#scitw

It’s exhausting to resist, especially when every part of you isn’t unilaterally aligned. The boundary between deep, dark desire and actual circumstance is narrowing into something you can’t discern anymore. Blurring into a strange delirium. Mornings with Ghost’s fingers inside you and afternoons warming Johnny’s cock. Meals prepared by hands that have snuffed as many lives as your own. A voice that once menaced you now lulls you to sleep.

Every interaction is a double-edged blade of seduction and condemnation. You moan at the tug of a collar you’re not free to remove. Johnny leans into the same hand that just bruised his wrist. A dozen scenarios that walk the line, never tipping either of you towards or away from Ghost.

It's things like Johnny waking in the dead of night, screaming. You know what’s going on even half-asleep; the same dream-memories lock you into burning paralysis. He’s clutching at his shoulder, fingers of the same arm spasming. Coughing on phantom smoke, seeing a night sky polluted by columns of flame instead of the ceiling.

“Kit! Kit!” he rasps, painful and terrified.

“Johnny, I’m here,” you call back, heart pounding. “Johnny, wake up! It’s over, we’re okay!”

You tug fruitlessly at the collar, at the chain. It’s useless, you know it is, but you can’t just sit there and watch him suffer again. Hate Ghost and this house and your own compliance with the same fire that nearly engulfed you and Johnny.

A shadow moves at the edge of your vision. Ghost.

You beg him to let you go to Johnny, to let you help. He ignores you for the moment, kneeling at Johnny’s side and rolling him onto his back. Speaks him back to reality, voice low and gravelly, reminding of details he has no right to know – how long you both spent in the hospital, the day of your mutual discharge, the months you two spent in physical therapy.

You want to cry, want to scream, want to be there with them. But Johnny’s finally calming down and you won’t ruin it all by losing your threadbare composure.

The first thing he asks when he’s got his breath, mumbling and fuzzy, “Where’s Kit?”

Ghost crosses back to you, unlocks the chain. You scramble to Johnny’s side in an instant, practically crashing into his chest as he reaches for you. He breathes deep when you gather him in, pressing his wet face to your neck.

“I’m here, I’m okay,” you whisper, shaky hands squeezing at his sore shoulder.

His own trembling, clammy hands paw your shirt up, press to the scarring on your hip. Assuring himself it’s healed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, “I never should have gone in—”

“You were doing your job,” you interrupt. Unwilling to relive the memory again or let him torture himself with it. “And I did mine.”

The cushion shifts behind you. Thick arms circle you and Johnny, guide you back against a sturdy body. Like this, Ghost feels more solid than the ground. You want to hate him. Could – should – blame him for Johnny suffering alone and resent that he comforted him first. You find yourself leaning into his strength and warmth instead.

“Not your fault the intel was bad, pup,” Ghost murmurs, carding fingers through Johnny’s sweaty mohawk.

Eventually, you and Johnny start to doze. Snuggling in with sleepy sighs and the reassurance of the other’s presence. You (or maybe Johnny) might even whine a bit when Ghost shifts as if to leave, clinging onto his sleeve. Either way, you wake the next morning to Johnny sandwiched between you two. For a man who doesn’t even let you see his face, it’s unexpectedly… intimate.

Johnny spends most of the next day in a mood about it – ends up forced to cum scraping his cock against the laces of Ghost’s boots by lunchtime.

And that should be the tipping point, right? Or at least one of them. The awful decadent violating addictive things he does to you two.

You stray too far one morning, thought you heard something in the basement, and he puts you on your knees in the living room. Forces your thighs apart with his boots imprinting the tender skin of your thighs. Grinds the tread against your crotch until you’re squirming and teary. It’s uncomfortable… but also makes you whimper for more, body on fire and apologizing into his thigh just for a bit of relief.

Johnny mouths off for the third time in an hour – was already warned twice. Ghost makes you edge Johnny for two hours, fingers in his hole and tongue flicking over his cock.

“Been gagging for the kitten to do this to you for a while, eh, mutt?” Ghost coos, pinning Johnny’s wrists above his head. “I know it’s one of your favorite fantasies.”

And then when Johnny seems like he’s at the breaking point, Ghost makes you milk his prostate until he loses his voice entirely.

And that’s just when Ghost is in a good mood.

He comes down one morning visibly irritable. Eyes dark, shoulders tense. All his movements are short and quick, almost aggressive. When you try to ask him if something is wrong at breakfast, he grunts at you to shut up and eat. And when Johnny makes a snippy comment about “bad manners,” Ghost forces his jaw open and lifts his mask just enough to spit in his mouth.

Then he storms out the door without another word. Johnny’s left flushed, awkwardly pressing the heel of his hand against the bulge in his joggers.

Ghost returns hours later and doesn’t seem any less moody. In fact, he seems worse now. You and Johnny exchange glances. He’s already cooking up mischief, you can see it from across the room. Never did learn when to leave well enough alone. All it takes is for you to subtly shake your head at his little smirk. That might as well be a greenlight.

“Well then, Ghost?” he drawls.

Ghost, who’s been aimlessly (peacefully) flipping through channels, stops. Not that he was fidgety before, but at the smarmy note in Johnny’s voice, he gets stony. You grimace and shoot Johnny another staying look. Mouthy little bastard you may be, you’ve always had a good sense for when to shut your stupid mouth. Your serial killer kidnapper being in a shit mood is one of those times.

“Ya done sulking yet? Gonna tell us who pissed in yer cornflakes?” Johnny continues, lounging against the wall with his first arms folded behind his head. “You gonna pack your shit in or keep being a bellend?”

You feel the exact moment that Ghost’s patience snaps. The room goes cold.

He drops the tv remote onto the cushion next to him, cracks his neck, and exhales deeply. Then stands and lopes across the room. Not to Johnny.

To you.

“Ghost—” you yelp, scrambling back. Don’t get far. He snags two thick fingers around the collar and jerks you away from the wall.

“Hey!” Johnny shouts. “Hey, yeah radge bastard! I’m the one that pissed you off.”

Struggling is no use, you know that. Still, you jerk and squirm, heart pounding. Draw your fist back, only to have it caught in an iron grip. It’s going to bruise, your bones ache.

“Fucking do it,” Ghost growls, lower and rougher than you’ve ever heard. Beyond the balaclava, his gaze is burning coal. “See what happens, kitten.”

When he releases your arm, you can’t bring yourself to follow through. All your strength is just in keeping your spine straight. The unspoken threat – his sharp-toothed, blood-hungry encouragement – leeches all but survival from your body.

No praise comes for choosing the wise path this time. You tremble in its absence.

The chain slithers away. Even if you thought running would do any good, you can’t collect your legs to try. Ghost doesn’t ask (or demand) that you do. Hand still hooked in your collar, he starts dragging you along, crawling on hands and knees at his side.

Johnny is still protesting, volume and desperation rising like a tide, flooding the room with impotent panic. You can’t make out individual pleas, the crashing waves of your own fear too loud in your ears. Ghost’s silence is roiling, violent.

You get halfway down the hall before realizing your destination. The inconspicuous white door looms ahead, sinister. You can’t swallow the scream that tears from your throat.

“No, no, Ghost you promised!” you cry, bucking and thrashing.

You manage to slip his hold and fall back, twisting and scrambling to escape. Just stumble halfway to your feet, about to cross the threshold back to the den. See Johnny’s huge, regretful eyes and blanched face, mouth parted as he strains towards you.

Then cruel arms circle your waist and yank.

“No!” you shriek, kicking at air. Ghost doesn’t even grunt with the effort of hauling you down the hall. “No, Ghost, please!”

The locks are open you realize as cool air rushes past. Your efforts double, but he easily drags you down a set of wooden stairs. All you do is earn a threatening hand around your hitching throat. You sob as shadows swarm, hiccupping that he promised over and over.

Your feet brush cold, flat concrete.

The basement.

He drops you onto something hard, flat, and wooden a few feet above the ground. Your legs hang over the edge, feet swinging. A table. Ghost’s black silhouette blots out the meager light daring to peek in from the hallway.

“G-Ghost,” you choke out.

You expect to be shoved down, tied prone and helpless. Wait for the bite of a blade, the prick of a needle, the cold kiss of a gun. Brace yourself for it, scrabbling for any of the stoic demeanor you once armed yourself in.

You nearly scream again at the touch of warm hands. Not a tight grip around your throat, or a brutal fist to your face, or even strong fingers breaking yours. It’s the firm (but not painful) press of a palm over your mouth and its twin spanning your hip.

“Take a deep breath.”

You peer through watery eyes, trying to find his. With the light behind him, even his gaze is obscured. All you have his voice. Low as it is, he seems… calmer than you expect.

You obey.

“Another.”

You breathe in slowly, exhale evenly.

“Good.” Relief makes you so dizzy that your eyes flutter. Ghost shakes you a bit. “Listen, little one.”

You blink up at him, take another breath, and nod for him to continue.

“I need to get some frustration out and the pup needs to learn a lesson.” He sweeps his thumb over the curve of your hip. You shiver, confused and still frightened, but still trained to react to his touch. “You just need to put on a good show, yeah?”

You try to speak, but his hand doesn’t move, so you settle for making a questioning noise.

“I’m going to torture you,” he explains, as casual as telling you what’s for dinner. “And you’re going to convince the mutt that you hate it.”

His hand slips from your hip to your groin, rocking meaningfully. Tentative understanding dawns with a golden ray of hope.

“The alternative is that Soap takes your place,” Ghost muses in your silence, mistaking it for reluctance. “I won’t be nearly as… humane with him.”

You protest wordlessly, shaking your head.

“No?” he mocks. “You’ll be good for me, then? Let me use you to teach that brat a lesson?”

You nod. Guilt gnaws at you for getting off (literally) so easy when Johnny is up there out of his mind on fear and his own guilt.

That sentiment doesn’t last long.

Ghost rips your clothes away with a growl, leaving them in tatters beneath you. You yelp, genuinely shocked. He moved so fast. There’s nothing teasing or seductive about him, not this time. None of the patience or measure from every previous encounter.

Sharp teeth scrape your jaw, beneath your ear, over your collarbones. Harsh fingers pinch and twist your pebbled nipples until you arch with a shout. He forces his big body between your thighs, grinding your quickly warming groin against unforgiving denim and the bulge hidden beneath.

“Stop, stop!” you cry, half-meaning it, head spinning. “Ghost, please!”

He doesn’t. If anything, your pathetic pleas spur him on.

Your underwear is discarded with another tear of fabric, exposing you to cool air and a mean man.

Ghost’s mouth closes around you, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You scream. High-pitched, wounded. Would jackknife right off the table if not for the merciless pin of your hips. Sounds claw up your throat and leap from your parted lips. You’re not in control of them, not with the way he’s slurping, growling, just the faintest hint of teeth to keep your voice octaves too high.

“No, no, please stop!” you keen.

He shoves two fingers in your gaping mouth, gags you on them until you’re coughing and gasping wetly. Awful, desperate sounds. You throb.

Those fingers circle your hole.

“Don’t!” you wail. “Please, Ghost, not that. I can’t—”

You shriek as one finger pushes inside. Nothing slow or gentle about it, a firm and unrelenting push. He doesn’t wait for you to recover or catch your breath. That single finger pumps in and out of your uncertain body, mechanical. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels dangerous. You squeeze your eyes shut and beg again for him to stop.

In answer, he pulls away long enough to spit directly on your twitching, sensitive hole. Then wedges the second finger alongside the first. This time your scream ends on a sob as his fingers pet your walls. It’s not quite painful, but it feels like it should be. It’s too much. Your body doesn’t sing, it screams for him.

Ghost has already mapped out all the places that make you shake and cry and beg. He seals his mouth around you again, and you’re gone. Bawling and kicking at air, he forces you over the edge faster than anyone ever as.

He works you through it, sticky wetness dripping down to ease the stretch of a third thick finger. Worse still, he doesn’t even slow, keeps going like you haven’t cum at all.

“It hurts!” you sob. “Please, it hurts, I can’t!”

He uses his free hand to toy with your nipples again, adding another layer of overwhelming sensation that melts your brain. The overstimulation almost burns, you can’t tell if it’s ice-cold or white-hot. Just know that your nerves are shot, and yet you’re still rocking into his touch just that slightest damning bit. Because it’s not just too much, it’s not enough. You’re stuffed with his fingers, but you ache for more, for…

“Please, Ghost,” you breathe, hushed and desperate. “Please, fuck me.”

