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burnthatbridge · 6 months

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if you love him let him go (if you love him let him know)

pre-buddie, bucktommy | T | 3k | angst, pining tommy needs to tell eddie something not on ao3 atm because i can't figure out if this is done or if i'm continuing it - please let me know your thoughts! now on ao3 because i hate not having all my fic in one place

“Can I get you another beer, man?”

Eddie checks his watch. It’s only a little after nine thirty. He’s kind of hoping to get home before Chris goes to sleep, but he’ll not be heading to bed any time soon, will likely stay up later than Eddie. Friday night means he disregards his supposed bedtime — not that he sticks to it that well on school nights, now he’s sixteen. “Sure, thanks.”

Tommy nods, disappears into the kitchen, returns a moment later with a can of IPA in one hand, a bottle of lager in the other. They’ve already finished the six-pack Eddie brought over, but trust Buck — well, Buck and Tommy — to have Eddie’s favorite beer in their fridge. Tommy hands over the can, already cracked open, and Eddie takes a sip as Tommy settles down at the opposite end of the couch. He doesn’t turn to face the TV, sits twisted towards Eddie instead, but he does pick up the remote and turn down the volume, the post-fight commentary rendered nearly unintelligible.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Eddie twists towards Tommy himself, something not-quite-anxious-but-almost flaring in his chest. Over the years they have been friends, he and Tommy have spoken about lots of things, including those not so easy to discuss: their respective experiences in the army, Tommy’s tough childhood, Eddie’s difficult parents, the hard aspects of the job. But they’ve all been topics that have come up naturally, raised organically. Tommy has never led into anything with such a pointed opener before.

Eddie studies him. He has one knee pulled up on the couch cushion, foot poking out off the end, the other foot planted on the floor, nearly parallel to the base of the couch. One arm is up on the backrest, the other relaxed, beer bottle in that hand, resting on his thigh, dripping condensation painting a charcoal ring on his — probably Buck’s, in fact, given how tight the fabric is stretched over the muscle of his leg — grey sweats. He’s not tense, but he’s not smiling, and there’s something about his expression that Eddie can’t place. It’s not that he hasn’t seen this look before, because he’s pretty sure he has, witnessed it in flickers across numerous occasions over the years, there and then gone, present for but a heartbeat. But he’d never known what it meant any of those times and he certainly doesn’t now.

“'Course,” Eddie says, when Tommy doesn’t go on, seems to be waiting for some kind of sign. Then adds, feeling like it’s necessary given the gravity he can feel pulling this lightsome evening down to something more serious. “Anything.”

Tommy sighs, bites his lip like he doesn’t want to speak, even though he’s the one who said he wanted to talk, then shakes his head and takes a pull of his beer.

“Is everything okay?” Eddie’s starting to feel worried now. He mentally scans back over the past few weeks, trying to remember if Tommy has mentioned anything about work that could be a problem. He saw him at basketball last week, and nothing had seemed off. Plus, Buck hasn’t said anything. Not that he’d necessarily tell Eddie about an issue Tommy was having, not if Tommy wanted it kept private, but Eddie can usually tell when Buck’s concerned about someone, and he hasn’t picked up on anything, not at all.

But maybe this isn’t about a problem Tommy is having. Maybe this is a Buck problem, something Buck has kept from Eddie. It would make sense why Tommy would bring it up with him; sometimes a concerted, multi-person effort is the only way to get through to Buck. And Tommy’s more likely to bring in Eddie first, and then expand the team to include Maddie, Chim, more, as needed.

“Is Buck okay?” Eddie asks, something like panic constricting his throat, making the words come out a little strangled.

Tommy actually laughs at that, a small, choked thing, an exhale of sound and air. He shakes his head again, but not a no. More like an extension of the laugh, a motion to accompany it, to better convey the disbelief — not humor — contained in it. “He’s fine.”

It’s a relief to hear. Buck had seemed physically okay, when Eddie had seen him briefly before he left the house, since he’d maybe purposefully waited to order his Uber until Buck pulled up in his jeep outside, despite Christopher’s insistence he didn’t need to wait for Buck to arrive, despite the fact that his kid is more than old enough to be left in the house alone for the twenty minutes it would have taken Buck to drive over, while Eddie was ferried the opposite way. But there could still have been something, Buck could have been fighting through pain, much better at hiding any hurt of his body than he is at masking his emotional distress.

“But,” Tommy says, and that one word is enough to have Eddie’s muscles tightening once more, “It is Evan I wanted to talk about.”

Again, Tommy doesn’t follow it up with anything. Eddie has found, in their time as friends, that Tommy is not often a man lost for words. Quite the opposite, in fact. He usually says what he means, means what he says, and is an expert at listening and delivering sage advice. This reticence– it doesn’t feel like it bodes well, has the hair on the back of Eddie’s neck prickling.

“Alright,” Eddie says, a feeble prompt. “So, Buck?”

Tommy nods, like he’s gearing himself up for something, to face a challenge, to take a punch. Eddie is expecting something bad, so the words he says catch him even more off guard than they would have. “I want to ask Evan to marry me.”

Maybe if Tommy had seemed eager, excited, when he turned to him, Eddie could have anticipated the blow, could have felt a creeping suspicion this is where Tommy was headed, could have been provided with enough of a heads-up to brace himself. As it is, he doesn’t see the hit coming, takes it full force to the chest, so hard it steals his breath, knocks the wind from him. His mouth goes slack, and he feels his fingers slide against the slippery sides of his beer can, almost spills it over Tommy and Buck’s lounge carpet before he gets a hold on it, on himself. He forces himself to smile. “That’s– that’s great,” he makes himself say, only faintly aware that Tommy isn’t smiling back, like this moment should call for. “Did you–” he swallows around the bile climbing his esophagus, “Do you want help planning the proposal?” He wishes he could take the words back the second they’re out. Because this — just hearing that Tommy wants to ask Buck — is torture enough. To be involved with it, to help enable it, Eddie will be lucky if it doesn’t kill him. Maybe not his body, but certainly his soul.

“No.” Tommy shakes his head. “No, I want to ask him to marry me. But I’m not going to. At least, not now.”

Eddie squints at him. The news that Tommy wants to marry Buck might hurt Eddie, but it’s not exactly surprising. Eddie’s seen how much Tommy cares for him in the years they’ve been together, has seen the way he looks at him, the way they look at each other. Has felt the way it burns him, the scorching heat of flame, the searing cold of ice. He doesn’t understand what Tommy is saying, doesn’t understand why this proclamation seems not to be a happy one. “Why not?” Eddie asks, almost grateful for the opportunity to present confusion, curiosity, rather than forced pleasure at the thought of one of his closest friends and his– best friend marrying each other. “You guys are serious. I mean, you live together.”

Tommy huffs another laugh, still more disbelief than humor, really the opposite of humor. “His lease was up.”

“Right. But he chose not to renew it. He chose to move in with you,” Eddie says, slow, struggling to understand, the pounding of his pulse not helping him think clearly, see through the puzzle that is everything Tommy has said so far and the way he has said it.

“He was never going to renew it,” Tommy tells him.

And that’s– that’s something Eddie didn’t know. He hates it when he learns information about Buck from Tommy, always has, even though he fights with everything in him not to feel like that. Tommy is Buck’s boyfriend, of course he’s going to know things about him that Eddie doesn’t, know him in a way that Eddie doesn’t.

“We hadn’t spoken about living together,” Tommy says, eyes on Eddie. “But he’d said he thought the loft was too expensive and he was spending nearly every night at mine by that point. When he wasn’t on shift. Or at yours.” Eddie pulls his eyes away, takes a sip from his beer for something to do, even though the bitter taste is turning his stomach. “He said he wasn’t going to renew it, that he’d look for somewhere new, cheaper. But this was too close to the end of his lease to find a place before he had to move out. I asked where he was going to stay in the meantime.”

“And he said with you,” Eddie guesses, more a statement than a question.

But Tommy shakes his head. A smile curls his lips but his eyes– his eyes don’t match. “He said he’d crash on your couch, actually.”

Eddie takes another mouthful of beer, holds it there, on the back of his tongue. He didn’t know any of this. Buck would, of course, have been more than welcome. Likely why he hadn’t asked in advance, why he planned for it without seeking permission.

“I said he could stay with me, instead. That he’d be able to sleep in a bed here.” Eddie swallows, the beer somehow thick and cloying in a way that it shouldn’t be. “And then when he started making noises about looking for a new place, I told him he should stay.”

