your heaving stomach, the sweat against your cheeks, the delicate shine of slick between your sweet folds…

Your entire body tenses, and undoubtedly you cry out again. He already knows what you’re saying, even if it’s all but silent in his hands.

His name.

You’re there, needy and alone, a wet spot between your legs on the sheets, shouting his name like there was any hope of him actually hearing it—as if there was any hope of him finding you,  filling you up, and giving you what you truly need. 

At that thought, pride wells up in his veins, hot and bubbling. And before he knows it, his blood is rushing south at an alarming rate.

“Please,” he can imagine you begging him, “Please….Please, Simon, just a little. Just the tip…”

You’d say it with heat in your cheeks and a pout on your lips, wrapping a shaky hand around his hip so that he couldn’t pull back, so that he couldn’t tease you any longer. You’d whine and whimper, tears gathering in your eyes, as you weakly pulled him forward, just enough to wrap one of those precious hands around his leaking cock.

You’d guide him forward like that—in a way he couldn’t deny—and you’d sit there, batting your eyelashes, sliding your wet cunt over the tip of his condom-covered dick, like that might tempt him just enough to take it off…to fuck you full and hard, until he was leaking out of your fluttering pussy and into your ruined panties.

He bites his lip.

You’d begged him before. On your knees, kissing the head of his cock. On your stomach, pushing your ass up against his hips. With your face buried in the pillows, nearly sobbing for it.

“Just once, Simon. Please—I promise. Just a little bit. Just the tip,” you said every time—as if those words made the act any better.

And, god, Simon wanted it. He wanted it so, so badly. To feel the warmth of your body, the heat of your bare skin against his own…to feel your pulse thumping between your legs as he fucked his cum right into the seat of your very womb.

So far, you hadn’t manage to take him raw just yet. If not because he had the patience of a Saint, then for the fact that your doctor kept rescheduling your birth control appointment.

Yet, looking at you now…

He breathes in low and deep, watching as your legs shake, toes curling.

The sheets fall off the bed.

And with another cry, you pull the dripping dildo from between your legs, curling your thighs together in absolute ecstasy.

Jaded, he looks at the damned toy. A cheap replica of his own cock. You’d given him a mould on Valentine’s Day—mostly as a joke…until next deployment came around, and you all but begged him to do it.

He still remembers how ridiculous it felt, looking down at your satisfied smile while you licked him clean afterwards, merely as a ‘thank you’ for all his hard work.

Beneath the shadow of your dangling calves, he can see the promise of your dripping cunt tucked between your sweet thighs. Desperate, wet, and wanting…

He scowls.

Pills, doctors, and implants be damned. If Simon had it his way, you’d be filled and sated, womb swollen with his seed, evidence of all the love he had yet to give you. It’s a tempting thought—one that nearly drags him into his mind once and for all.

However, a sudden movement on the camera catches his attention.

The toy is still in your hand. Strings of slick drip off of it and onto the flat of your thigh. With your other hand, you spread your abused folds, barely able to pull them back with how wet you’ve become. Impatiently, slide two of your trembling fingers into yourself, head tossing against the pillows.

“Please,” he swears he can hear it, “Please, please, please—”

You thrust into yourself ruthlessly, flecks of slick flying just at the movement. God, the sound of it must be nothing short of obscene. He can only imagine.

Your offhand tightens around the shaft of the dildo, and this time, when you tense up, the movement is so utterly enrapturing he swears he can see drops of saliva spill over your lips. You yank your hand out of yourself. Your stomach flexes. You yell into the bare room.

And that—that is when he sees it.

Suddenly, a rush of slick squirts out of your cunt and onto the bed, hips flinching as you soak through the sheets beneath your ass. Fuck, even through the horrible quality of the film, he swears he can see the walls of your pussy clenching, opening up around every wash of rushing liquid.

It splatters over your thighs, makes your toes curl into the sheets. The fabric sticks to your skin as you continue to ride out the waves of your orgasm, and when you reach a hand down to rub over your swollen clit, little spurts of it squirt over your naked body in time with every press of your fingers.

Before he even knows it—before he can feel ashamed for it—he’s rock hard against the fly of his jeans, cock pulsing beneath the fabric as he watches you lay panting and flushed in a puddle of your own cum. 

“Yes,” he sees your mouth move, cunt still dribbling onto the bedsheets, “God, yes…”

Hands positively shaking, you lift the toy again, clumsily rubbing your ruined pussy over its shining length.

And, god, he’s helpless to imagine himself in its place. Helpless but to imagine himself between your legs, covered down to his knees in your shining spend. Fuck, it’s intoxicating, and it hits him harder than any drug he possibly could have taken.

Listlessly, he looks at your beautiful face through the film grain…

“Simon,” you whisper to yourself, lazily rubbing your cunt against head of that stupid toy, “Simon…”

Easily, he gets lost in it. 

Lost in the sound of your voice saying his name.

Lost in the heat of your expression.

Lost in the need he feels welling up inside of himself…

Lost in the feeling of his hand palming over himself, hidden by the shadows of the looming conference table.

“Simon?”

The sound of his name—and in the voice of a man no less—makes him jump in his seat. On reflex, he closes his phone.

“What?” He answers cluelessly, slapping his hands down on the surface of the table, like he hadn’t just been thrusting into his own hand mere seconds before.

“I asked you what you thought about it,” Price jammers on, oblivious.

“About what?” he says.

At that, Price raises an eyebrow.

“About the risk assessment results. Y’know…what we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.”

“Risk assessment,” he uselessly repeats, “Yeah. Well, I…”

Price scrunches his face, glancing between his asinine powerpoint and Simon’s covered face.

“Have you been listening?” He huffs, sounding bored.

“Of course,” he clears his throat, hurriedly absorbing the information on screen, “It’s just—I had a question about that. Must’ve left me for a second there…”

“Uh-uh,” Price glances at his wrist watch.

Simon swallows, cock pulsing rapidly in his pants. He scoots his chair in closer to the table.

“If we go in via the rear entrance, then—then I think would should recruit at least one more person for overwatch. Y’know…At the height of the lower wall, I think it might be possible to put a man on the roof. As—as contingency.”

“Sounds fine to me. You think they’d have a decent shot?”

“Well…” he blinks emptily, “At that angle, I think that...”

The clock continues to tick.

Soap yawns at the other side of the table.

Price looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

And Simon…

God, his mind is still stuttering, heart racing with adrenaline.

Distracted, he’s stuck on where his phone lies innocently atop the table…and what he knows is happening just beneath the cover of its black screen.

[blingblong55]

Ghost would 1000000% teach his wife how to fire a gun. How to fight, give her the location of the second home he has if something bad happens, would teach her that if she happens to get kidnapped, there are three main points, A, B, and C, B is the weakest and she has better luck running away. He would also teach her how to fight anyone in any situation. He would create a word that she could use if she is in danger.

He has secret compartments around the home they live in, codes she knows about and he even built a room where she can hide in if someone breaks in.

Yes he trusts her but he doesn’t trust the world and to him, it’s just them both against whatever fucker decides to mess with her or him. Yes he does trust his teammates, but he has her safety at best interest. He doesn’t carry any sign of him having a romantic partner, not even a ring or a tattoo that symbolises her being apart of his life. He knows if he ever gets caught, someone will look into reading his tattoos.

Now, he makes her carry a knife, something he advises to carry everyday. He ordered her a knife that she customised the design to, he didn’t understand why but anything she wants he gets. He’s that kind of husband.

He also reminds her of the safe house he has in case shit hits the fan and if it does, there are people that owe him favours so him and her will be safe.