He pulls away with a filthy pop. “Fuck you?” he repeats. There’s a malicious smirk in his voice.

“Please,” you confirm, “please, I want it. D-don’t you want to…?”

He doesn’t answer – not with words. A noise thunders from his chest that raises goosebumps, freezes your blood, and burns through you like wildfire. You don’t know if you’re afraid or aroused, can’t tell if you want to run or bare your throat. It wouldn’t matter regardless. Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

You yelp as Ghost slides his fingers out agonizingly slow, pressing against your walls the entire way. His shifts, tugging your ass to the edge of the table and bowing up over you. Sharp teeth nip at the edge of your collar as the blunt head of his cock rubs against your aching entrance. Anticipation and trepidation chase each other through your veins, leave you shaking so hard you’re surprised the table isn’t rattling.

“Relax,” Ghost rumbles in your ear, “or don’t. Won’t make a difference to me.”

There’s nothing gentle or gradual about it, no consideration for his own size or your body’s limits. Just a hot, unrelenting press. You keen as your poor, oversensitive hole yields beneath the onslaught. It burns, you can’t breathe, he doesn’t let you adjust even once the flared head is tucked snuggly inside. Just keeps cramming his fat cock deeper and deeper.

You’re lightheaded when he bottoms out an eternity later. It feels like all the air has been forced from your lungs, like there isn’t room for anything but Ghost. And then he rocks back and slams home again.

This time, the table does rattle.

You grip desperately at the sides, nails scraping. He fucks into you viciously, teeth glinting in a half-feral snarl. There’s no consideration for your pleasure, but he still sends your eyes rolling back with every thrust. You’re too gone, dumb on ecstasy, probably drooling.

A rough hand shoves your thigh back, bending your knee to your chest. His cock rams into your g-spot and your voice breaks on the wail that follows. He shortens his thrusts, half pulling out before plunging back inside, ruthlessly abusing that bundle of nerves, snarling as your walls flutter and spasm.

“No, no, no, not again,” you babble but it’s too late.

The pleasure rapidly overflows into a mind-numbing orgasm, whiting out everything but the exquisite torture of Ghost pounding you through it. This time you can’t even muster the ability to plead or squirm. Even your body seems to surrender to his will, going limp and pliant through waves of overstimulation.

“Not yet,” he growls. “One more, and then you can pass out.”

He snakes his free hand down between your bodies. Tears stream down your temples. Helpless, wordless cries spill from your raw throat, high and sharp. Another orgasm builds frighteningly fast, crackling along your shot nerves until you blow like fuse. Blinding ecstasy cracks up your spine, envelopes your mind, and leaves everything dark.

You wake in the bathtub.

It’s a slow, reluctant crawl back to consciousness. The lights have been dimmed to something soft and warm, filtering through a curtain of curling steam. Like this, the bathroom is a dreamlike blur, all hazy lines and twilight shadow. Water laps at your collarbones, not quite scalding, just the way you like. It’s quiet save for the gentle swish of movement along the surface, and slow breathing by your head. Someone is drawing a cloth gently along your heavy body.

A low, gravelly voice coos, “Back with us, kitten?”

You roll your head, blink syrupy slow at the dark specter of Ghost knelt at your side. His sleeves have been drawn up past his elbows.  One arm supports your neck and head, protecting you from the cold, harsh side of the tub. The other disappears beneath the surface of the water, working slowly back and forth. A reaper paying dues.

“Maybe,” you hum.

He makes an amused noise. Not quite a chuckle, but close.

“You can sleep again soon,” he replies. “I think the pup has suffered for long enough, though.”

You jolt, the cotton candy haze dissolving into bitter ash.

Poor Johnny, thinking Ghost was doing something awful to you. Hearing your screams and cries and begging, only for Ghost to bring you up some indeterminate time later, unconscious. Guilt threatens to swallow you whole.

“Easy now, precious,” Ghost soothes, a hand between your shoulders as you sit up. “Take it slow. I wasn’t gentle with you.”

That becomes evident as you abandon the weightless solace of the hot water. Aches immediately bloom throughout your body, concentrated around your hips and thighs. Your lower spine is sore, a muscle in your thigh feels strained, and your hole…

“Christ,” you whimper, nearly slipping.

Ghost catches you, scoops you out of the tub altogether, and waits for you to steady your fawn-weak legs on the bathmat. You lean into him heavily, soaking wet patches like blood into his sweatshirt. You’ve paid your way like this – imaginary cuts at Johnny’s expense.

You can’t look at Ghost’s egregiously fond gaze without nausea bubbling in your empty stomach. A yawning pit grows there, hollowing you out. You can’t face the mirror either.

Ghost doesn’t interrupt your flagellation. Buffs you down with a towel in silence, polishing the monument he’s built to his own deprivation. Couldn’t have shaped it without the raw material there though, could he? Statues don’t form without a block of unformed marble, can’t make granite of limestone.

He dresses you in one of his hoodies and fresh underwear before returning you downstairs.

The state you find Johnny in breaks your heart. Tear-streaked, puffy-eyed, lips bitten bloody. His hair is tangled and disarrayed, bruised hands limp in his thighs. Though his head is leaned back against the wall, there’s no ease in his body. His jaw is so tight you worry for his teeth, brows furrowed tight. A crumpled ball of tension and regret.

“Johnny,” you say, voice splintering. The shards rain down, popping the bubble of bleak silence suffocating the den.

His eyes fly open. You dart to him, throwing yourself into his arms before he can process what he’s seeing. Press yourself close and tight, eyes stinging at the exhausted tremble in his body. Johnny’s never been anything but fire and stone to you. Warmth and heat and energy, strength and support even with the cracks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you warble. “I’m so sorry.”

He nudges you back to scan you with glassy eyes, like he’s seeing a miracle right in front of him.

“You… you’re okay,” he rasps, voice shredded to wisps.

You nod, bowing your head in shame. “He – we…” You can’t find the words to explain, don’t even know how to begin. His hands keep drifting over your arms and hands, eyes flicking from your face to your neck to your bare legs.

Ghost chimes in. “Told the kitten to put on a show or you would suffer.”

You want to wipe away Johnny’s half-dry tears, offer the comfort he’s been deprived of. Cowardice grips your arm, suspends it in midair, whispers poisonous doubts about your welcome.

But Johnny presses his cry-flushed cheek into your palm, shuddering through a dry sob. He leans his weight into you, and despite the fatigue, you stay the pillar you’ve always tried to be for him.

“You both need water,” Ghost rumbles, and turns for the kitchen.

Left alone, Johnny doesn’t emerge from the safety he’s found in the hollow of your throat. You cradle him with all the tenderness you can muster, sifting gentle hands through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” you whisper finally.

He lets out a sigh and hugs you closer. “Nothin’ to apologize for, Kit. Not mad at ya for protectin’ me. ‘Specially when I put you down there in the first place.”

“I don’t blame you for anything. I wouldn’t have blamed you even if he had…” You shake your head. “Well, regardless, it’s on Ghost for losing his temper.”

He doesn’t respond. You’re not surprised, but your chest squeezes. Johnny’s a proud man, but he’s got a guilt complex a kilometer wide – especially for people he cares deeply for. He’ll be haunted by this for a while.

“I’m just glad you’re alright, luv. Don’t care about a damn other thing.”

You tilt your chin to press kisses to the crown of his head – until he finally peeks out for you to trail more down his ruined face. The kiss starts gentle, warmth and love and reassurance pouring into him from your mouth. Johnny shudders in a breath, cups your jaw. His control slips, mouth parting on desperation and relief, lapping comfort from the edges of your teeth and curl of your tongue.

You only part when Ghost returns, nudging the two of you with his knee. He doesn’t insist on separating you far, though. Just enough to bestow you and Johnny with full glasses of water. You sip in measured doses while Johnny chugs to the bottom in a few noisy mouthfuls.

As he does, you note the awful marks on his hands. Bruised and bloodied knuckles, blisters forming on his palms. Your eyes dart to the wall – sure enough, red stamps like smashed grapes, centered around the wall anchor for the chain. You follow the trail back to his collar, spot the angry skin peaking past. At least there isn’t blood.

Ghost notices too.

“We’ll have to take it off for the night.”

To your surprise, something like reluctance flickers across Johnny’s face. There and gone again, but definitely there. You say nothing; you’d have the same reaction.

Ghost disappears again – this time you hear him rummaging in one of the cabinets. While you and Johnny wait, you exchange chaste, gentle kisses while you burrow into his side.

He returns with a first-aid kit. You’re surprised when offers you a roll of bandages. “A hand for each of us.”

You hum in agreement, get to work dabbing the split skin with antibacterial.

“Can I jus’ ask why, Ghost?”

Ghost doesn’t even glance up. “Why what, pup?”

“Why take it out on Kit? Why not just give me a thrashing and call it a day?”

You frown. Don’t like this line of questioning, or the guilt still staining his words. But Ghost answers without hesitation.

“Because you told me, yeah? Your worst fear is the kitty suffering for you again,” he explains. “No better way to punish you.”

That’s no shock to you; the sentiment is mutual. It’s been damn near written on both your faces since you woke up here, and Ghost isn’t a stupid man. He had you made long before then, you’re sure.

But Johnny’s sudden silence strikes you like a cord out of key. No mutters of annoyance or even snarky comebacks this time. Just a silence that drags your gaze from the careful winding of gauze.

He’s not looking at you, though. He’s staring at Ghost, abject horror graying his skin.

“Riley?”

First | Previous | TBC...

Nope. Nothing to do with him…

Well, that’s enough of that.

You yawn and stretch, blink your eyes slowly open. Before bed, Ghost scooped you up and took you back to your own cushion, saying something about earning the right to sleep with Johnny. You’d been dozing off and only managed a half-hearted grumble when he clipped your leash on again.

Across the room, Johnny is still splayed out and snoring – likely stayed up on self-imposed watch when he should have been resting. Shaking your head, you gingerly sit up, testing your body weight on your sore butt. Not too bad, if mildly uncomfortable. Manageable, you decide, and slump against the wall.

You rub your eyes, shift as your bladder twinges. Fuck. All that water Ghost made you chug last night. You glance dubiously at the kitchen doorway. To call out or not?

Ghost appears before you can decide. He notices you instantly, rumbles “good morning” in a sleep-laden voice that sends a shiver down your spine. You don’t respond, eyes dropping to your lap as your face warms. Christ, one good orgasm and a tender ass, and you feel like a teenager with a crush.

Don’t even realize he’s moved until he sinks to a knee in front of you. It’s too close; he absolutely dwarfs you. Your head doesn’t even feel screwed on yet, still floating somewhere in the memory of the previous night. He tuts as you duck your head, fingers curling in your blanket.

“What did I say about answering me?” he rumbles, deceptively soft. “Are we already misbehaving?”

He radiates so much heat. A tired part of you wants to curl into him, soak it up as you shake off the chill of sleep. You clear your throat against that thought and turn your face away. Not that he lets you get far, guiding your chin around and up. Exposing your throat – and yet still so devastatingly gentle.

“No. Sorry,” you whisper. “Just woke up, ‘s all.”

He coos. “Just a grumpy little thing, is that it? Need a spot of coffee?”

“A-and the restroom,” you add quietly, unwilling to risk denial. “Please.”

“Give us a proper hello and I’ll take you for a piddle.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, tamping down embarrassed anger as your face burns. He’s willing to give you what you want, that’s all that matters.

“Good morning, Ghost,” you murmur.

He hums. “Lovely, but not how my kitten should greet me.”

You blink, brows furrowing in confusion. How you should…? Right, because you’re his “pet.”

You recall what you can of cat behavior (though it’s been a while since you’ve interacted with one) and come to a hesitant conclusion. Slow and gauging, you shift forward, balancing on a hand between your legs. Ghost holds your gaze, dark and indecipherable.

Praying that his request supersedes his “no touching” rule, you lean up to press your cheek to his. When he doesn’t yank you back, you rub your face against the soft fabric of the balaclava, nuzzling to the sharp line of his jaw and then down to his neck. A rumble starts low in his chest. At first, you fear he’s growling. Then realize when he tilts his chin that he’s humming. Happily, it seems.