While it’s not how Eddie had, unwillingly, pictured it in his head — Tommy and Buck mutually agreeing that Buck shouldn’t renew his lease, deciding they wanted to live together — it still doesn’t explain what Tommy has said. “And he did stay,” Eddie says. “So, why aren’t– Does Buck not want to get married?” But that can’t be it, that can’t be right. Eddie is certain Buck does want to be married, only he’d tried hard not to think of Buck wanting that with Tommy, with anyone. Anyone else.

“No, he does,” Tommy confirms it. He leans over and deposits his beer on the coffee table. Then sits back, still turned to Eddie, but arms crossed over his chest, like a protection of himself. “We’ve spoken about it, discussed it. And he’s told me he’s always wanted that, to get married, to be part of a family.” Tommy pops one hand out of the fold of his arms to hold it up, out, quelling, like Eddie has protested. He hasn’t, but his heart is doing something approximating a riot at the idea of Tommy being Buck’s family. “And I know he has a family. He knows he does. In you and Chris, in Maddie and Jee, in the 118. But–” Tommy breaks off, tips his head to the side, gaze boring into Eddie’s face so strong that Eddie wishes he could turn away, duck and run. “You know how much he’s always wanted to belong somewhere.”

He does, Eddie thinks, the thought almost violent in its intensity. He belongs with me. Except, he doesn’t. Not really, not how Eddie wants, not the way he does with Tommy.

“And I want that for him,” Tommy goes on, tucking his hand back in, squeezing his arms tighter about himself. Eddie’s never seen him like this, hunched in on himself, curled small. Tommy is usually so open, larger than life. “I want to be the one to give that to him.”

Eddie wants to be the one to give that to him. Desires it desperately, a secret need he’s tucked as far inside himself as he can. He can feel it now, raging to be let out, to be set free. But he can’t, he won’t. Buck is with Tommy, he’s happy with Tommy. Tommy who is so warm and kind and good, Tommy who is better than Eddie in every conceivable way, who brings so much to Buck’s life, who gives all of himself to Buck. Who wants to give him even more. Wants to, but apparently won’t.

Eddie doesn’t understand. “Then, if you want to, why won’t you ask him?” he questions, trying to.

“If I ask him now, he’ll say no.” Tommy states it like indisputable fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that Buck would refuse him.

Eddie shakes his head, understanding even less. “But he loves you.”

Tommy smiles again, then, larger than he had before, but as devoid of happiness, as empty of cheer. This smile hurts to see, reflects the way Eddie felt inside when Tommy had said I want to ask Evan to marry me. “I know he does.” Tommy’s tone is sure, but wistful. “But he loves you more.”

It’s like– It’s like nothing Eddie has ever felt. Or maybe it’s like everything he’s ever felt. The shock of a residual lightning bolt, the joy of being a part of the 118, the pain of a bullet ripping through his shoulder, the awe of holding his son for the first time. Eddie wants Tommy’s words to be true maybe more than he’s ever wanted anything. But he also cannot believe them, has no trust that they are true. Because they can’t be. Buck loves Tommy. Not Eddie.

“We’re friends. Best friends,” Eddie points out. “Of course, he– he loves me. But not more. Not like he loves you. He’s in love with you.”

Tommy sighs, arms uncrossing, palms coming to rest on his thighs, body taking on a posture Eddie is familiar with, the one he falls into when he’s talking someone through something, the one he adopted when Eddie came out to him some six months ago. “Eddie, he’s in love with you.”

Eddie shakes his head. It’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear, but coming from the wrong lips. Spoken by not by Buck himself but by Buck’s boyfriend, oh god. “He isn’t. Tommy, he can’t be.”

But Tommy is nodding, nodding like what he’s said is true, like he wants Eddie to believe it.

“He’s not,” Eddie says, hears the denial, the disbelief spill from him. Buck doesn’t love him. He doesn’t. But Eddie– Eddie loves– “I’m sorry,” Eddie says, almost a gasp. “Tommy, I’m sorry, I–”

“It’s not your fault,” Tommy cuts him off. “I knew what I was getting into. When I started seeing Evan, I knew there were going to be three people in this relationship. I just–” Tommy sighs again, scrubs his palms along his thighs. “I didn’t expect it to get this far. I thought we’d just be a fun, easy thing. Something to ease Evan into his sexuality, that new part of himself. I didn’t expect it to go like this. I didn’t expect to feel like this.” Tommy closes his eyes, lashes falling to his cheeks. He breaths in and out, while Eddie’s own breath is caught in his chest. When Tommy opens his eyes, he says, “But I don’t have to tell you how easy it is to love him.”

Fuck. Tommy knows. Because Eddie does. He loves Buck, loves him so endlessly he doesn’t know where the feeling starts and where it ends. Doesn’t know when it started; doesn’t think it will ever end. “I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers, needing to say the words again, needing Tommy — his friend — to hear them.

Tommy lifts one palm from his thigh, his wrist pressing into the muscle as he cuts his fingers to the side in a dismissal. “Don’t apologize for it. I’m certainly not going to. I’m never going to be sorry for loving him.” He drops his hand back down, pats his leg, emphasis of the point. “But it is a problem.” He smiles, rueful. “I thought I’d be able to break up with him, if he didn’t break up with me. I should have, ages ago. I certainly should have when you came out.”

Eddie, selfishly, had hoped Buck would break up with Tommy then. But it had seemed like a farfetched fantasy. He had told Buck he was queer after Buck had already moved in with Tommy. He’d admitted it to himself, to Frank, before that, but hadn’t told anyone else for weeks. In hindsight, sometimes he figures he’d left it too late, but most of the time he didn’t think it would have made a difference at all. But now, with what Tommy has told him, maybe it would have. It’s a knife sliding between Eddie’s ribs to think maybe. Maybe.

“But I didn’t.” Tommy looks resigned, shoulders drooping.

“Why are you telling me this?” Eddie needs to know. It seems like Tommy has known for years that Eddie has loved Buck. Loves Buck. I knew there were going to be three people in this relationship. So why is he only bringing it up now?

“Because I didn’t. Because I can’t. I can’t break up with him. But I want to move forward. And I want to do so with him, for us to further our life together. But if I ask him to marry me when he doesn’t know for sure that you’re not an option, he’ll say no.”

Fear freezes Eddie’s insides. “So, what– what are you asking me to do?” Because Tommy is asking something of Eddie, wants something. Something Eddie fears he will have to make himself give.

Tommy straightens up, shoulders rolling back. He’s serious, solemn but not demanding or pleading when he says it. A devastating request. “I’m asking you, as my friend, to let him go.”

Eddie could be sick, he thinks, could vomit up the three and a quarter beers and the half a dozen chicken wings he’s consumed since he got to Tommy and Buck’s place. Could spill the mess of his insides up all over himself, all over Tommy, all over their lives. Tommy is his friend, was his friend before he was ever Buck’s boyfriend. Eddie should do this thing for him. Should give Buck his blessing to marry Tommy, give Buck up, give him over, completely, to this man who has loved him so well for the past three years. Eddie should; in his gut he knows it would be the right thing to do. But his heart– his heart is in revolt. It’s Buck. He loves him. How can he ever let him go?

Tommy leans forward, places a hand on Eddie’s leg, squeezes his fingers around the ball of his kneecap, until Eddie lifts his gaze and meets his eyes. “Or,” he says, somehow even more serious, “I am telling you, as your friend, to go and get him.”

#do we need to see where this goes next?#or is it good as is?#these are the questions that haunt me #(also i am totally avoiding writing chapter 5 of my wip please don't kill me)#buddie #bucktommy #buddie fic #bucktommy fic #911 fic #911 #911 abc #myfic

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ask-the-rag-dolly · 5 months

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okay unhinged essay about ragatha probably #1 idk i don't think this is all of my thoughts but here's what i could actually put down

i think the most surprising thing for me Personally is getting a lot of my interpretations of ragatha correct ? like . the thing that almost destroyed my motivation for this blog is the fear that my unhinged overanalyzation of her mannerisms in the pilot were Wrong - i actually thought about canceling everything when i was off from canon - but now ... yeah i'm not doing that

i guess it's just that we had so little of her in the first episode that i thought i was Manifesting her issues but Nope she really is this much of a Loser

first of all ! i suspected that she has low self-esteem but Goodness Gracious !! i didn't expect it to be Actually almost non-existent ?? like i thought i was Exaggerating for this blog but no , no person with a normal amount of self-esteem would Warp an incident so much in their head that they somehow believe something going wrong is Their Fault .

like she's so focused on pomni the entire episode because she Genuinely believes that the fiasco in the first day was her fault ( even though IT WASN'T , but she's really that used to quickly blaming herself ) and wants to make it up to her . but of course pomni is still adjusting and is Overwhelmed by everything ( which is understandable ) so she's not really in the mood for ragatha's bullshit

but with how ragatha reacts and what she subsequently tells kinger - she read those more as ' i do not like you ' than ' i am too fatigued to care about anything right now ' which is such a Large leap , but considering she was the one who Apologized to pomni for giving her a stressful first day ( which was COMPLETELY out of her control , ) it makes sense that she assumes that pomni has something against her - which was not helped by how none of ragatha's attempts of starting a friendship were reciprocated

i do understand why she would Think it's her fault - as pomni's a newcomer and More Stress is the last thing she needs , especially in her first day - but ' oh she doesn't like me ' is still Such a hasty conclusion that someone who already ... Doesn't Like Themself would jump to .

of course i can't not talk about the potential history between her and kinger . through their dialogue you can tell that ragatha's one of those people that took a batshit long time to truly adjust to the circus - which has a lot of interesting implications . with how she seems to understand the process of finding an exit in episode 1 , it explains a lot . my girl was so Not well when she entered the circus .

honestly it's just nice seeing that ragatha at least has Some support despite her being the one who holds everything together - it makes the ending impactful in my opinion ; they do really care for each other and will be saddened if one of them is gone .

also of course she asked if everyone's alright despite having a cleaver to the head ...

something that also has been nagging me for a long time is how much she always gets the short end of the stick . like , literally every time she's on screen , she Has To Get Harmed in some way . i would brush this off as slapstick when her official pin doesn't have her HAVING A KNIFE TO THE CHEST ???

Maybe it's just slapstick . maybe with her having parallels to kaufmo considering how he's said to be a goofy toxic positivity type guy like ragatha and is the one that has abstracted thus far is just a coincidence and doesn't speak levels to what might become inevitable as the series goes on ,

#[ ooc ]#[ ESSAY WARNING ]#tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc spoilers #the amazing digital circus spoilers #tadc ragatha #||#couldn't find a way to fit this into the post but #something about her just screams ' abandonment issues ' and i don't think i have enough evidence to prove it but . the feeling's there

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

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For a request:

Maybe a rescue fic with ghost, price, or soap? One where they rescue their non military fem s/o? I know you’ve written some already and they are so good but I EAT THEM UP EVERY TIME and love that trope so much!!!!!!

Hurt/comfort is my drug I swear

I know that’s pretty vague so maybe I’ll think of more eventually but that’s what I’ve got for now.

I love your writing!

- 🧚🏻‍♀️🧚🏻‍♀️

None Lacking Sins

Pairing: Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

Synopsis: It started with the incident at the grocery store and then built to the hidden gun in the nightstand and a quick, frantic, call to your boyfriend.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: Implied stalking, violence & blood, angst, protective Soap, suggestive language and conversations, implications of wanting a kid, vulgar language, fluffy banter, hurt/comfort, canon typical actions, edited in the middle of the night

A/N: I've been in a Soap mood lately, tbh. I think I'm going to flip-flop uploads for my Gaz series and Requests too...anyways. Enjoy, anon! You can never go wrong with a rescue fic!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You called him for the first time when you were at the store, picking out dinner and asking what he wanted for a welcome home meal.

“Well,” his sly voice made you roll your eyes, but a smile still blossomed over your lips. “If you want me to be rash, Bonnie, I’d say that I wouldn't mind a good bite out of your–”

“Johnny, you finish that sentence, you’re not going to get anything besides butter on toast. Give me a recipe before it gets dark out.” Veiled glee was obvious from your tone, and the heat on your face could all but be heard over the line. Two months apart had made you both eager to be in each other's presence.

Picking up a box of pasta, you flip it over and check the price, sticking to your budget and tilting the phone parallel to your chin. A deep chuckle meets your ears, and your chest feels light as it pierces your lungs.

Your boyfriend was off in Australia this deployment—he’d been complaining about the heat nonstop on those few and far between video calls the two of you shared. While it was a step-up to know where exactly Johnny was this go around, the prospect of his job still made you incredibly nervous. There was never a time you could remember when he came home without a new cut or scar; bruises were all but guaranteed.

Sucking down a soothing breath, you place the pasta into your cart and fix the phone’s position. The Scot was coming home in a day or so, you wanted to make him feel at home again. Destress.

You’ll see him before you know it. There’s no need to worry.

“Bit snappy, then, eh? Oh, alright.” The man huffs good-heartedly, and you hear the springs of those thin barracks-bed mattresses as his large frame shifts. Johnny lets off a soft sigh before continuing. You listen intently, leaning onto the handlebar ahead of you. “What about a nice plate ‘O that one you always make—hell—the…the one with the Pollock and cabbage.”

You blink through a laugh, shaking your head and pushing yourself off to go find the needed ingredients. The dish wasn’t easy to make, in fact, it took a helluva lot of time, but you didn’t mind in the slightest when it came to cooking for Johnny. He deserved it.

“Hey, now,” He teases, smirking to himself, “What’s so funny over there, Dearie? You makin’ fun of me?”

“I would never dream of it, oh great and wondrous, Mr. MacTavish!” You huff, fake serious, as you place a box of cookies into the cart and pass a few strangers who raise an eyebrow at your conversation. A man passes by with a blue cap on, and you swerve the cart to move around him while tossing back a frown. You soon continue on like nothing happened, pulling back the sense of security from the man over the line. “Do you want mashed potatoes with that as well? Wine?”

Johnny groans, “Hey, you’re the one that asked me!”

Divulging into giggles, you make your way around the store and stock up, holding a light conversation about how he and the rest of the boys were doing.

“Ghost told me to let you know he appreciated the book you lent him, said he’d get it back to ya as soon as he’s able.” The Scot comments, and a hum makes its way from you as you head to the self-checkout.

“Well, that’s good. I said he would like it – the bastard’s so tight-lipped about what he enjoys it was hard to nail-down a genre.” A chortle sounds off when you gather the chilled pollock and scan it; the phone was held against your shoulder to your ear. “High Fantasy for the win, I guess.”

“I should get the man to read ‘The Way of Kings’ next time—form a little book club, y’know? Get all the boys in on it like some old ladies.” It was adorable how cute Johnny sounded, like a kid on Christmas. “Stemin’ Jesus, could you picture that, Bonnie?”

“I’d pay to see you pitch that, Dear.” A cheeky tone leaks through. “Price would laugh straight into your face.”

“Please, the old man doesn’t know how to laugh….He’d just puff cigar smoke in my face and tell me to fuck off.”

“As I said—I’d pay to see it.” Your boyfriend grumbles under his breath as you place the paper bags into your cart, the contents heavy, and grab your receipt with quick fingers. “Gaz would definitely be in for it, though.”

“I don’t doubt that. Anything beats playing cards for weeks straight, aye?” Your hand can finally grip the phone once more, and you sigh contently as the strained position of your neck finally rights itself.

You’re about to answer but slow your pace with a scrunched look of confusion as you exit.

Passing through the front doors, you suddenly get a strange sensation in the back of your mind to turn around. The hairs along your arms stand up as a breeze passes the steadily chilling dark sky, but the way the shiver ran down your spine wasn’t due to cold. Lips thinning, you spare a glance over your shoulder and look along the brightly lit grocery store as its windows leave cascading rays of light over the sun-bleached concrete. The black asphalt of the parking lot is hard under your feet.

There are a handful of other patrons at the checkouts—mothers with children and others buying quick meals for dinner—but none are out of the ordinary.

You huff and roll your shoulders.

Maybe the day’s just getting to me.

“Bonnie,” Johnny’s slightly concerned voice brings you blinking back, turning your head back to the sparsely lit parking lot and realizing you had stopped walking completely. Your hand was sweaty like you’d just run somewhere. Fixing your hold on the device, your boyfriend continues, “...Everything alright? You’ve gone all quiet over there.”

“Yeah, sorry,” you laugh dismissively, trudging forward to your car, “I just got the weirdest feeling right outside the grocery store.”

The cart makes a loud rumbling sound as it goes over loose rocks and the bumpy texture of the asphalt, the metal rattling loudly so you have to strain your ears to hear Johnny’s next words.

“What kind of feeling?” His drowned-out voice was so serious that it shocked you—you’d only ever heard him use a tone like this when he had briefly talked about nightmares that had woken him up in your shared bed.

The Scot’s words were monotone, slow, and even if the sound of the cart’s wheels was raging all around you and making your skull rattle, you’d still swear you would identify that tone over a hurricane. It made your gut churn.