“Good morning, sir,” you murmur, pressing your nose to the hollow under his jaw. He still smells so fucking good. Even with the lingering scent of gunpowder and leather beneath the bodywash.

“Very good,” he croons, fingers burying in your hair. He scritches his fingers gently along your scalp, petting you. “What a sweet baby.”

You brace yourself against another shudder. You aren’t supposed to find this arousing or enjoyable. He’s holding your need to pee over you. That’s the only reason you’ve gone along with this. The only thing you get out of it is a trip to the restroom.

The chain rattles, drawing you from your thoughts. It’s… gone? When did he do that? Ghost squeezes the back of your neck and guides you away from his shoulder. You meet his eyes, bite the inside of your cheek when you see the gleam in them.

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He clicks his tongue again, but lets you stand. It takes you a second, still a little stiff, but Ghost is patient as you stretch. Standing too close, sure, but not rushing you. Probably still preening over your compliance.

He walks you in front of him towards the basement hallway. When you come up short, Ghost chuckles and smooths a hand down your side. Meant to comfort, maybe.

“Downstairs bathroom is this way, little one,” he explains. “The basement isn’t for kitties. Even naughty ones.”

Well, even if he’s lying, it’s not like you have much choice. So you brace yourself and venture into the short hallway at his prodding. There are… four doors. You blink, glance at him over your shoulder. He points to the one at the very end. There are a series of locks on the outside, big heavy ones.

“Ominous,” you joke, strained.

“That’s the basement.” He pivots you to the right. “This one’s the restroom.”

“What… about the others?” you ask.

He snorts. “Sex dungeons one and two.”

You whip around, eyes huge. He barks a laugh and pats your ass.

“Storage and garage,” he chuckles. “Christ, your face.”

“Well, how should I know?!” you complain, shoving at the bathroom door. “I don’t know what you’re into!”

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head. You will.”

And then he slams the door behind you, leaving you in speechless silence. You press your hands to your face, compelled to hide when there’s not even a mirror for company. Fuck, you’re so stupidly turned on. It defies all logic and sanity. Once you feel a little less like you’re about to spontaneously combust, you hurry to do your business.

The downstairs restroom is a clean and modern half-bath. A brief exploration reveals nothing of interest (namely a weapon) in the cabinets. Hand towels, extra toilet paper, a little travel kit with a toothbrush and toothpaste under the sink. It’s decently stocked, but not helpful for anything beyond its intended use. Fair enough, you suppose.

When you finish, Ghost is waiting for you in the hall. Just like before, he walks you in front of him back to the living room. Soap is just starting to rouse, stretching and yawning widely. You immediately pivot to join him.

Two fingers hook in the side of your collar and tug, not hard enough to choke, but enough to stop you.

“Ah ah,” Ghost says.

You grab at his arm with an embarrassingly whiny noise, turning back to him in confusion.

“Why not?” you demand, frowning.

“Because you don’t have permission, brat,” he answers, voice turning dangerous. “Now, release.”

It takes a beat for you to realize what he means. Then you drop your hands, praying your little transgression hasn’t earned you another punishment so soon. Thankfully, he just tsks.

“Don’t give me that look. You two can play in a bit.”

You scrunch up your nose – not sure what “look” he means but knowing that he’s probably being condescending. Seems like his default.

“Back to bed,” he commands, jerking his head.

You huff and slink to your cushion, even going so far as to flop down. You’re being petulant, you know that, but you’re cranky. Ghost doesn’t say a word, just attaches your chain and leaves you with a patronizing little pat to the head.

“Morning, pup,” he calls.

Johnny squints at him for a second, scratching at the dark stubble shadowing his handsome jaw.

“Mornin’,” he grunts after a second.

Ghost snorts, stops with his boots at the edge of Johnny’s cushion. “I think we can do better than that. C’mere, pup.”

Johnny sighs through his nose but pushes himself up on his knees to shuffle closer. His eyes flick to you, looking for a clue.

Like a pet, you mouth as clear as you can.

His brows twitch with confusion. Then Ghost scratches encouragingly at the shorn hair behind his ear and understanding sparks in his sleepy blue eyes. He balances his palms on those broad thighs and presses his face into Ghost’s lower stomach. Your brows arch, impressed and a little envious – though you’re… not sure of who.

“Good boy,” Ghost rumbles, “my good boy.”

“Aye, mind taking me for a pish, then?” Johnny grumbles.

You cough a laugh as Ghost shakes his head with exasperation. But Johnny gets his wish, unclipped and led away just like you were. It sounds like he snips a couple more smart comments, but you don’t catch any of it as another yawn racks you.

When they return, Johnny returns to his cushion and allows himself to be secured again without complaint. Ghost scrubs a palm through Johnny’s overgrown mohawk, then disappears into the kitchen.

“How’d ye sleep?” Johnny asks. He seems more alert now, bright eyes giving you a thorough once over, lingering on your lower body.

“Like a wee lamb,” you tease, badly mimicking his accent.

“Haud yer wheesht, it gets worse every time,” he complains, rolling his eyes.

You snicker at his scowl, even when Ghost emerges from the kitchen. Helps that he has plates piled with food in hand. He delivers one to you and the other to Soap. Dips into the kitchen once more and returns with two mugs this time.

The rich scent of coffee greets you when Ghost sets one in your reaching hands. Peering at the surface, you’re pleasantly surprised to find it just the right shade. The first sip confirms; he’s made it just the way you like. Sugar, creamer, and even a hint of cinnamon.

That should be disturbing. It should chill you to the core and turn your stomach that your serial killer kidnapper knows exactly how you take your coffee. Maybe it will later. Right now, though, it’s a familiar bit of comfort.

“Thanks,” you mumble, balancing your plate on your knees.

Ghost grunts from the couch where he’s settled. No breakfast for him, apparently. Probably on account of his mysterious identity under the mask.

It would be degrading to have to eat on the floor – except you and Johnny have done this plenty of times. On missions, in safe houses, in the base common room. Hell, even to this day, the two of you have camped out on the floor of one of your flats, watching movies with takeout between you. At least you’ve been served on actual plates with utensils.

“Och, love a man who can cook,” Johnny groans into his eggs.

You stuff a bite in your mouth, humming when you find that the scramble is really good. Bits of bacon, onion, pepper, mushroom. Hell, it’s better than you or Johnny would have made for yourselves on a normal day.

“Okay, yeah,” you admit, “this definitely makes up for the kidnapping.”

Ghost doesn’t deign that with more than a droll look as he turns on the television.

There’s even perfectly browned toast with jam! What the hell sort of serial killer is he?

“Ye’ve got any other talents?” Johnny chuckles, mouth half-full. “Did ye knit these blankets yourself?”

“You two are awfully chatty all of a sudden.”

“Good food’ll do that,” you chirp, grinning across at him.

“Didn’t realize I’d nabbed a coupla hens.”

You exchange looks with Johnny. “Bawk bawk, Ghostie boy,” he cackles.

You nearly choke, flipping him off when he laughs at your ragged coughs. And Ghost, to your eternal shock, just shakes his head.

“Call me that again and you’ll be squawking for a different reason,” he warns.

It’s more than likely not an idle threat, but there’s audible amusement in his voice too. Like he thinks Johnny is funny in spite of himself.

Odd, you think.

From what you know of scenarios like this, stalkers don’t really want the people they kidnap. Not the actual person, personality and all. They want some ideal they’ve built up in their head. Try to twist and manipulate their victim into behaving the way they’ve deluded themselves into believing they are. So far, not the case with Ghost. He doesn’t seem disenchanted by Soap’s banter or your snark.

Maybe he did his “homework” after all. Or maybe you and Johnny are on an ever-dwindling timer. Eventually, Ghost’s patience will dry up. Your reactions will stop being novel and amusing, will become frustrating and wrong. He’ll decide you two are not his perfect pets after all and go looking for another pair to fantasize about.

And then, well…

“Finish eating, kitten.”

You blink, eyes darting up. Ghost is staring from the couch, gaze fathomless, like he knows exactly where your thoughts were spiraling. You hum and shovel another bite in. Past him, Johnny is watching as well, a contemplative frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It’ll do no good to fret about the inevitable right now, so you pointedly turn your gaze to the telly.

“Aw, the news again?” you complain around your mouthful.

Not much you want to see happening in the world. You used to make a game of guessing which international conflicts Price and Gaz would be deployed to. But then it made you sad and worried, and your therapist told you to stop – for once you’d listened.

“Saturday cartoons are always a winner,” Johnny chimes in. “I loved Looney Tunes as a bairn.”

“You are a Looney Tune,” you reply.

“Och, c’mere and say that, ya wee menace.”

“You’re lucky I can’t come over there.” Punctuated by an obnoxious slurp of your coffee.

Ghost points a warning finger at you, so you stop – though not without sticking your tongue out at Johnny. He responds with a rude gesture that makes your mouth drop open in faux outrage.

“How about a movie.”

Ghost doesn’t say it like it’s a suggestion, but Johnny is sure to impart his opinion anyway.

“Aye, let’s watch a horror movie. We can all compare notes.”

“I’m partial to slashers,” you add.

“Are you now?” Ghost drawls.

You blink at him once and stuff the rest of your toast – a not inconsiderable chunk – into your stupid, traitorous mouth.

“Good idea. Who’s that big bloke with the mask and the knife? Hunts horny campers down?” Johnny asks, a wicked smirk curling his mouth.

You tilt your head, point at Ghost with an arched eyebrow. Johnny’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

“Jason Vorhees,” Ghost answers, flat and unamused.

“Aye, that’s the bitch,” Johnny crows, snapping his fingers. “Cousin of yours, then?”

This time you do choke, breadcrumbs straight down your windpipe. You have absolutely no business crying with laughter in a serial killer’s house – at that serial killer’s expense, no less – but here you are, trying desperately not to suffocate on breakfast.

“Right then,” Ghost sighs.

He rocks to his feet and lumbers to Johnny. His giggles taper off as Ghost approaches, though a shit-eating grin remains plastered wide across his face. He tilts his head back, opens his mouth to say something else obnoxious. Before he can make a single noise, two of Ghost’s thick fingers plunge past his lips.

He jolts, tries to jerk back, but Ghost just follows and pins him against the wall with a leg planted between his thighs, knee to his chest.

“If you bite down,” Ghost rumbles, “you won’t like what happens next.”

Biting looks like the last thing on Johnny’s mind. His eyes go half-lidded and hazy as Ghost’s wrist flexes, petting at his tongue and teasing at his gag reflex.

“You’re cute, pup,” Ghost coos, “problem is, you know it.”

You press your lips together; your input probably isn’t wise at this moment. But yes, he’s absolutely right.

He draws his hand back a bit, hooks his fingers behind Johnny’s bottom teeth and gives a little shake.

“I know you’re all riled up, but it’s not time to play yet,” Ghost condescends, like… well, like he’s humoring a naughty pet. “Now, be good or you won’t get to play at all. Understood?”

Johnny warbles an affirmative noise, tongue flicking over Ghost’s scarred and tattooed knuckles. He allows it for a moment, long enough for a droplet of spit to sneak down Johnny’s chin. Then he steps back to let Johnny breathe, wiping wet fingers on his cheek.

“Good.” He turns and catches your eye. “That goes for you as well.”

“I’m just sitting here!” you protest, offended.

He points at you again, fingertips still shiny with Johnny’s saliva. A (not) small part of you is sorely tempted to see what he’ll do if you push your luck. The ache in your ass dissuades you, but only just. You deflate, turning your face away haughtily.

“Understood,” you grumble.

From the corner of your eye, you watch him duck to collect Johnny’s plate and empty mug, then blink in shock as he crosses the room to do the same with yours. You stare as he takes it all back to the kitchen, followed soon by a telltale rattle of dishes in the sink.

When your eyes cut to Johnny, he’s also gawking at the doorway.

“Do you… get him?” you ask.

“Not a bit.”

Ghost ends up choosing the original 1978 Halloween. You curl up on your cushion with your blanket around your shoulders, bobbing along to the opening theme. After a moment, that creeping sense of being watched itches at your shoulders. You turn to find both men watching you with unnerving affection.

“What?” you ask, flustered. “It’s a classic!”

Ghost obliges to turn back to the screen, but Johnny’s eyes linger. You wrinkle your nose and make a show of ignoring him. Even still, you feel his attention on your profile. It makes you fidgety, so you force yourself to sit still until he finally refocuses on the movie.

It’s easy to settle in after that; Halloween is one of your favorites after all. Nothing like a big scary masked dude with an unrelenting and uncompromising obsession. You remember that Michael Myers was one of your first guilty wanks as a teenager, not sure why you found him attractive, just that you did.

Oh, if only you knew.

Halfway through, your hip starts to protest the extended stint on the floor. As soft as the dog bed is, it’s no substitute for a proper cushion or mattress. You try repositioning, legs extended, then folded, then bent. Nothing eases the building ache though, and finally you relent to stand.

It draws Johnny and Ghost’s attention again, the former frowning when he sees how you’re favoring your leg.

“Acting up?” he asks.

“Just need to stretch,” you say, waving away his concern.

It’s more than that and you know it. Between the fight at the cabin, crawling around yesterday, and a lack of meds, you’re lucky that your hip is only just starting to hurt. Borrowed time, at this point. If you sit down now, chances are that you won’t be able to get up on your own again.

Johnny knows it too, based on the tension in his jaw. But he spares your pride and pretends to believe you, turning back to the telly – though you know he’s sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye.

Ghost is not so polite.

His stare is so heavy it threatens to knock your good leg out from under you. Like Johnny, you pretend to watch the movie, working through exercises the PT taught you. It helps a bit, though you neither lay down nor put much weight on it. You settle for leaning against the wall, absently fiddling with the chain of your leash.

Ghost abruptly stands, one of those uncanny fluid movements that remind you why he’s so deadly. He doesn’t say a word, just disappears into the back hall. Restroom, you figure, and turn round again. In the back of your mind, your spine prickles. That instinctual wariness of taking your eyes off a lurking predator. It’s not like it would do you much good to see him coming anyway.

Doesn’t stop you from startling when fingertips caress the back of your neck. You’re not surprised that you didn’t hear him, but you didn’t even notice his shadow this time. The weight of the leash disappears as it coils onto the cushion at your feet.

You still, shock and confusion freezing you to the spot. Is this another game?

Ghost saunters back to the couch, lounges closer to one arm rather than dead center like usual. He may be facing the screen, but you know he’s scrutinizing your reaction – or lack thereof. After an extended moment, he leans forward, elbow on his knee and hand extended towards you, palm up.

“Here, kitty,” he calls.

You hesitate, caught on distrust and pride. He wiggles his fingers a bit, makes a clicking noise with his tongue like he’s luring a stray. Another beat as you consider… but maybe you really are a cat because curiosity wins out. You slink across the living room until you’re hovering at the far end from him.

“That’s it,” Ghost croons, “c’mon.”

Slowly, carefully, you place a hand on the cushion. His eyes glint with satisfaction, so you settle more of your weight and place the other hand a little closer to him. He hums and leans back in a deliberate gesture to allow you space. You slide your knee up, all but entirely on the couch now – but you stop. Wait.

Ghost just observes, an amused crinkle around his eyes. He doesn’t coax again or try to reach for you. That, more than anything, lures you into crawling fully onto the cushion, scrunched up against the arm of the couch.

“’S alright, little one. Stretch out that leg.”

You blink, mouth parting on words he’s robbed you of. It is… an unexpectedly kind gesture. But then he hasn’t been needlessly cruel, has he? Okay, yes, he spanked you raw last night, but that was a clear chain of action-transgression-consequence. He’s sort of gone out of his way to make you and Johnny comfortable, even if he’s a manipulative asshole.

A glance at Johnny decides you. There’s a glimmer of genuine respect for Ghost in his eye.

You ease across the cushions inch by inch, letting your legs extend until your toes are centimeters from Ghost’s thigh. Only then does he touch you, a warm calloused hand curling around your ankle. His thumb rubs light circles over the ball joint, hypnotic little spirals that leech the tension from your muscles.

“Settle in, now,” he says, “we’re almost at the good part.”

And you have no reason not to, so you do. The extra padding is an immediate improvement and you’re able to enjoy the rest of the movie with minimal readjustments. Ghost never seems to mind, just waits until you’ve rotated the socket to your satisfaction and resumes his gentle petting.

As soon as the credits start rolling, Johnny sits forward and rattles his chain.

“Well now, I’m feeling left out. I’ve been perfectly well behaved,” he complains. “I want in on the snuggle party too.”

You perk up. Johnny is always a good movie companion.

Ghost snorts. “That’s what you call well-behaved?”

“Aye, and if you’ve been stalking us for that long, you know it.”

You hum in agreement. Johnny sitting quietly through an entire movie is something of a feat.

“It doesn’t seem fair,” you chime in. Ghost pins you with a skeptical look and you, in a moment of inspiration, widen your eyes at him. “Please? Sir?”

He squeezes your ankle, eyes narrow. “You’re not subtle.”

You wiggle a little closer, ignoring the twinge in your hip. “Please?”

“Alright,” he grouses. “Enough.”

He stands, dislodging your feet, and crosses to your cushion. At first, you’re afraid that he’s going to leash you again. But then he unlocks the chain from the wall anchor and crosses back to Johnny. He kneels down, fiddles with the links and padlocks for a second before grabbing a firm hold of Johnny’s collar and tugging.

“This is a privilege, you understand?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “If you act up, it’s not your ass I’ll be taking it out of. Clear?”

Johnny’s eyes flash, a stormy glance sent your way in understanding. “Aye, crystal.”

“Give us a bark like a good mutt.”

Johnny’s lip curls, but he delivers a sullen little “woof” that seems to satisfy Ghost. He releases the collar and returns to the couch. This time, he takes the side your upper half is lounging on. Before you can scramble to make room, he lifts you up, takes your spot, and drops your torso onto his lap.

“Hey,” you grumble.

His fingers bury in your hair, equal parts restraining and pacifying. You wriggle around, dig your shoulder into his thigh as revenge. It not that his huge thigh doesn’t make for a nice pillow – the issue is that it does. Warm and firm to support your neck, but still a generous layer of soft tissue for your cheek to snuggle into.

“Consider this a trade for letting the pup onto the furniture,” Ghost drawls.

You subside as Johnny, now on an extended leash with the addition of yours, takes the other end. He gathers your legs in his lap and immediately starts massaging his big, warm hands along the damaged nerve pathway. You make a quiet noise, mouth a “thank you” that earns you a warm look.

“What’s next, then?” he asks. “I’m still partial to that Jason bloke.”

You snicker, earn a tug to the hair from Ghost.

“Something spooky?” you suggest. “Ghosts?”

This time he pinches your cheek hard enough to smart. You whine, almost whack yourself in the face while swatting at him. He does end up putting on a supernatural movie next, much to your delight. It’s something generic that you’ve seen a million times, but the familiarity soothes you.

Twenty minutes later, it strikes you how domestic it all is. Ghost is still playing with your hair, Johnny is digging his thumb into a sore muscle – and despite everything, you’re warm and comfortable and… feel more at ease than you ever have alone in your own apartment.

Well, shit. That’s… that’s probably not healthy.

Thankfully, your thoughts are interrupted by Johnny’s clever hands finding a point that sends a shockwave down your calf and up your spine. You gasp, body jerking, and then loose a soft moan. Ghost’s hand pauses in your hair.

“Yeah?” Johnny asks, voice dipping low and rough. “That the spot, bonnie?”

You hum the affirmative, all you’re able to manage as his fingers press into it again. Persistent pressure, kneading tender muscle where the worst of the pain seems to originate. Every tiny shift ignites another round of sparks through that side of your body, plucking quiet noises from your throat. It hurts as much as it feels good, one of those weird dichotomies of the human body not knowing how to interpret stimulation.

Eventually he eases up, gently working out the last of the tension until you’re little more than a puddle spread between his and Ghost’s laps.

“Thank you, Johnny,” you mumble into Ghost’s leg.

“Any time, darlin’.”

His hands don’t stop moving, though. No longer massaging, just… touching. Not that you mind. You’ve always liked his touch a little more than you should as a friend, and after your pseudo-confession last night, you’re practically squirming for more contact.

He seems all too happy to oblige, one hand anchoring on your knee. The other edges further and further between your thighs, stroking tantalizing patterns across sensitive skin. Even through your joggers his touch is hot, sends tingles into the pit of your stomach.

Johnny’s good with fire, and the one he’s building in your body smolders like coal. Reminds you of underground mines, burning quietly beneath the surface until they finally erupt above ground, scorching everything.

You’ve carried a torch for him so long you wouldn’t even notice if you started to burn.

It becomes increasingly difficult to focus on the movie as his hand creeps higher and higher. You’re starting to react; it’s only a matter of time before the evidence becomes obvious. You pinch your bottom lip between your teeth, heart beating hard and fast in your chest.

When you sneak a glance his way, his eyes are already on you, knowing and heated.

“Johnny.”

You both jump at Ghost’s sharp tone, eyes flying to him.

“What did I say?” he rumbles. “Behave.”

“I am!”

“Are you going to settle down, or do I need to make you?” Ghost asks, implacable.

You swallow, try to sit up to diffuse the stubborn light in Johnny’s eyes. Ghost’s fingers hook deftly in your collar and keep you pinned down. All you can manage is to twist a bit and shake your head when Johnny’s gaze darts to you. His hand tenses on your knee, jaw twitching with the clench of his teeth. You can see him teetering on the edge of something rash; his temper is a glass threatening to tip over and shatter.

And if that happens, this tentative peace is over. Ghost will punish you both, and probably take away these comfort “privileges” as collateral.

“Ghost?” You murmur. There’s a beat where you think he’ll ignore you. And then his chin tilts, dark eyes glinting when he sees the shy turn to your mouth. It’s not entirely an act either, your face heats as you struggle to hold his gaze. “When the movie is over… could we… could we play?”

He grunts, eyes narrowing – though you can’t tell if it’s with amusement or aggravation at your antics. His thumb traces your bottom lip, tugging it from between your teeth. You let him glide the pad of it along your canines and then back to your molars, opening your mouth to accommodate his hand. Squeeze your thighs together and realize Johnny’s hand is still there, make a soft noise knowing that he can feel the effect this is having on you.

“That pent up already, hm?” Ghost muses.

You nod, careful that you don’t nick skin. He blows out a long breath as if you’re asking for something terribly inconvenient. Then he turns back to Johnny. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, only to offer it with an audible smirk.

“Well, pup?”

You purposefully flex your thighs around Johnny’s hand, a silent plea to mind his temper. It proves to be unnecessary. His eyes are locked on Ghost’s hand, his thumb glistening with your saliva. Johnny’s full mouth parts, tongue unfurling decadently over his bottom lip.

“Is that it, mm?” Ghost purrs. “You just need to play? Need to get all that energy out?”

He smears the pad of his thumb down the midline of Johnny’s tongue and Johnny moans, like the secondhand taste of you is ambrosia. You bite the inside of your cheek and swallow back an answering noise; don’t want to interrupt the moment.

Ghost presses down, pins Johnny’s tongue.

“Puppy needs his exercise, or he gets antsy,” Ghost chuckles. “Alright, then. Be good until this movie is over and then we’ll set you right, yeah?”

Johnny hums agreement, tongue curling around Ghost’s thumb as his thick lashes flutter.

“Atta boy.”

Ghost indulges him a moment longer, then pulls his hand away. Johnny’s brow furrows like he’s going to protest, but then he clears his throat and nestles into the cushions, face pinkening.

The hand in your collar begins to stroke the skin around it, lingering on your erratic pulse and the bob of your throat. It’s distracting, keeps that flame burning bright in your belly. Johnny’s hand is still between your thighs, but even without moving, you’re all too aware of it.

“Goes for you too, kitten,” Ghost warns when you start fidgeting.

You tuck your face against his thigh and force yourself to lie still. The movie is a lost cause at this point. You’re just counting down the seconds until it’s over. Johnny isn’t in much better state; you can feel him pressing against your calf, thick and hard.

In your head, an entirely different movie is playing. Ghost toying with Johnny the previous night, big hands stroking his cock like they belonged there. The way Johnny’s face twisted with pleasure and desperation. You can almost hear the sounds he made, the way ecstasy shredded his voice.