“Really, it’s probably nothing,” you play off with a tense shrug he can’t see, coming to a stop at your car and reaching into your pocket for your keys. “I just got a chill.”

Your eyes look around before you open the trunk, biting into your lip at the long shadows that the tall street lamps give off. Licking over your teeth, you bink dismissively and shake your head, unlocking the vehicle and huffing as you begin loading in your purchases.

“Anyways,” you try to ignore the hard build of your spine or the way your eyes travel back to the brightly lit store. There wasn’t anyone out here but you and the dead forms of cars, trees off in the distance, and far-off lights of other buildings. You swallow and clear your throat. “I was thinking about getting us a dog.”

“You’re not gettin’ out of this that—wait, did you say dog?” Across the world in a shitty bed, Johnny’s once concerned eyes widen, jaw going slack. “No way in Christ’s Hell, Dearie.”

“Oh, come on!” You groan, placing the second to last bag into the car and tuning your back to the street, throwing out your hand. “It doesn’t have to be a big dog—just one I can go on walks with and keep me company. I know you have a bad past with them, Love, but I just want someone to help not make the house so empty when you’re gone.”

Your voice slides off near the end of the sentence, and you try not to sound so sullen. Johnny frowns as he stares into the far wall of the barracks over the heads of sleeping men, itching at the back of his neck. It was no secret that the Scot wasn’t particularly fond of canines—his encounters with them were almost never pleasant unless he knew the handler.

But…

“I’ll think it over, eh, Bonnie?” He relents, sighing, and he thinks he hears snickers from a dark form in the distant corner. The Sergeant glares over at it and continues with a pang of internal guilt about how lonely you must feel most of the time. “Promise…but you’re more likely to get a cat dressed in a suit than a mangy mutt anytime soon.”

You laugh at the attempt of a lighthearted joke, closing the trunk with a roll of your eyes. A breeze goes by and your arms erupt into shivers, clothes not enough to keep out the chill.

“I’ll take it.”

“Hm, you know,” Johnny smirks, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes and grunting out huskily, “there’s another way to make sure the house won’t be all quiet when I’m gone.”

“Keep it in your pants, MacTavish. You’re not even here yet.” Smiling through the heat of your cheeks, the skin of your cheeks glows; your body rolls with heat. “Save it for tomorrow.”

“What, am I gettin’ you all worked up over there?” He hums, and you grab your cart, pushing it into one of the specific areas where someone would grab it in the morning. “‘Cause I have no problem with waitin’, Dearie, all the more perfect when I get to be with ya.’”

“You wish, handsome.” Walking back to the slight rumbling of your car, you speak through tilted lips and completely miss the form walking up beside you. “I think that—”

“Excuse me?”

Yelping, you nearly drop your phone to the floor as it slips out of your startled grip; heart jerking at the sudden intrusion into an intimate conversation. Swiftly turning around you spot the same man as before—the one with the blue cap that had passed by quite rudely in the store. His strong face looks sheepish.

Johnny quickly calls your name through the line, and you let off a reassurance before tilting the device down.

“Holy hell, man, give a girl a warning next time, yeah?” Chuckling weakly to push back tension and the twisting of your intestines, you notice the stranger’s tall frame is covered in a heavy jacket. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, actually,” He’s not outwardly alarming to look at, the man, with his loose body gestures and controlled tone. “Sorry, but I was just wondering if you could lend me a hand. I found a kitten under a van back there,” he points, and you look over to the far corner of the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a large van surrounded by two black cars. Your eyes narrow on the scene, already getting a prickly feeling. “Do you have any food that might bring it out? Or maybe you’d be willing to reach under and grab the little bastard?”

The stranger laughs and continues with a jerking of his shoulders. You watch every movement with an upticking pulse, fingers tight over the phone as Johnny listens with growing worry.

The Sergeant's dark eyebrows pull tight, and he stands like he could run out the door to you; jaw tight and muscles wound.

“Put me on speaker.” You decline silently. Better not to get a hotheaded and protective Scot involved when he was thousands of miles away.

“Sorry,” Clearing your throat, you take a step back, attempting a friendly smile. “I have to get home to my husband.” It wasn’t the first time you’d had to use the spouse card to get away from creeps, and it won't be the last. Worked better than just the boyfriend title, honestly. And there was something about this man’s eyes that didn’t sit right with you. “Work night and all, you understand?”

“He left yet?” Johnny asks, gruff as his accent gets stronger. “Else I’m callin’ the store and sending security out to you.”

“It shouldn’t take a long time,” the man begs and you take another slow step back to the car door, pupils going tiny. Breaths shallow. “You’ll be back to your…husband, in a few minutes. I’d hate to leave the poor guy all alone.”

“Sorry.” You say again, firmer. “No.”

Not wasting any time, you open the car and jump inside, wrenching it closed once more and pressing the lock. Breathing heavily, you stick the keys into the ignition, missing a couple of times, and look into the side mirrors to spy on the tall shadow that hovers like a plague.

“Sweetheart? Hey?” Johnny calls out your name as you force the car to start driving away, face tight and limbs shaking. “Hey, are you alright?”

The man has half the sense to wake up Price, but with the stirring bodies around him, there’s half a chance the Captain already knows something’s off. Johnny hadn’t bothered to check his noise level when the uncomfortableness seeped from you over to him. What kind of a man approaches a woman near dark and asks a question like that? The action didn’t sit right with the Scot.

Johnny’s body hums with energy—volatile rage keeps his heart in a tight fist with a deep seething hatred of not being with you to help force back the freaks in person. He wasn’t above getting into someone's face if the situation called for it; after a couple of outings to less-than-nice pubs, all it took was a few nervous glances from you nowadays for him to create a barrier out of his own flesh.

“I’m okay,” you whisper to him, biting at your lips and peeling back flesh. “It’s all good. I-I’m on the road already.”

A great weight falls from the man in the form of a sigh. He slowly sits back down on the mattress, lips thinning and slightly shaking his head. His free hand comes up to rub over his cheek.

“Good. That’s good…” He snaps out of his concerned stupor quickly, but the fast beating of his heart does anything but slow. “You’re okay.”

It wasn’t worded as a question, maybe more of a reassurance, but it helped you immensely. Your tension lessened at the comforting sound of Scottish drawl and deep, silver, voice. But you wanted him to wrap his arms around you; gaze into those cerulean orbs.

Tomorrow.

“Keep on the line until I get home?” You ask feebly, not able to resist looking in the mirrors as you turn out of the parking lot.

The blue-capped stranger was still standing there, and one of the black cars in the far corner had turned its headlights on. A deep dread overtakes your ribs like you’d just gotten out of something very, very, bad. A sense of a lingering morality stays in between your ribs.

“‘Course. Wouldn’t be doin’ anything else, Bonnie.” Johnny utters, glaring at the floor. “I’ll be ‘ere the whole time.”

It wasn’t fair that he was unable to be there with you—never before had the constraints from his job hit him full strength in the chest like this. If he can’t protect the ones he loves back on the home field, then what was the point of the Task Force in the first place?

By the time you get home after taking the fastest route, you quickly gather everything from the back and shuffle inside, pulse still racing. You lock the door behind you and take a deep breath, closing your eyes.

Johnny’s soft breath over the call was like a lullaby, right in your ear as if he was beside you in bed. Oh, you missed his soft snores more than anything. Your gaze goes glossy, but the tears are held back stubbornly.

As if sensing your turmoil, your boyfriend speaks lowly.

“Y’know, I bet the rest of the boys would really love it if we kept ‘em over for a drink and a bite when we all get back. I can whip up something quick on the grill and you can take a breather, eh?” He speaks so softly it almost makes the tears worse, heart palpitating.

You wetly laugh and place a hand to your mouth, standing in the dark foyer with groceries on the floor and a primal fear slowly leaving you. The familiar scents of charcoal and birch wood from the Scots hair product are stuck into the very walls of this shared dwelling, along with the scuffs on the floor from play-wrestling during movies; a light that needed to be replaced due to Johnny accidentally running straight into it at two am. He had thought an intruder had broken in, but it was just a bird that had snuck in through an open window.

The signs of a well-lived and loved home.

“But you wanted pollock,” you grumble with a hidden smile and burning ears, pushing the tip of your shoe into the front rug.

Johnny beams and goes to lie back down, putting a hand behind his head against the pillow.