And then you blink, and the credits are rolling.

It barely registers before you’re smothered. Johnny stretches the entirety of his body along yours, one long, muscular line of blissful heat crowding you into the cushions. His mouth smashes into yours, nothing neat or restrained about it.

A little, hazy part of you thinks that if you’ve been carrying a torch, Johnny has been tending a bonfire. At least that’s the way he kisses you. Like it’s the end and beginning of his whole world, like any second his tongue isn’t exploring your mouth is a waste of air. You can’t breathe without him filling your lungs, can barely even move to reciprocate.

And god, do you want to.

The best you can manage is to curl your fingers into his shirt and give him all the access he’s clambering for. He keeps pressing and pressing, wedging his thigh between yours and snaking an arm beneath you to squish your chests together. His teeth scrape your lip when you rock your hips, moaning as you finally get barest hint of the friction you crave.

He gets more frantic when you gather the brain cells to move your hands, sneaking them beneath his shirt. His stomach flexes as you trace the tempting lines you’ve admired so long, physically mapping the hills and valleys you memorized with your eyes. You gently scratch your fingers through the downy hair beneath his navel and feel him twitch against your hip. Do it again and get the barest, eager rock of his hips.

You’re lightheaded when he finally pulls away, though he doesn’t go far. His beard rasps along your cheek and jaw as he licks and sucks down to your neck. Your eyes flutter as you tilt your head back, trying to give him room.

You find Ghost’s eyes instead.

The reminder that he’s right there, that you and Johnny are making out like horny teenagers in his lap, sends a wicked thrill through you. It feels dangerous, like you’re provoking a wild animal, dangling food in front of a starving beast.

Johnny nips your collarbone hard; it’s going to leave a mark. Between one heartbeat and the next, Ghost tangles his fingers in Johnny’s mohawk, tugging him back from you with a chuckle.

“Easy now, pup,” he says, “play nice.”

“This is nice,” Johnny growls, flashing his teeth. His thigh flexes at the apex of yours, sending a shudder down your spine.

“Then we’ll just have to train you better, won’t we?”

With his free hand, Ghost rucks up your shirt. A tiny part of you thinks to protest his assumed entitlement to your body, but the thought fades when Johnny literally drools. You make a soft noise, get shushed by Ghost while Johnny’s pupils swallow the blue of his eyes. When your shirt can’t get any higher, you help Ghost shimmy it the rest of the way off, leaving your torso bare.

He presses against Johnny’s head, who gladly dips down to continue mauling your chest – only to be stopped just before he can reach you. His mouth hovers at the hollow of your throat, hot breaths puffing out against your skin.

“Well?” Ghost mocks.

Johnny’s tongue darts out, tasting, testing. When he tries to get closer, lips curling back from his teeth, Ghost stops him again. Only allows him close enough for the barest, sweetest brush of his mouth. Understanding, Johnny groans with annoyance, but Ghost is unyielding. He guides Johnny’s mouth to your nipple, hard and pebbled in the open air.

You moan as Johnny circles his tongue, spirals that get tighter and tighter until he’s flicking at it. He smirks when your eyes meet, laps with the flat of his tongue and then blows cool air. You squirm and pant, wanting more, wanting to lean into his mouth, but can’t with Ghost’s wide hand stretched across your collarbones.

Johnny’s teasing doesn’t last long either when he’s constrained to the smallest taste of you. Finesse devolves as hunger grows, his tongue losing its rhythm and technique in favor of sloppy, desperate licks. Saliva drips onto your chest and ribs, his appreciative grunts pitching into pleading whines.

“Something you want?” Ghost taunts.

“Let me…” Johnny breathes. “Let me…”

Ghost just chuckles again and drags Johnny’s face down your abdomen, smushing his cheek against the skin so that his beard leaves red marks in his wake. At your lower stomach, though, Johnny puts up the first real resistance. He turns his head and presses his parted lips to the angry red scars climbing over your waistband.

“Johnny…” you murmur, a little heartbroken at the way his face twists.

Ghost eases up a bit, gives him room to worship the injury that ended your military career. His tongue traces old suture marks, wide gashes where shrapnel embedded. He rubs his lips against the whirls of burns. You slip a hand from between your bodies, rub your thumb against his cheek until his gaze locks with yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your skin. It sounds like it comes straight from his soul.

Your chest hitches with a surge of emotion.

“I’m not dead,” you reply, just as quiet, but fierce. “Stop treating me like I am.”

His eyes flicker, ignite, and burn. He sinks his teeth into a clear patch of skin amongst the carnage. You yelp even through a grin, leaning into the bruising pain until Ghost tugs playfully at his hair.

“Release, pup,” he says after a moment.

Johnny does, but not without sucking first to ensure a livid mark is left behind. He licks his lips as Ghost pulls him away. You’re pulsing against Johnny’s thigh, wish you had even a centimeter of room to grind against his leg.

Ghost seems to notice, cooing at your flushed face as his free hand pinches your nipple. It’s a delicious sharp counterpoint to the sweet ache of Johnny’s earlier attention. You cry out, want to arch for more as much as you want to hide away, and you’re unable to do either. He does the same to the other, twisting as he plucks the flesh to aching sensitivity.

“Getting restless, kitten?” He mocks as you mewl and squirm. “I told you that you’d get to play too.”

You nod, blinking up at him as frustration starts to sting your eyes. He clicks his tongue and untangles his hand from Johnny’s hair, snaps your waistband.

“Off.”

Johnny, bless him, scrambles to help you strip, tossing your pants over the side of the couch. You hiss as your sore ass rubs against the cushions, less pleasant than the soft lining of your joggers.

Ghost outright laughs and manhandles you around onto your front, strokes a covetous hand down your back.

“C’mon, little one. Arch your back like a good kitty.” You’re already complying when he adds, “Show Johnny his toy.”

Syrupy heat washes over you, drips along your spine. Your moan twines with Johnny’s, lust drunk. You plant your knees as far apart as you can and tilt your hips, leaning your weight into Ghost’s lap. Johnny curses softly under his breath.

“Go on, pup. You can touch,” Ghost purrs.

Suddenly Johnny’s hands are everywhere. Your chest, your hips, your thighs, your ass. Stroking and kneading and pulling and squeezing. It’s an overload of sensation after that carefully controlled contact; Johnny’s like a kid let loose in a candy store. All enthusiasm, no restraint, so eager to glut himself on you.

Ghost’s hand cups the back of your neck, thumb caressing the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“That’s it, sweetness. Let him have his fun, get all that energy out.”

You whimper as Johnny licks a hot stripe up the back of your thigh. Punctuates with teeth digging into the crease where it meets your ass.

“Wanna eat you out,” Johnny slurs, breaths heavy against you. “Lemme eat you out, Kit. Promise I’ll make it so good f’you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Feel like you’re going to shake apart and he hasn’t even touched you.

“Please, Johnny,” you whine.

“Fuck, baby, yeah,” he groans, spreading your cheeks. “Say my name jus’ like that.”

You gasp as he seals his mouth against your fluttering hole, spare syllables tripping off your tongue. He goes down on you the same way he kissed you. Near feral, licking and sucking, drool dripping. You open up for him embarrassingly fast, can feel droplets of your own arousal falling onto the couch below.

He massages his tongue against your walls, growls when your hips twitch at the too-much-too-fast of it all. His fingers hook around your thighs and yank you back into his face. You yelp, reach for something to feel anchored. Find a large, calloused hand and grip tightly as Ghost hums over your head.

“Doing so well, pup,” he rumbles. “Good boy.”

Johnny curses, wicked vibrations down your nerve pathways. His enthusiasm somehow doubles with the praise. He fucks into you with his tongue, curving the tip each time he draws it out, only to plunge as deep as he can again. Your mouth falls open on a silent scream when he fits a finger inside, pulling gently at your entrance, gaping you open a bit to give his tongue more room. It’s intimate and filthy and perfect.

“Don’t be mean, kitty,” Ghost says. The hand on your neck slips around to toy with your sensitive nipples, pinching and tugging until you’re writhing back onto Johnny’s face. “Tell the puppy how well he’s doing.”

It takes a second to remember what words are. And then another to gather enough air to speak.

“S-so good, Johnny,” you mewl. “Feels… feels so… g-gonna cum if you keep…”

He groans long and loud, twisting his wrist to press his thumb against the nerves past your hole. Your eyes roll back, realize you’re going to make good on your word even sooner than you expected. Then his finger crooks inside you, finds that spot that sends your brain into the stratosphere.

“There, there, Johnny please, right there, don’t stop,” you chant, plead, cry.

He abuses it ruthlessly, pressing and petting until your broken little “ah, ah, ahs” go up an octave and you’re cumming with a scream. You jerk like you’ve been electrocuted, rocking into it as wave after wave threatens to knock your legs out from under you. Johnny milks every last drop of pleasure from you, his rhythm not faltering once while you ride it out.

Your orgasm finally ebbs, but Johnny is still going. Isn’t even slowing.

“Johnny, ‘s too much,” you whimper, trying to crawl away and failing miserably. “Please, please, ’s too – you have to…”

“Told me not to stop, love,” he reminds without pulling his face away. “I don’t plan to.”

“N-no, Johnny,” you start, but he dives right back in and steals the words from your mouth.

He drags you like a riptide into a sea of overstimulation, drowning you in pleasure bordering on pain. You can’t even get your muscles to cooperate enough to push at him, tortured with aftershocks that leech any strength or resolve from your body.

So you settle on your only hope for salvation.

“Ghost,” you sob, “Ghost, please make him stop. C-can’t take it. Please.”

He hums as if debating, lets the moment extend until you wail at the threat of another finger against your soaked entrance.

“Enough, pup.”

Johnny practically snarls, teeth grazing oversensitive skin and making you squeal.

“Enough.”

You feel him shift, though your eyes are closed so you don’t see what he does. All you know is that Johnny’s mouth and hands are gone all at once, leaving you wrung out and trembling. There’s a beat of charged silence. Then two sets of hands help you stretch out your legs, rubbing any lingering soreness from your hips.

You squeeze Ghost’s hand in silent thanks, receive one in return that makes you blush brighter than the orgasm did.

“Don’t pout, pup,” Ghost chides, amusement thick in his voice. “Show me how much fun you’re having.”

Fabric rustles behind you. You peek over your shoulder, suck in a breath when Johnny’s cock springs from his joggers. There’s a noticeable wet patch on the gray fabric. His head is flushed red, shiny with precum, so hard it looks painful. You bite your lip at the sight of him so close, so big. Half of you wants to climb on his dick and ride him until you pass out, the other half is still reeling.

“Let’s give the kitty a break, yeah?” Ghost says. Who would have guessed he’d be the voice of reason here. “Play with yourself for us.”

Watching Johnny fist his own throbbing cock is the singular most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. He’s gorgeous, lit by the TV screen and soft lamplight, hips rocking into his hand like he can’t convince his body to commit to the rhythm. The rosy head peeks in and out of view, pearls of pre slicking the way. Every few strokes, he twists his wrist and squeezes a little harder, and his thumb sweeps over the weeping slit.

“Pretty boy,” Ghost croons, “so good for us, isn’t he, kitten?”

“Fuck, you’re beautiful, Johnny,” you rasp.

He moans, head rolling back on his shoulders. Remembering how he reacted to Ghost earlier, you keep talking.

“I wanna choke on your dick, Johnny. Want you to fuck my throat until I’m crying.”

“Kit.”

He sounds gutted. You make a soft noise, part your legs a bit so that he can see the mess he’s made of you.

“Gonna make you cum in all my holes,” you continue, “drip with you all day.”

Every salacious thought you’ve ever had spills from your tingling lips, no filter or shame to stop them now. Johnny’s hand speeds up on his cock with each word, brutally fast. You can see him twitching, know he must be close from the way his voice is rising and breaking.

“Stop,” Ghost says like a gavel strike.

Johnny’s hand freezes, seemingly from sheer befuddlement rather than willing obedience. His orgasm recedes, replaced with frustration.

“Ghost, why—”

“You don’t want the kitten to get you off, then? My mistake.”

Johnny perks up instantly while your gut clenches – and you can’t even tell if its anticipation or dismay.

“No, wait, ‘m sorry. Please, Ghost.”

“That’s more like it.”

He snatches a fallen throw pillow from the floor – the same one from the previous night. Again, it goes under your hips, propping your ass in the air. This time, he nudges your thighs closer together. Johnny seems to catch on, makes a quiet, pleased noise. You don’t understand until he straddles your thighs and the slick head of his cock nudges at the seam of your ass.

You whine as his hand plants on your lower back.

“What?” Ghost mocks, “You didn’t think playtime was over, did you? ‘S not very fair to Johnny, is it?”

You make a vague noise of agreement. Johnny should be able to get off, and you’re pleased that he’s using you to do it.

“Sweet thing,” Ghost chuckles, petting between your shoulders.

You press your forehead against his thigh, sink your teeth into the muscle as Johnny’s thick cock sinks between your thighs. There’s hardly any friction, wet from his mouth and your combined arousal.

“Fuck, you’re so soft,” he groans. “Tense up for me, doll. Make it nice and tight.”

You squeeze your thighs together and cant your hips just so, making the perfect channel for him to fuck into. The head of his cock drags against sensitive, swollen flesh, bullies overworked nerves with each jerk of his hips. He’s not being gentle; don’t think he could manage it if you asked.

Even after your “break,” it’s still overwhelming. You struggle to lay there and take it, hands clenching and unclenching in Ghost’s pants. Find yourself mouthing mindlessly at the sizeable bulge pressing against your cheek. Reluctance and embarrassment long abandoned, you turn your head to press your tongue against the fabric.

“Ghost, can I?” you ask. “Please, I-I need something to… please?”

He chuckles roughly, sinks his fingers into your hair to keep your head in place as he rocks against your face.

“That what you need, little one? Need a cock in your mouth to distract you from how good the pup is making you feel?”

You nod as best you can, writhing beneath Johnny’s weight and the awful pleasure that sings through you every time his cock catches on your hole.

“S’pose you’ve been good.”

Ghost dips his other hand into his sweats, allows you to tug them down a bit. His cock is somehow bigger than Johnny’s, almost intimidating. Long and thick, curved towards his stomach, gratifyingly hard just from watching you and Johnny play. A pretty silver ring loops through the head – a Prince Albert, your mind supplies.

You swallow him down without a thought, moan at the way the piercing rubs against your tongue. It’s an instant obsession, you can’t help flicking at it each time you rise up. He seems to enjoy the special attention, grunting when you suck obscenely at the head.

“Oh fuck,” Johnny groans behind you. “You two are so fucking hot, it’s not fair.”

He thrusts harder, more erratic. Your thighs clench tighter as you take Ghost down as far as you can, gagging, eyes watering. He grunts, hips twitching, lodging himself just that little bit deeper. You can’t breathe, but you don’t really want to. Not when you can feel metal teasing the back of your throat.

“Fuck, Johnny, keep being good and maybe I’ll let you have this one day,” Ghost groans.

With the hand in your hair, he guides you into a proper rhythm. Not as demanding as you’d expect a man like him to be, but he’s not coddling you either. You have to get air when you can, actively swallow past your gag reflex. Hum and moan as Johnny continues to grind, getting wetter as his end approaches.

You’re distracted enough by Ghost’s cock ruining your mouth that Johnny’s rutting is almost bearable.

“Fuck, shit, I-I’m gonna…”

“Atta boy, Johnny,” Ghost growls, voice gravel. “Cum all over our pretty kitty.”

You shudder as Johnny buries himself one last time. Heat splatters across your stomach, then as he pulls back, all over your thighs, ass, hole. His breath stutters as he milks himself through it, then smears the head through the mess. One of his fingers toys at your entrance, massages his cum in there.

You keen, teeth accidentally scraping Ghost’s shaft. Thankfully, he seems to enjoy that, a ragged groan thundering through his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls. “Get over here, mutt.”

Johnny, dazed and sated, stumbles off the couch and crawls between Ghost’s parted knees.

“Up, little one,” he instructs you.

You follow his guidance to the top half of his shaft, where it’s still easy to breathe and move your tongue.

“Well?” Ghost says to Johnny. “Pick up the slack.”

And soon you feel his breath caressing your face, his forehead bumping gently against your chin. It takes a bit of doing, but you manage to coordinate, licking and sucking and worshipping Ghost’s cock. Your lips meet in the middle, exchange messy kisses, Johnny moaning at the taste of Ghost’s precum on your tongue.

It’s messy and hot, humid with shared air and sweat and lust. You dip the tip of your tongue into Ghost’s slit where the piercing threads. He curses, hand tightening in your hair. As one, you and Johnny double your efforts, finding those most sensitive spots and working at them until Ghost pants, ragged, “Just like that.”

Your only warning is the noise Johnny makes in the back of his throat. Then Ghost’s dick jerks violently and salt explodes across your tongue. He pulls you off almost immediately, spurts across your nose and cheek, then yanks Johnny up to receive the same. The two of you lap up the remains, then, at Ghost’s urging, clean each other up.

In the aftermath, you drop your head heavily into Ghost’s lap. Beside you, Johnny slumps over, his arm looping tiredly around your back.

“Well done,” Ghost murmurs, a hand on each of your heads. “Better now?”

You exchange glassy, stupid glances with Johnny, twin dopey grins tugging at your mouths.

“Yes, Ghost,” you chorus.

First | Previous | Next

Your hip already aches through the first half of your morning exercises. The ghosts of splintered shrapnel prick beneath tender scar tissue until the rust of sleep flakes away. Lying on hard, cold ground sounds like a one-way ticket to agony. You’d much rather be one of those fluffy bastards curling up to hibernate. You tell Soap this on Monday when he initially proposes the idea.

Besides, you add, trying not to chug your coffee, Soap’s in no condition to be fucking about in half-frozen woods either. Not with his finicky nerve pain.

On Wednesday, when you meet up again, he takes a different route. It’s been too long since you two last dipped into a civilian-appropriate but military-adjacent activity. Paintball, knife-throwing, base-jumping…

Your bed is starting to feel too soft and too big again. The city is loud but not the right way. The tedium of self-imposed routines is starting to grate on nerves still tuned for combat. If you don’t get out before the trap of winter snaps closed, you might go mad. You can see it in Soap’s eyes too, a manic glint behind glass blue.

But still. Camping feels too much like what you’ve just left – the shrinks probably wouldn’t approve. Not that you’d ask them.

On Friday, Soap offers a compromise. His grandfather (“Seanair”) left him an old hunting cabin out in the countryside. Nothing luxurious, but it’s got a fireplace, cots, kitchenette, bathroom. It’ll be more like holing up in a safehouse than roughing it for a mission. More importantly, it’ll be gentler on your battle-worn bodies.

That next Monday, you meet him at the café with supplies packed and an honest anticipation for a week off the grid.

*

“Yoohoo! Any murderers about?” Soap calls. “Any armed psychos? An angry raccoon, perhaps?”

You scowl, caught behind him in the doorway. “I thought you checked it out already?”

“Aye, but ye ne’er ken,” he reasons, shrugging. He shuffles in as you nudge him. “We’ve the luck o’ the devil, you an’ I.”

You snort as you start kicking off your shoes. “True enough, I s’pose.”

“Course, I like our odds against any weirdo wi’ a knife, don’ you?”

You shrug. “Maybe. Not so sure about a raccoon though. Think we’d be fucked.”

“Och, tha’s right. I remember your lectures about rabies.”

“Good.”

You snicker at his grimace, likely feeling the phantom sting of vaccines.

The cabin is cute, honestly. There are only three rooms – the living room/kitchenette, the bedroom, and the bathroom. The bathroom is small enough that you could stretch your arms across the width of it and touch both walls, but it’s got a working shower so you’ve no complaints. The bedroom has a dresser and a nightstand, plenty for you and Soap.

While you set to work putting the groceries away, Soap putters about opening windows and making up the beds. The two of you don’t immediately have much to talk about, considering how often you see each other and the long drive out. It’s alright, though, you’ve long grown comfortable in stretches of silence together.

Once settled in, you suggest a walk to explore the area. Part of it is genuine interest in appreciating nature before the sun sets early. But there’s also a large, paranoid part of you (sounding like your old captain) that demands you get your bearings. Just in case.

There’s a loch about a mile from the cabin, a beautiful sheet of dark glass big enough for decent fishing. You’re able to see the row of holiday homes on the other side but wouldn’t be able to see any people on their docks out there. You and Soap follow a deer trail for a way, exchanging stories of your respective childhoods.

No surprise that John MacTavish was a wild child with a rebellious streak that got him in trouble more often than not. He gets you laughing bright and easy before long, and for once it doesn’t feel like playacting as a Normal Functioning Person.

When the sun starts to skim the evergreens, you return to the cabin. You start up a pot of cheesy mac while Soap gets the fire going, pyromaniac that he is. Once it’s burning nicely, he starts closing up the windows. Not too soon either – the temperature is starting to dip and twinging at your hip, unhappy from sitting in the car so long.

The two of you hum over empty carbs and excess dairy by the fire, a glass of scotch for each of you. When you’ve had your fill, he washes the dishes, you pour another round, and the two of you settle together on the old sofa.

“Almost been a year,” Soap says after a while.

You sigh through your nose, stare into the dwindling pool of amber in your hand. “Three more weeks.”

“You miss it too.”

Against your will, your eyes slide sideways, to the hand he’s clenching and unclenching on his thigh. There’s a wicked line of scar tissue beneath the sleeve of his shirt where the surgeons salvaged what they could. Mostly successful too, apart from the damaged radial nerve that ruined his career.

“So much, Soap, fuck.”

You didn’t mean to say that. You’re supposed to be the healthy one here, encouraging this necessary and healthful change to your lives.

As if reading your mind, Soap hums, bumps his elbow into your ribs. “No shame in it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t even know what I miss.”

“Feeling useful, I reckon. Feeling… necessary,” he muses, subdued.

It’s insightful but too accurate. Too selfish. You rub your thumb over the lip of your glass.

“I hate that I can’t keep an eye on Price and Gaz,” you say. “Feels like I’m always waiting to hear the worst, ya know?”

“Yeah,” he whispers roughly. “I ken.”

*

The two of you end up falling asleep on the couch. Soap, sitting up with his sketchbook, and you folded into the corner against the arm, book pages fluttering between lax fingers. At some point, the cramped position aches enough to wake you. Your eyes flutter open, low fire throwing long, deep shadows across the wooden wall.

Something is watching from the window.

You jolt up, hand reaching for the gun you no longer carry on your thigh. The movement jostles Soap awake as well. It involuntarily draws your eye, just a fraction of a second. But the haunting shadow is gone by the time you turn back.

That’s not enough for you. You roll to your feet, hiss as your knee threatens to give. But you manage to get your balance and snatch your combat knife from your boot as you storm towards the door.

“Kit? Kit! The fuck is going on?!” Soap calls.

“Saw something!” you reply.

There’s a flashlight hanging by a hook next to the door. You grab it as you burst out into the chilly air, tensed for a fight. A quick sweep of the front yard and immediate tree line reveals nothing. Steps soft and careful, you approach the side of the house, expertly gripping your knife.

“On your six,” Soap breathes behind you.

“Copy.”

You round the corner, eyes scanning the trees, the brush. There’s no movement, no suspiciously rustling branches. You tilt your head, listening for anything past the normal sounds of the night. But there isn’t even an unusual silence in the dark world around you.

“Just a dream, then,” you sigh.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Unusual, though. Your nightmare-induced hallucinations usually conjure guns in your face or teammates bleeding out on the floor. Not strange figures at the windows. Still, you can hear the explanation of your shrink trying to soothe you. Middle of the night after drinking, in a new and atmospheric environment. Plus, there’s been all that fuss on the news about a serial killer; nowhere near you and Soap, mind, but still. Subconscious or some shite.

“Let’s do a sweep anyway,” Soap says.

Your chest warms. “Alright.”

Naturally, there’s nothing. Soap only gives you a one-armed hug as you return to the cabin. One final check of the interior – since you did leave the door open when you rushed out – and then the two of you turn in for bed.

*

The next day starts lazy and slow. A strange reprieve from your body’s military-trained urge to wake early. It’s nice, though, to snuggle beneath the covers with Soap’s soft snores only a few meters away. You play pre-downloaded games on your phone while you wait for him to wake, enjoying the lie in.