“Well, now I’m makin’ burgers. Guess you’re just going to have to sit back and watch my fabulous arse from the porch, yeah, Dearie? Don’t burn a hole into them, now, they’re the only pair I’ve got, and I know how much you like ‘em.”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll even wear that apron you got me—what was it you said it did,” the cheeky Scot smirks, all teeth and crinkled eyelids, and hears your complaints get louder as your mind flies away from what had happened almost immediately. “Made me look like I should be in a porno? Hell, if you were in it with me, I’d not complain ‘bout it. Steamin’ Jesus, I’d let you do horrible things to me, Dearie.”

From somewhere in the barracks a low groan echoes out and Johnny snaps his hand down to stifle his loud laughter as you bark at him.

“MacTavish!”

Great bouts of laughter leave everyone glaring from atop pillows and from over fingers stuffed into ears; some even get up and gather blankets, leaving the barracks room entirely.

In your foyer, your body blazes with heat like you’d been set on fire, a hand placed over your eyes and a treacherous grin on your mouth.

“Keep your voice down, you absolute arsepiece!”

“Aye—! That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell ya!”

“Johnny!”

—

The second time you called him was out of pure curiosity, only a few hours before your lover was scheduled to come home and cook for you and his Task Force. Around six o'clock.

“When was our postbox all scratched up?” Your thumb runs over the black numbers of the sequence, blinking with wrinkled skin as you take a glance at the neighbors’ and frown. No one else's was like that. “I thought you said you compromised with the local kids and would give them money for sweets so they would stop messing with our stuff?”

“Little fiends were sucking me dry!” Johnny huffs, “No way the devils would pass up more sugar and do something like that. What’s it look like, then? A few stray rocks manage to dent it?”

Your lips release a sigh and you pick up your mail with an annoyed grunt, closing and locking the cubby as you reply. “No way, it looks like someone took a knife to it.” Clicking your tongue, you shake your head. “God, things have just been going wrong lately.”

Shuffling his feet over the tarmac and hearing the plane engines die down behind him, Johnny takes a glance back. Price was standing at the top of the C17 arms crossed and head tilted—the Scot could imagine the raised eyebrow almost immediately.

He grimaces and holds up a finger, walking a few more steps away as Gaz leaves the hull with his bags slung over his shoulders.

“I can’t talk any longer, Bonnie, Price’ll wring me for not helpin’ unload the gear. He’s damn near skinnin’ me already.”

You chuckle, “Tell him I said ‘hello’ and not to damage the face.”

“Oh, you’re a horror, you are, Dearie.”

Quick declarations of love and see you soons were exchanged before the connection was cut, and your feet carried you back into the house. Your phone and the mail went to sit on the tiny hallways table, shoes tossed onto the plastic mat sitting on the floor with a small thump.

Sighing, you rub over your eyes, thinking over if it was worth calling the post office or just trying to fix the scratches yourself.

“I think we have some paint in the garage…” You trail off.

Ultimately, you just pushed that to the back burner. Johnny was coming home. Your lips peeled into a large smile, and you’re rushing off to get into a nice outfit for the rest of Task Force who was coming a bit later than your boyfriend. Thoughts of finally being able to be picked up by your boyfriend's strong arms were all-consuming, being held into a broad chest and digging your nails to the dip of his spine.

Just being able to be around the mohawked-man was a blessing that you’d never take for granted.

You settled on a nice top and casual pants—you’d met the others before, so there was no need to go overboard. Smoothing your clothes down, you enter the living room and go to open the curtains, letting the light of the interior spread to the small lawn and the street. Humming under your breath, the vehicle outside doesn’t catch your attention immediately; the black metal is just another parked entity sitting still.

When you do pause, your curtains half-opened, the delayed shock makes you lose precious time as you stare slack-jawed at one of the twin cars from yesterday at the parking lot. Your fingers clench into the fabric in a sudden moment of frozen shock. As if a mythical creature had just run past your field of view, the parting of your lips is instinctual before the widening of your eyes.

A still second passes before you’re sprinting to the front door—locking it and snatching your phone. Heart pounding, you make a dash to the bedroom, dialing Johnny with fear-tight pupils.

He had told you if there was ever an emergency to call him right away, he’d get there faster than any police officer; for the record, you believed that wholeheartedly. Johnny was more loyal than a dog in a pack, once someone raised the alarm the Sergeant was locked in.

Rushing into the bedroom, you trip over the tossed covers but right yourself as the dialing tone sounds out, heavy breathing making your lungs hurt. You open the nightstand table and dig under a collection of books, hand meeting the smooth metal of an M9 pistol.

Putting the phone on speaker, you throw it onto the mattress.

Legally, you shouldn’t even have this—while Johnny had been teaching you to shoot, you didn’t have a license for it yet. But he’d insisted on leaving you behind with something to defend yourself with.

The confused voice of your lover sounds over the open space. “Jesus, Bonnie, you miss me that much? It cannae ‘ave been more than ten minutes—”

“The car from yesterday is outside the house.” You throw the books to the floor and hear them make a clatter just as you pull out a box of ammunition. Taking out the gun’s magazine, you load bullets with a violently shaking hand. Some hit the ground with a metallic ping, but you pay little attention, just blinking back anxious tears and a harsh focus on the sounds of the front door handle being jimmied.

“I…what?” Johnny’s voice gets heavier, demanding with a snarl trapped in the back of his throat.

Standing stationary in the doorway Base—about a twenty-minute drive from home, the man’s heart suddenly jumps in his breast. Did he hear you right? Behind him, Ghost slows to a stop at the now blocked opening, watching with narrowed eyes; a large rifle slung over his shoulder and a carry bag in his arm. Johnny’s shoulders wind tight, feet parted as he suddenly turns on his heels and takes off back the way he came in, the phone still at his ear where the Lieutenant knew you were on the call.

“What the fuck?!” Ghost’s skeletal head follows after and pointedly notices the Scots lack of care for how his bags hit the ground but keeps the pistol holstered at his thigh and the combat knife strapped to his upper shoulder.

“Johnny?” He calls out, but only the wind answers him. “The hell are you off to?!” The gargantuan man sends a glance over to Price who was watching just as intently, lids narrowed. Gaz cleared his throat.

“....Shouldn’t we follow him? Sounds pretty serious.”

Price sighs, taking a moment to watch Soap sprint to the main building and shove past other soldiers and staff. He grunts.

“Move light.”

The phone call was filled with heavy breathing and hurried orders.

Your boyfriend was running you down the basics of firing at a moving target as the sound of pounding at the front door became more hurried.

“It’s not like a stationary target—when someone’s runnin’ at ya, they're gonna be moving quick and you’re not going to be able to fire if you don’t mean it!”

“Okay, okay,” you mutter with a shaky inhalation, loading the M9’s magazine and clicking off the safety. “What the hell do they want with me?” The whispered question is more for you than it is for anyone else, but the answer from the sprinting Scot startles you.

At that exact moment, the pounding of a fist stops completely.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re gonna fire at the first bastard that comes down that hallway. We’ll ask the questions later.” You hear a car door opening and a yell from Johnny’s side, soon the clammer of grunting breaths an exclamation of ‘hurry the fuck up!’

“I—”

“If you need to, leave through the window and go to the neighbors. Take cover in the foliage and slip away to the back alley.” Johnny never spoke like this to you—clipped and deathly serious. But now that you think about it, as you stay frozen and barricaded in the bedroom, if he spoke any differently you’d probably break down. “Do you copy?”

This was Sergeant MacTavish, and damn him if anything came between that man and the people he cared about.

He barks your name, “Do you copy?!”

“Yeah,” the gun shakes in your grip, but nonetheless you hold it at your hip and turn your eyes to the window. It would be easier to leave, you think. You’re not trained for this! “I–I think I’m going to—”

The front door’s window is broken with a shattering of glass. You rush to the phone and turn off the speaker, afraid that the sound would immediately tell these people where you were. Loud shouts flow into the foyer and spread like venom under the crack of the thin barrier separating you and the intruders.

“Spread out and find her!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Sir? You ask, eyes snapping this way and that as Johnny is dead silent on the other side. You think you hear the slam of a foot to the pedal, but you can’t be sure. Fuck, there was so much going on, you didn’t know what to do.

“Screw this, I’m going out the fucking window.” You gasp out, lungs tight and skin sweaty, you turn on the safety on the gun and stuff it into your belt.

One-handed, you unlatch the lock and strain your ears, hearing feet getting closer. Grunting, you shove the heavy frame up and try to stop the ringing in your ears. Whoever these people in your house were—they were professionals. They had patience; studied your intellect with the trick in the parking lot and followed you home so they could mark your postbox number as a reminder of your address. What the hell was happening?