Breakfast is enjoyed on the little porch out front; you bundled up in a woolen throw while you sip coffee. It’s shaping up to be an unusually sunny day, and you agree to a longer hike around the loch before lunch. When you return, you settle on the porch again to read while Soap chops wood.

Which, well.

You don’t mind a bit of entertainment between pages… or paragraphs… or…

Soap hasn’t neglected his physique at all since the discharge. All corded muscles, broad shoulders, and tapered waist. Watching the bunch and release of his arms has always been a guilty pleasure of yours, and so blessedly indulged during training sessions in the 141.

You try not to sigh and drool over it (him) like a repressed Victorian.

“Ach, fer fucks…”

You snap to attention, book set aside. “Is your arm acting up?”

He’s set the hatchet down, grabbing at his elbow with a pinched expression.

“Aye,” he grumbles.

You trot to his side, pleased that he still instantly submits to your care. He lets you manipulate his arm, prod along the nerve pathways and bunched muscles that are spasming in pain. His groan has no business being that low or rough or close to your ear. But you ignore it like you always have, focus on getting him right. Barely even register when he sets his jaw on top of your head.

A few minutes pass in silence while you try to massage away the worst of the flare up. When he finally sighs, slumping into you a little, you gently squeeze his forearm.

“Bampot,” you huff.

“Aye, I ken,” he mumbles.  “’S why I have you.”

You click your tongue. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive. Next time let me help.”

“Not on yer life.”

You pinch his side, grinning wickedly when he yelps and jerks away. Little shit. Your favorite little shit, damn him.

He allows you to help carry the firewood to the rack next to the tiny shed. It’s round back of the cabin, covered by an old blue tarp. Soap is in the lead and sees it first.

“Oh, well isn’t that pure dead brilliant,” he huffs.

“Hm?”

You peak around him and blink at the rust-colored splatters decorating the side of the shed. There’s a dark patch in the scraggly grass as well and drag marks into the trees. Clearly, some prey fell victim to the circle of life here. Recently, too, from the color of the blood.

“What do you think it was?” you ask. “There aren’t wolves here.”

“Nah, but coulda been a fox.”

You scrunch up your nose. “This close to us? Usually foxes steer clear of humans.”

“Feral dog, then, maybe.”

Maybe.

It’s a lot of blood for anything a dog or fox would risk taking down, though. Even a feral one.

“C’mon, let’s get inside. Need a coupla pills ‘fore mah arm starts taking the piss again.”

You help him stack the firewood and then follow him back to the cabin. And if you linger on the blood, your random dream, and the lingering sensation of eyes on you… well, nothing new for you.

*

It pours all of the next day. Soap says it’s good timing, that he won’t have to wash the shed himself. Both of your injuries are acting up, though, and you spend the day trying to find different positions to appease the ache in your hip. At one point, he has to help you to the shower, your leg feeling too weak to support your weight. It’s frustrating, but you’ve had nearly a year to learn to cope.

Soap lifts your spirits, though, like always. Convinces you to play Scrabble and keeps insisting that he’s just using Scottish words. It ends the way it usually does – you and him wrestling like children, trying to trap the other to determine the winner. You only just manage to get a hold of him, though he puts up a good fight. He eventually admits that “daylich” isn’t actually a word and he didn’t deserve the triple word score.

Then he breaks out a pack of biscuits as a peace offering and all is forgiven. The two of you nibble on those while watching a movie on your laptop and then shuffle off to bed.

Long after Soap has fallen asleep, you’re awake. The memory of his body against yours always leaves you feeling branded. Like the heat of him burns right through your clothes. It’s been… probably too long since you last got off. Way too long since someone else got you off. And yeah, you had a couple of shameful secret wanks around teammates back in the day, but things are different now. You’re not high on adrenaline in the military anymore. No excuse for shoving a hand down your pants.

Still, your thoughts spiral as you finally start to doze. Rough hands on your hips, your thighs, your throat. Gentle but teasing at the true strength they possess. A hot tongue along your cheek, treating you like something to savor… or to devour. A shadow looming over you, dwarfing you. Phantom sensations that you crave as much as you shy away, wanting it but knowing you shouldn’t.

The throbbing between your thighs rouses you. Sleep-addled, you give in. You’d be embarrassed of how wet you are if anyone else were to know. And of the soft, needy noise you make when your brush your fingertips between your thighs. But Soap is still snoring steadily, and the pounding of the ongoing rain makes you brave.

You stroke slowly and gently over the bundle of nerves at first, mimicking those dreamt touches. It’s almost as maddening even when it’s your own hand. Sleep is half-dragging at you, though, and you speed up, drawing tight little circles at the top, teasing lower to stoke the heat burning in your gut. Your breathing picks up, little breaths past an open mouth.

It’s really not going to take much. Not with how long it’s been, how much you want it, vague thoughts of your darkest fantasies flickering through your hazy mind. You tilt your hips down, get the pressure of your heel against your empty, aching hole. You rock a couple times, high-pitched noises caught at the top of your throat.

You come imagining a big hand around your neck choking off those sounds. Have to slap your free hand over your mouth as you shake and writhe through it. Drag your nails up your bare thigh just to balance out the unbearable pleasure. And then you go limp against the pillows, panting and shuddering through aftershocks.

When you extract your hand from beneath the blankets, you blink at the wetness coating your fingertips for a moment. If someone asked, the excuse you’d give is not touching anything with your wet hand. But truthfully, you’re just indulging in impulsive hedonism as you suck your own fingers.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the shadows.

Then you climb out of bed for a proper cleanup, ready to finally fall asleep and definitely not think about how much quicker you came knowing that Soap was right there the entire time.

*

It’s raining on and off the next day. You and Soap take a little walk during one of the dry patches, though it’s cut short with how sore your hip still is. Soap collects more firewood from the shed, keeps the flames well fed while you putter about. Nap for an hour, start rereading one of your favorite books, watch a scary movie with him, make American flapjacks just for the sake of it.

Even though you should be feeling stir crazy, Soap has always made for good company. The day passes pleasantly into an early night, the sun standing little chance against the thick cloud cover.

You and Soap are settling in with scotch when frantic knocking interrupts the peaceful quiet.

“Help!” a ragged voice screams. “Someone please help me!”

You hardly exchange glances before the two of you are up. Soap goes for the door, gun in hand. You scramble for the ever-present medical kit that earned your call-sign, left out on the counter.

Soap yanks the door open; a man tumbles in. Middle aged, lanky build, bleeding from a long cut on his forehead. His ankle is twisted at a damning angle. You scan him for obvious weapons, but his t-shirt and muddy boxers reveal nothing but bruising and scraped skin. His hands are empty as they scrabble at the floor, trying to drag himself inside. Soap slams the door closed and locks it.

“Please!” the man cries again. “You have to help me!”

You drop to your knees beside him, already popping your kit open.

“We’re going to help you, sir,” you say evenly, “but you need to calm down.”

“You don’t understand,” the man gasps as you help him sit up. “H-He… he’s out there.”

“Who?” Soap asks, grip shifting on the gun.

“S-some psycho,” the man answers. You work easily past his shaking, getting a look at his swelling ankle. Definitely broken… with force. “In a mask.”

You blink, shoot Soap a look. Have the two of you fallen into some weird horror movie by accident?

“What did he do?” Soap asks.

“H-he attacked us with a big bloody knife.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” you ask. “Who else was with you?”

“The lads – my friends – my brother. Oh, god…” He pales further. You brace him, eyeing the packaged shock blanket peeking from your kit. “Danny is dead. There was so much blood.”

“How many?” Soap asks, voice hard. “How many of you are still alive?”

“I-I don’t know. I barely got-got away. Oh, god—”

He dissolves into tears and whimpers. You rip open the blanket and drape it around the man, then scoot down to his ruined ankle. Over his head, you frown at Soap. Something is missing here. This man was with at least three other people, but one man attacked them? There’s something to be said for shock and surprise and fear, but still…

“Soap?”

“Gonnae see if I can find survivors,” he says. “I’ll send ‘em your way if I find any. You stay here, take care of this ‘un.”

“That’s stupid,” you argue. “You can’t go by yourself!”

“No different than recon, aye? Not gonnae engage, but we cannae leave anyone bleedin’ out there.”

Your mouth twists. No, no you can’t leave civilians potentially wounded with a killer out for blood. Discharged or not (war criminals or not… and you both are, technically) you’re both too dutybound for that.

“RV here in ten and I’ll have the car ready for exfil.”

“Affirmative.”

He crosses to you, knocks your foreheads together – a pre-mission gesture you never thought you’d receive again. You close your eyes for a second, squeeze the back of his neck. Then send him off with a firm nod.

You lock the door after him, then return to the man.

“Are you two military or something?” he asks.

“We were,” you answer, “medical discharge.”

“Oh brilliant! You’re telling me that my only hope is a couple cripples?!”

You level him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m a medic with more kills than you’ve got chest hairs, understand? Shut up and brace. I need to wrap your ankle.”

He whimpers and whines and curses while you set and compress it. Nothing you haven’t heard before, vehement as it may be. Ungrateful, though, you think vaguely. Save a guy’s life and he’s calling you all sorts of derogatory names while you try to salvage his ability to walk.

“You done?” you ask, interrupting his latest stream of expletives. “I need to hear if someone is coming.”

That only shuts him up for a moment before he’s piping up again. “Do you have a weapon?”

You tug your pant leg up to show the knife strapped to your calf.

“Do you even know how to use that?!”

“Look, I know this is a lot for you, so maybe you should stop talking for a while.”

His face twists, brain turning to anger as he tries to cope with his own fear and new trauma. You don’t pay him any heed, wiping off his head and closing the still-weeping cut with butterflies. All you can hear over his wheezing is the rain outside. No footsteps or screams or, most importantly, gunshots.

With the worst two of the man’s wounds seen to, you take stock. You’re not dressed for any sort of confrontation in lounge pants and socks.

“Here. Start treating your legs and arms,” you say, pressing gauze and wound wash into the man’s hands.

“Where are you going?!” he protests.

“Need to prep to leave,” you explain. “Shout if you hear anything.”

He doesn’t look thrilled, but you’re already up and hurrying to the bedroom. You climb into a thick pair of cargos – relieved that your fashion sense hasn’t improved since the army – and a thermal shirt. Your pistol is waiting in the side pocket of your duffel, loaded and holstered. The weight of it is comforting against your thigh; you’ve missed it.

You grab the bags and carry them back to the door, check your watch. It’s only been four minutes. If Soap isn’t back in another six, you’re going out to get him yourself, injured civilian be damned. Everything you’ve gone through together; you’re not going to lose your best friend to some overdramatic wanker with a knife.

“What are you doing now?!” the man asks.

You give him another once over. He’s done a decent job prioritizing the worst scrapes and cuts, they look clean enough. Most importantly, he seems less faint than when you left. Giving him something to focus on must have helped.

“Checking the car. We’re leaving as soon as Soap gets back,” you answer.

“A-at least give me something to protect myself with!”

You try not to sigh in annoyance. What good would he even be, unable to walk and shaky on adrenaline? Still, you take pity and tug the knife from your boot, offer it to him handle first.

“Not the gun?” he complains.

“No.”

You jog out to the car, gun in one hand and duffels in the other. It’s raining again, getting harder by the moment. There’s a steady, sharp pain radiating throughout your leg, threatening to knock it out from under you. You grit your teeth as you toss the bags in the backseat and move to the ignition.

And the car doesn’t start.

“Shit.”

You don’t waste time trying it again. It should be in perfect condition; it must have been tampered with.

When you approach the house again, you hear shouting from inside. You pick up the pace, nearly skid across the wooden floor when you get there. The man is huddling up by the couch, white knuckling the knife.

“I-I heard something!”

“Where?” you demand, scanning the immediate area. Thank fuck that Soap’s seanair believed in minimalism.

“In the back.”

You frown. “The only way in is through windows back there, and those are locked.”

Right?

“I know what I heard!”

“Stay here, then.”

You click the safety off and pad the short hallway to the bedroom. Don’t bother announcing yourself, or any idiotic “who’s there”. You kick the unlatched door open and sweep through the room just like you would for a raid. The tiny lamp on the nightstand is still on, illuminating the sparse space.