Just as you’re about to make the small drop into the flower bed, a creak echoes from behind the bedroom door. You freeze in place, one foot dangling into the backyard.

Breathing slowly, your eyes lock to the deep shadow that spreads like two distorted poles as the large feet face the very place you’d holed up. As delicately as you’re able with an award-setting tremor in your gut, you place the phone down onto the window sill; Johnny’s loud and worried voice dims as all attention moves to self-preservation. You’re just about to reach for your gun when the door busts off its hinges.

Starling, and before your hands can find purchase, you’re tumbling backward—out of the house entirely with a stifled shout of alarm. Slamming to the ground and crushing flowers in the process, you have no time to think about the pain going up your spine or at the base of your skull before you’re scrambling for the M9.

Just as someone peeks out from the window, face covered and holding an assault rifle, you’re firing three shots in rapid succession as you don’t even remember flicking off the safety.

Two shots miss entirely, but on the last and final press of the trigger, as your arms catch the recoil, it connects.

A comment is cut short as blood explodes in a great wave of velocity, coating the house upwards almost to the shingled roof. The body slumps, weight bringing it down to hang limp over the frame.

Wide-eyed, you still hold the shaking gun in the air, muzzle smoking, breathing fast through your mouth. Had you just…

Your stomach bunched, acid traveling up your throat to pool under your tongue. Perhaps you would have thrown up at that moment, the setting reality that you’d just shot someone in the head like an anvil in your pounding skull. But the barking voices from inside the house snap you back.

Gasping down the breaths you realized you hadn’t been taking, your wobbly feet dart to shove you up like a newborn deer as sprinting bodies close in on the porch’s sliding door. God, you could only imagine what Johnny was thinking.

Bolting out of your backyard fence, you remember your lover’s orders and run as fast as you’re able to the neighbor's open yard, using the darkening sky to help cover you. Cursing under your breath and thinking over all of the ways this should have already gone wrong, you wipe at the tears cascading down your cheeks.

Don’t think about it—just get away.

It wasn’t long before you were down the alleyway, feet weak and lungs burning. There was a stickiness to the back of your scalp, blood, undoubtedly, from an injury caused by the fall.

It’s a damn miracle I didn��t break anything.

What would you have done then? Just let those people take or kill you? You shiver at the idea and force yourself to go faster. Darting around a corner, your feet skid to a quick halt.

The barrel of a gun was pointed directly at your face.

“Had a feeling you’d be slippery.” It was the voice of the man from the parking lot—the man with the blue cap. Your face jerks to an imitation of confined horror and unease at the same eyes boring into you. He was dressed in gear like the rest of the men now exiting your house to hunt you down. The stranger shifts his feet and you flinch. “Drop the gun, Sweetheart.”

“Who the fuck are you?” You find your voice, hissing out. The pistol clatters to the floor as it slips from your grip and you hate how you flinch at the sound.

“Your boyfriend and his buddies are hard to track down.” Blue Cap huffs, and the tall stature of the man makes you incredibly nervous. Backing up a step instinctually, he follows and smirks. “But I figured the best way to meet him was to find his little bird first—he’d come right to me. Cliche, I know, but you can’t fault me. Works every time.”

What did this guy want with your Johnny? Gritting your teeth, your fingers shake at your sides, hips tense and ready to run.

“He’ll kill you.” You level, not keen to show this man how disgusting you felt being near him.

He shuffles up next to you, grabbing the meat of your arm. Trying to jerk away, the barrel of his weapon is shoved into your ribs; gasping, your body goes rigid.

If your heart goes any faster, it’ll break.

“Not if I threaten to kill you first.” Forcing you forward, you glare and feel the urge to spit in the man’s face. “C’mon, hun.”

“Don’t fucking call me that, freak.”

“Ooo…fangs. Can’t be surprised, you did shoot one of my men, after all. Not a bad trigger finger, but you do need decent work on your accuracy if you wanna make anything out of it.” Your eyebrows pull in as you’re corralled back out of the alleyway, barrel bruising your skin and blood dripping down your neck. The man’s grip hurts as a strangled whimper falls from your bitten lips.

Feet scraping over concrete, you’re brought out into the street as neighbors peak out of windows with drawn curtains; phones to their faces. Did these intruders not care about the police? If anything, that made you sweat more.

“Ride’s waiting.”

“I’m not getting into that.” Grunting, your eyes are stuck on the black void of the car parked in the street. A menagerie of other armed men stands all over. “Hell no—you can just shoot me now if that’s the case.”

“Don’t tempt me, I can still go after the Sergeant’s dear old mom,” your lungs chill as the man chuckles to himself, looking down at you through dark lashes. “He has a cousin, too, am I right?”

Rageful tears spark behind your lids as you blink.

No way it was going to go like this. Where’s Johnny?

The gun was taken from your ribs as you’re shoved forward.

“Get in. Now. We’re already behind schedule.” You stare into the interior and clench your fists, lips quivering but jaw clenched. Your Lover’s voice comes to you, sure of himself and laced with stubbornness.

If you’re ever in trouble, you wait for me, Dearie. I’ll be there ‘fore you know it, ready to defend your honor like the knight in shinin’ armor I am, eh? Why are you laughing…?

Turning back around with every ounce of courage you can muster, you splay your feet and cross your arms.

“No.” The gun is raised to your head, and you want to flinch back in terror but restrain yourself.

“Get in.”

“No.” How your voice wasn’t breaking was a question in and of itself, but Johnny had always said you were stubborn like him. Best time to prove him right was with a barrel to your face, apparently.

The stranger’s eyes light with anger, hands clenching over the body of the weapon as the rest of his men stare on in shock. A growl meets air.

“I’m not asking for a third time, Sweetheart—” One loud boom later and you’re ducking down with your hands over your head, ears ringing and body unsteady; a great weight hits the ground right next to you.

The sound of gunfire rattles the world all around the once quiet street, and you think that you and your Lover will have to move after this. No way the neighbors could let all this slide. Looking up, your eyes jump from the corpse spasming near you to the running men, chaos breeding in the lines between shouts and dropping bodies.

A hand latches into your waist, and you’re being lifted into strong arms moments later. Squealing, your head snaps to the size and meets cerulean blue inlaid in a strong brow line.

“I’ve got ya.” Your body loses all tension at the accent that you would know anywhere, even in death, a strong grip picking you up and keeping you close to his broad chest.

Johnny carries you away in the midst of battle as the rest of the 141 get involved, making quick work of the remaining men. Breathing in his scent, you force your face under his chin, feeling the stubble scrape as your fingers dig into flesh.

He’s here. He’s—he’s right here.

“Don’t worry, Dearie, I’m right here. It’s nearly over, now.” You try to bring him closer as he takes cover behind a wall, pressing his shoulders against the grating stone as he shields you closer to him. Sliding down to the ground.

His eyes snap back and forth, heart rapid. God, he was nearly too late. Johnny presses his nose into your hair as he breathes deeply, watching bodies fall and feeling you shake. Feeling you shiver; now finally able to let everything sink in.

“Shh,” the Scot mutters, pressing you closer as you whisper his name in a hoarse breath. “You’re alright. I’m ‘ere, Bonnie, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” His hands filter over your skin, checking for injuries and feeling over growing bumps from under-the-skin abrasions.

His teeth clench together in hate, hotheadedness taking over for a moment as part of him wants to rush out and pick a few of these bastards off himself. But it’s just not that simple.

Looking out into the street with serious eyes, the radio attached to his vest sounds off as the last of the firefight ends almost as quickly as it began.

“Clear.” It was Price. “How is she?”

Johnny sighs, looking down at you in his hold as he whispers comforting words in quick succession.

“Shaken, but alright…” The reply is muttered as you sniffle, your fingers going to wipe away tears. “She’s—she’s alright.”

Johnny beats you to it as he tries to calm down, large digits tilting your head to the side and studying intently as he swipes them away with a firm thumb and a careful frown.

“Johnny—” Your eyes stay locked on him as the Scot gets rid of any trace of fear or sadness, calluses burning your skin just as they always did. His gaze flickers to you; lips pulling tight. None of you choose to move, too content with being this close to one another and safe, even if the situation was serious. “I…”

You trail, not even knowing what to say as the wetness of your eyes blurs your vision, body hot, and the back of your skull aching. Your hands go to cup his cheeks. It’s all the words he needs.

Eyes soft, the Sergeant attempts a weak and worried smile. “I’m so proud of you, Dearie, y’know that? So damn proud.” Your lips quirk, a strained laugh echoing out. A finger pokes the side of your nose. “Hey, I’m serious now. Stop your foolin'.”

Johnny’s fingers run deep circles into your temples as you trace the lines of his cheeks.

“Shut up.” You huff, straining against a wide smile. It was easy to push all of this behind you when you were looking at him. He made everything better.

“Hm,” He moves forward and presses his lips to your forehead, quickly going to lay kisses all over your face until giggles spill out from the alleyway to the waiting three.

Gaz smiles to himself, Price grunts lightly, and Ghost gazes off.

“I’ll just have to prove to my Bonnie Little Lady that she’s a prime piece of work, then, eh? Smarter; more quick than a fuckin’ recon team,” he leans close and you have to try and shove him away playfully when he starts to squish you against him. Your laughter grows as his scratchy chin nuzzles your neck. “And don’t mind me sayin’ now, but a proper fine pair of tits and arse to go along with the brains of ya, Dearie.”

“MacTavish!” you squeal, “I should call your mother up and explain how you speak to me—that’s vulgar! I know for a fact she didn’t teach you that.”

“Teach me? Oh, now, then, no one could teach me a thing when you’re around. Cannae think a bit; better off talkin’ to a pile of stone.” You punch his solid chest and laugh so hard your face hurts, breath fanning against his neck as his roaming praise continues as if his mind was a bag of water punctured by a knife. “I’m always thinkin’ ‘bout you, my Little Bonnie.”

The last sentence is quietly muttered into your temple, a kiss pressed tight. He pulls back slightly and feels at the dried blood on your locks, fingers separating to find the scalp. Johnny’s chest rattles in a sigh, hand shaking slightly when he sees it.

He’d also seen the body on the window sill, though he knows not to mention it.

Christ, you’d had to kill someone.

The prospect of taking a life was easy to the Scot—some days he felt like he had been born and bred to do just that. It became simple. Elementary. Like his mother could memorize a recipe, he could memorize the position of arteries; what shot to take at that instant, and which to wait on based only on past missions that resonated like past lives.

But for you…

Oh, it was never supposed to happen to you.

“Are you alright?” Johnny breaths, humor gone and left with guilt.

He feels your lips on his raging pulse and lets his eyes close, content to feel you move against him as your head remains in his neck. Shifting his body into a more comfortable position, he cages you in protectively. Never again would he allow this to happen.

“I shot someone.” The man’s lips quivered, heart hurting at the blatant shock in your voice. It hadn’t hit you yet, and, hell, Johnny still remembered his first kill like it was yesterday. It wouldn’t be good when all this calmed down. He’d thrown up for two days straight, himself.

“Aye.” He breathes.

“His blood’s all over the house.”

“It is.”

“Is…is that,” you’re shivering, so he massages your spine soothingly until you find the words. “Is that a good thing?”

He should say no, tell you that the situation that you’d been put in was never supposed to happen and it was just an unfortunate reality. Death wasn’t a good thing, per se. But the man had broken into your shared home—busted down the bedroom door with the intent of using you as a bargaining chip to get to him. So, to the Scot, the answer is clear.

No one messed with his family and lived.

“Yes.” Taking down the air of a dusty alleyway as sirens wail a street over, you weren't surprised that your boyfriend had managed to get to your home far faster than the police could. He said he always would, didn’t he?

The bills for the speeding tickets and the running of red lights were going to be atrocious.

“Okay.” Your answer is muttered as you peel back, pressing a kiss to the corner of Johnny’s lips. You believed him. Always would. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” His bright teeth show off a smile as your mirror. He kisses you heavily on the lips. Whispers against your lips, a promise. A vow. “As long as you put up with me, I’ll always keep you safe.”

“Soap,” Price yells, snapping the two of you out of it. “Get on with it!”

The Scot raises a shocked brow and smirks down at you as you tilt your head and listen in happy confusion.

“Y’know, those shots weren't half bad back there. ‘Specially after takin’ a tumble into the flowers.” Your expression freezes in denial as you’re lifted bridal style into the air. Speaking over the calls of police and firemen as they come to the scene, your voice monotones as your legs swing.

“...I missed two out of the three, you dork. That’s failing.” Johnny gapes in mock surprise and you refrain from snorting at the boyish glint in his eyes.

“Jesus, is it really? Hell, you’ll be comin’ for my job in no time, won’t ya? That’s one better than me!”

You kiss him and feel the grunt through your lips.

TAGS ||

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @neelehksttr, @shoe1412,@jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @nanialis, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @emerald-valkyrie, @michirulol, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @bespectacledhuman, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @astronaunt2009, @shmaptin, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce,

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xulips · 1 year

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do you have any specific head canon's for characters like appearance wise ? or do you try to keep their appearance as close as you can to the original design ?

THIS IS IT MY CUE TO SHARE MY HEADCANONS AT LONG LAST

first thing first, i do have headcanons for most of the characters in proseka. though it's more visible through my vbs art since i mostly draw them anyways

most of these i come up with like months ago, so if you squint like REALLY hard you'll see them in most of the stuff that i drew

second, i do usually try to stick to the original design as much as possible, with maybe some few tiny headcanons, just cause it looks neat. by little i really do mean it, it is little

for example, i headcanon rui to have a dimple. usually i draw him going all -w- but when i do draw him being wide and happy, a little dimple shows up. cause i just think she looks cute

and also for haruka, since she really just looks really god damn pretty already, i thought she'd also look pretty in shorter hair. it's really not that big of a difference for the appearance but i like changes that r not so big that i can still tell who the character is ^^

i also tend to like, give each characters some of their own unique physical appearance? does that make sense?

take for example, honami and mizuki, sometimes they get confused w eachother a LOT so i tend to alter how they look like a bit to avoid confusion by differentiating how their eyes shaped like

and lastly, i really, really, like REALLY!!! adore and love sibling parallels!! something on their physical appearance that could indicate that they're related but not too obvious

the most obvious one for me is the tenma siblings (toya included) (what do you expect from me?) i know saki canonically doesn't have the same ahoges (?) like the one tsukasa has, but i like to think that she does, yk, to match him, but the other way around because why not?

and also toya included in this one, he's not biologically related to the tenmasibs, but i imagine saki and tsukasa wanted him to feel included becauss they love him so!! they styled him one to somewhat resemble the ones that they had (they tried and that's what matters!)

i'm so sorry if this is long i just really like talking about my interests ;;;;;; this is the most fun i've ever had answering an ask, thank you!

#ask #req #<— just to tag a pic in an ask #project sekai #prsk #long post #mb guys i'm a little annoying

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pencil-amateur · 1 year

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The Heaviside Layer

Or, Cats and the Narrative Parallels of Steve and Cesare

After watching UP and re-listening to the Bigtop Burger soundtrack several times, I'm finally able to put into words while Steve and Cesare are obviously different in terms of personality, presentation, etc., when you consider their stories... they're more similar than you may initially realize.

(Watching the 1998 recording of Cats was also very important here. This will come back later.)

So first of all, what's the first thing that these two have in common, ownership of food trucks aside?

To put it the way Cesare does, they're freaks. They're weird. The only way they are able to fit in with others is by being the head of said themed food trucks, and making the uniforms their employees wear match them.

In other words, they are outsiders.

Even before the narrative begins, Steve and Cesare were shown to be cast aside by others. In "UP", Steve is banished from his home planet because he made a mistake at a crucial time, and the lyrics to Friends In Low Places reveal Cesare "wasn't missed or mourned" after he was killed.

They're both dead to the worlds they once knew.

But then...

"up, up, up, to the heaviside layer" - UP

"I was chosen for a second chance at life" - Friends in Low Places

For those of you unfamiliar with the musical Cats, the Heaviside Layer is the place a single Jellicle cat is chosen to go to at the Jellicle Ball each year to be reborn into a new life. Old Deuteronomy, the role Steve played, is the cat that chooses the one who will go to the Heaviside layer. However, Steve, along with Cesare, is more similar to the cat Old Deut ultimately picks.

I'm talking, of course, about Grizabella.

Grizabella is a former Jellicle cat who tries to rejoin the group, only to be rejected. Act II's opening number, "The Moments of Happiness", is sung by Old Deuteronomy (and was fumbled by poor Steve). It foreshadows Grizabella's last desperate cry for another chance in her big number, "Memory". The other cats accept her, and she is chosen to go to the Heaviside Layer and begin again.

So how does this relate to Steve and Cesare?