You check under the first bed, then sidestep and tilt your head to check the other. Nothing.

“There isn’t—”

The window is open. The window is fucking open. How?!

You spin on your heel, just in time to see a hauntingly familiar mask bent over the gurgling body of the man. There’s no hesitation as you raise the gun and fire twice, but the killer has already rolled out of the way. Well fuck that.

You rush from the bedroom, fire another two into the couch as you round the corner. He’s a fast fucker, waiting by the wall adjacent to the hall as you exit. And he’s fucking big. Slams into your side – your bad side – like a tank. It fucks your balance, and you go down with a snarled curse, winded as all his weight lands on your much smaller frame.

On training and instinct, you slam your elbow back. There’s a crunch, a grunt of pain. But damn him, he doesn’t let up. A big hand finds yours on the gun. You yelp as he squeezes hard enough to feel the bones bend. The gun fires – bang, bang, bang. His head is right by yours, the hard edge of his mask pressing into your temple, panting in your ear.

You lash out with your other arm, though your aim is off. Instead of hitting his throat, you get his jaw instead. You plant your boot on the floor and push, trying to get out from under him. Instead, he rolls with your back against his chest. The gun clatters as he snakes a thick arm around your throat. You grab at his forearm, but you know you have no hope of matching him in strength.

You scrabble for the knife in your boot, but it’s gone.

Fuck, you gave it to—

The cabin ceiling is getting spotty.

Your fingers brush the killer’s leg, find a familiar shape tucked at the side of his boot. You snatch up the knife and drive it into his calf. He growls, but the arm on your throat blessedly disappears. You suck air, blinking past dark edges. Twist onto your front and blindly fumble for your gun.

Manage two shots right to his chest. He falls limp. You wait a beat, two. He doesn’t move again.

You click the safety on and holster the gun. And then, out of morbid curiosity, crawl closer to the body.

“Holy hell,” you breathe as you get a good look at the mask.

He’s wearing a skull over a black balaclava. Not just a prop either you realize when you tap at it. It’s real. Human. Thin cracks spiderweb along the front orbital bone, the corner of the eye socket – from where you elbowed him, you think. Beyond them, his eyes are closed and still, the skin painted black.

“Big scary fucker,” you murmur. And if you’re a bit admiring… well, it between you and a dead body. A couple dead bodies. Can’t forget about the other guy. “That was almost fun.”

“Kit!”

You jolt, barely able to hear Soap’s voice over the pounding rain, but relieved to hear it. A hiss escapes between your teeth as you get to your feet, hip protesting. You have to grab at the couch to catch your balance. Then brace yourself and walk carefully towards the door.

Your fingers are just centimeters from the doorknob when an arm wraps around your neck again. You flail, try to kick off the door, but it hardly even makes him stumble. Then there’s a sharp pinch in your arm, sibilant shushing by your ear, and the world goes dark.

*

The world comes to you in bits and pieces.

Something soft under you. A slight ache in your hip. Fabric around your bare legs. Voices? You think you recognize the rumble of Soap’s brogue, but not whoever he’s speaking to.

Soft golden light creeps past your fluttering eyelashes. Soap is sitting across the room on… a big floor cushion? You blink a couple times, adjusting your slightly blurred vision. But yep, that’s him, sitting on a gigantic pillow. And… is that his throat mic?

“Mm… John?” you call, rubbing at your eyes.

“Aye, Kit. Nice ‘n slow now. We’re alright.”

You hum and push yourself up, limbs heavy. Once you’re sitting, Soap speaks again. Gentle and calm.

“You remember what happened?”

You pause, frown. It comes to you in a slow trickle. The trip, the forest, the cabin… and then it floods back. The injured man at the door, the killer, the struggle. The ambush as you were going to meet Soap at the door.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“Aye.”

You give him another once over. That’s not a throat mic; it’s a collar. A thick black leather thing, complete with a silver chain that trails off somewhere behind him. You stare for a second, bewildered.

“Don’t be jealous. You match.”

Your head whips around to the hulking figure in a doorway to your right. He’s just as imposing as you remember, tall and fucking built, dressed in all black and mask still on. The soft lighting casts spooky shadows across the eye sockets.

The words process a moment later and your hand darts up to your neck. Sure enough, there’s a wide leather band around your neck. You’ll give it this, though – you didn’t even notice it until he said something. Not too tight, comfortable even. Clearly made with long-term wear against skin in mind. There’s a chain attached to yours too and you follow it to an anchor in the wall.

“If it’s any consolation, ye look right bonnie,” Soap calls.

You snort. “’Course I do.”

The killer shrugs off the wall. You watch as he saunters closer in long, heavy strides. No point in scrambling away or trying to run – you’d have a limited radius of escape if he didn’t grab you first. Besides, you’re not about to cower to some spooky bastard with a couple dirty tricks up his sleeve.

He crouches down well within your reach, clearly not concerned about you lashing out. You tilt your head in defiance, meeting his eyes for a moment before he flicks his gaze down. He reaches out, gloved fingers catching your chin. Not hard, but firm enough that there’s no arguing when he tilts your chin up.

Fabric brushes the sensitive skin of your neck, above and below the collar.

“Pretty kitty,” he purrs. “Glad I didn’t bruise this lovely neck.”

Two fingers press against one side a little harder, edging beneath the leather. You recognize the gesture as you swallow. He’s checking your pulse. You’re proud that it’s still steady and unhurried.

“Not scared?” He doesn’t say it like it’s a question.

You arch your eyebrows. “Should I be?”

His eyes flicker. “Not if you behave.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, resisting a sneer. Past his shoulder, Soap is watching with a smirk. Unharmed, you note again. He’s fine. You’re fine, despite slight soreness from the brief struggle. If there was something to be concerned about (apart from the obvious) he would have let you know right off the bat. So, you take a calculated risk.

“Yeah? And what do you consider behaving?” you ask.

The corners of the killer’s eyes crinkle. You knew enough masked men back in the military to recognize a hidden smile. He’s amused by your snarky question. Another good sign.

“Good pets obey their masters.”

You blink, breath leaving you in a soft rush. It… makes sense. Just not the answer you expected. Stupid, maybe, given the collars, leashes, and dog beds. You’ll have to blame the lingering drugs.

“There are so many shelters, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you blurt, bewildered.

The man snorts, hooks a finger under your collar and gives an almost playful tug. An entirely instinctive part of you catches its breath. You’re glad he’s not measuring your pulse anymore.

“Those can’t talk back,” he answers simply, shrugging.

Soap barks a laugh. “Well, you’ll get what you asked for with us then.”

You grin crookedly, showing all your teeth. “And then some,” you agree, reaching up to tug the hand from your collar.

He jerks harder this time, unbalancing you towards him. You catch yourself on both hands, feel a blaze of heat across your nose and glare up at him through your lashes.

“No touching, kitten,” he says. “You’ll have to earn that.”

You try not to roll your eyes, not quite willing to push your luck too far yet. But it’s a near thing.

“Sure, let me get right on that,” you scoff dryly anyway.

He clicks his tongue, but no further retribution comes save for one last warning tug. Then he’s standing, towering over you again.

“I need a shower. You two settle in.”

And he just walks off. Like he didn’t just take two former SAS operatives as human pets. You wait until you hear distant water before turning to Soap.

“What happened?”

“Ambushed me,” he grumbles, sitting back against the wall. “Snuck up as I was trying to get you untied. Bastard is trained.”

Soap’s pouting, even though there’s an entire police case of victims who weren’t as lucky as him.

“Trained like us, you mean?”

“Aye.” Soap pauses, looking at the floor pensively, brows furrowing. “Means he had every reason and way to hurt us.”

You nod. “He had me in a hold and his knife hand free. Could have done anything with it. Let me stab him instead.”

Soap hums. “And, well, there’s a basement. Could have brought us there too, I reckon.”

He glances at the doorway the killer was lingering in when you woke. You get what he’s saying – or not saying, as it were. The two of you are hale and whole only because the killer decided to make it so. Because, as all evidence seems to suggest, he wants pets.

“You figure he means it? About… us?” you wonder.

Soap shrugs. “He’s no reason ta lie.”

That’s what you’re worried about.

“News says he’s a sadist,” you point out. “His idea of a pet might be...”

“Aye, but then why do all this?” He gestures to the big soft beds, which you know must have been a bit expensive for their size and comfortability, and the well-made leather collars. You’ve even got a blanket at your feet for the cool air. “Nae, I think even sadists miss a bit ‘o companionship now n’ then.”

You hum. Makes sense, in the part of you that’s seen the worst humanity has to offer and risen up to greet it. You’ve seen plenty of shit, plenty of people, and the things they’re capable of. But even “monsters” go home to family, to hobbies, to entirely wholesome things that they enjoy just because.

That’s the hard part about war. Seeing the most depraved and evil examples of humanity and reconciling that they have qualities one can recognize in themselves.

“The plan, then?”

“Say we go along with it for now,” Soap says, shrugging. “Not like we could get free as we are anyway.”

You hum in agreement. The chain is clipped to the wall anchor by a thick padlock, and feeling at the collar earlier, you know it’s the same on the other side. The collar itself is too high-quality to come apart without something sharp. So you’re stuck. Even if you did will a lockpick into existence, you’ve no intel on the rest of the house or even where you’d go from the house.

“But listen, Kit, I’m no’ gonnae let anything happen to you. If this gets violent, I’ll tear the walls apart with my hands if I hafta.”

You smile, wish suddenly and fiercely that you could hug him. He looks like he could use it; god knows you could.

“I know, John,” you soothe. “I will too.”

He nods, jaw twitching, then sighs and sits back again. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, digesting the plan. You take an actual look at the room you’re in – a den, it seems like. A fireplace in one corner, a decent sized couch to your left. Beyond it, you can see a clean and modern kitchen. There’s a coffee table, end tables, lamps, a goddamn rug. It’s downright cozy; like something out of a magazine.

“Nice voice, though, aye?” Soap chirps suddenly, snapping your gaze back to him.

“Soap.”

“Och, don’t ‘Soap’ me,” he grumbles. “You look me in the eye and tell me tha’s no’ a voice made fer sex.”

And damn him, you can’t.

“Can’t say I was thinking about his voice when he was waving a big knife at me.”

“He can wave his big knife at—”

“I’m gonna kill you myself—” You snarl, balling up your blanket and chucking at his stupid, wiggling eyebrows.

“Oi, you two,” aforementioned sexy voice chastises from the hallway.

You wrinkle your nose as Soap grins at you, a shadow in the corner of your vision as the killer comes into the room again. He brings a cloud of clean water and bergamot. He smells good.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you hiss, dismayed.

“Problem?” the killer asks.

He’s got the mask on again (or still? You hope he doesn’t shower with it on, that’s unsanitary) but you can hear him arching an eyebrow. Stubbornly, you turn away to glare at Soap some more. It’s obvious he realizes what you’re referring to from the way he smothers a snicker, though.

Shithead.

You don’t get away with it for long before a hand is pulling your jaw up. Rough only because you resist for the briefest fraction. Once he’s got your face where he wants it, though, your captor’s grip isn’t painfully tight.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer, kitten. Understood?”

Your hand twitches to grab at the hold but remember what he said about touching without permission. Stubborn as you may be, you’re not actively trying to incite violence against you or Soap. The plan is to go along with… whatever this is. So you swallow a bit of your pride.

“Understood.”

He hums like that’s not quite the answer he wanted, but it’s acceptable for now.

“Now, is there a problem?” he asks again.

“Apart from the kidnapping?” you snip. “Everything is right as rain.”

He snorts, smooths his thumb over your chin, slow and dangerous. You go still, refuse to falter but careful not to provoke further.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” he muses almost to himself.

“Must have expected it,” you reason honestly, “know you watched us for a few days.”

He tilts his head, eyes eerily unblinking within the unholy shadows of the skull. “Longer’n that, pretty thing.”

You open your mouth but don’t know what to say. Longer than the days at the cabin? How long? And how did you and Soap not notice?

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by fabric gliding over your bottom lip. His thumb threatening to slip past. You snap your jaw closed, nearly catch the tip of his finger in your teeth. He chuckles and finally releases you, making for the nearby couch.

He settles in with sigh and flicks on the TV. There on the screen is a flashing headline:

Another Ghost Victim Found.

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