Both allude to having a new life, but are followed by their pasts. While Steve is happy with his food truck and his new friends, he is pursued by unknown authorities telling him he doesn't belong and can't belong. Along with being cast out from society millions of years ago, he's now been rejected from doing what he loves twice.

Cesare is almost the inverse. He talks up how he's got new friends (in low places), but he doesn't seem eager to stick around underground, and is vocally relieved that he won't have to be a watcher anymore. Despite being clearly very strange himself, his job is to imprison "freaks and weirdos"- and it might not be a stretch to say he's taken that to heart. Where Steve has no problem standing out, even going out to eat with his employees when they're out of makeup, Cesare insists his own employees make him look less conspicuous whenever he's with them. (Of course, this could be partially because he didn't want Steve to catch on to his plans, but I doubt Steve would have cared, since he had no idea Cesare even wanted to capture him.)

So how can this be resolved? Is there a way to truly begin again?

"Let your memory lead you/Open up, enter in If you find there the meaning of what happiness is/Then a new life will begin" - The Moments of Happiness

This part in "The Moments of Happiness" is sung not by Old Deut, but a cat in the ensemble named Jemima (and then sung again by the rest of the cats). The lyrics and melody are reprised in Grizabella's song, "Memory". She then adds some more.

"Memory, all alone in the moonlight I can smile at the old days/I was beautiful then I remember a time I knew what happiness was/Let the memory live again...

...Touch me, it's so easy to leave me All alone with the memory/Of my days in the sun If you touch me you'll understand what happiness is/Look, a new day has begun" - Memory

"Touch me" has both a literal and figurative meaning here. Throughout the musical, the Jellicle cats are noticeably physically affectionate with one another. They play with other cats while dancing, snuggle, and even greet each other by pressing their hands together. This makes it all the more jarring when the Jellicle cats refuse to touch Grizabella at the beginning- even the curious younger cats are held back from getting too close. It is a visual sign that they do not accept her. After Grizabella sings her song, one of the younger cats reaches out to her and touches her hand. None of the other cats make any attempt to stop her. Then, the Jellicle cats finally show Grizabella the affection they denied her before, letting her finally belong, and of course she becomes the Jellicle choice.

I think, just like Grizabella, what Steve and Cesare need is acceptance and a place to belong. This doesn't mean the whole world needs to say they're okay with clowns, or zombies, or general weird freaks who don't fit in. It doesn't even mean they have to give up the memories of how they got here, be they happy or sad. What they need is to be loved for who they are, and to live without being afraid to do so.

And I think the friends they have are a good place to start.

#bigtop burger #steve bigtop burger #cesare bigtop burger #analysis #long post

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spockandawe · 1 year

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You know what I can't get enough of? Speculation about what the fictional novel Proud Immortal Demon Way says about its fictional author. Because it would be completely possible to make a story like this without that connection. I'm not sure I've read any other transmigration story where the author was a character, so just that addition adds a lot of interesting texture to the situation even without getting deep in the author's head, but it's so interesting how deep I can speculate in so many directions if I think about getting in his head.

And oh man, I could talk for AGES about how Shang Qinghua and his iconic protagonist reflect each other, but a lot of people have written about that already! Including in the medium of fic, which is my favorite way to consume that kind of crunch. So let's talk about familial neglect and mistreatment and the author's favorite character.

Honestly, when I look at how iconic this ship is, I'm astonished there aren't more hit novels where the author gets yeeted into their own book and has to navigate platonic or romantic relationships with their own characters. A lot of the parallels between Shang Qinghua and Luo Binghe are about them being alike in ugly and vulnerable ways, ways I don't think either of them likes about themselves, and regarding aspects of their personalities that I don't think they'd be happy discussing period. Like, Binghe very much hates himself, that's right there on the page. And Shang Qinghua is a ridiculous character, he's very funny, but he's also not stupid. He's very aware of who he is and what he is, and makes a decision to behave the ways he does. I'm typing this up because I was scrolling through an old chat looking for something and tripped across a conversation about shang qinghua and fawn trauma response.

He knows he does this thing! He has an easy opening to turbokill Mobei-jun while he's unconscious and decides to go the route of begging for his life and trying to ingratiate himself after Mobei-jun wakes up instead, which is a much trickier process. He says it himself, that Mobei-jun is his ideal, that he embodies everything Shang Qinghua wants to be, that etc. And that's hilarious and all, especially in light of the eventual romance and the clownery it takes to get there, but in classic svsss fashion, it also becomes a lot sadder when you add up all the pieces and see everything Shang Qinghua hates about himself.

In some ways he's an even more avoidant narrator than Shen Qingqiu, he deflects and jokes like a motherfucker, so it really is a matter of assembling all the pieces and seeing where there are gaps. But what really underscored the connection for me was Mobei-jun's reaction to parental neglect. Because that's what pushed Shang Qinghua into being an author in the first place, his parents divorced and remarried and kinda just.... forgot about him.

Mobei-jun's dad doesn't exactly do that, but he is operating without a mom in the picture, and rather than remarrying, he just chooses to ignore the thing where his shitty brother is persistently trying to kill his son. That really sucks! But Mobei-jun never shows the smallest hint of weakness or vulnerability over this, even when it would have really helped to use his words, like 'hi my uncle is coming to kill me and i trust you to protect me.' He's everything cool, aloof, arrogant, proud, all a bunch of adjectives that really do not apply to Shang Qinghua. Mobei-jun honestly looks like a boring character if you just stick to the main story, because he's so self-contained and controlled. Compare and contrast to Shang Qinghua, who accidentally outs himself as a transmigrator like two minutes after showing up and proceeds to be hilarious for the rest of the book.

(Brief aside to say that I don't think Mobei-jun is necessarily a happier or healthier person for all of this, lmao. The conversation that fawn reaction thing came from was talking about freeze (tee hee) versus fawn in response to threats or stressful situations. But that goes along with the svsss theme of people used to engaging with this universe as a fictional property coming to terms with the depth and complexity of other people's emotions and not just seeing them as simplistic not-real characters in a book)

(Additionally, this makes the ship hilarious as a take on 'opposites attract,' but also it gives me actual Emotions that Shang Qinghua's ideal who he wishes he could be, purely incidentally, he is able to value and love Shang Qinghua in a way that Shang Qinghua can't and doesn't seem to totally understand)

And what's very interesting here. Is that Shang Qinghua made these two characters, Luo Binghe and Mobei-jun. His protagonist ultimately reflects a lot of his own vulnerabilities and insecurities (secretly and quietly in pidw, much more.... overtly in svsss), and Mobei-jun corrects for his vulnerabilities and insecurities. He's the person Shang Qinghua wishes he could be, which is basically... the opposite of Shang Qinghua, to an almost comical degree. And he then gives Mobei-jun the VERY BEST plot armor he can devise. It's hard for a male character to exist near a stallion protagonist without getting swept up in rivalries/suspicions/etc and getting killed by the protagonist, but he makes sure that his favorite character is safe from these things. He's protecting the character he wishes he could be from the character whose faults most reflect his own. That is very sweet and weird and sad, and that's very reflective of the svsss experience, I think.

#mobei jun #svsss #shang qinghua #moshang

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goodnightoilcountry · 4 months

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you must like me for me - quinn hughes (a sneak peek !)

a/n: another fic idea i've had in my head for ages ! i started writing it the other day when i was sick and it's currently at 3k words. i'm CONFIDENT that i'll smash this one out quicker than my aho fic so it's the only reason i feel like i can post a sneak peak. but also let me know if you have any requests or ideas you'd like me to write about - i'd love to hear from you 🤍

summary: twelve months since the incident and you're ready to let yourself re-emerge into the public eye in the form of a hockey game. the plan was simple: appear, smile, leave unscathed. easy, right?

The theory of fight or flight has always fascinated you. In the face of adversity, no matter how complex the situation, millions of years of evolution still dictate that humanity will always revert to its oldest survival mechanism: to either assert and neutralize, or: evade and withdraw.

What you’ve come to learn is that there’s a third strategy nestled between fight or flight, often overlooked because of its passiveness in comparison to its overt counterparts: to freeze.

And that’s the instinct you’ve found yourself falling back on time and time again. As if you’re hoping to blend into the very fabric of the environment where you can pause amid the chaos, weigh the risks, and soundly determine the best course of action.

The downturn?

You’re left vulnerable and exposed the longer you wait.

But it’s a tactic that you’ve grown familiar with, and it’s the one that’s currently in motion.

“You can’t do this to her, she isn’t ready.”

“It’s been over a year, we can’t let her hide forever.”

The commotion of voices being thrown around surrounds you but you’re too swept up with the memories and emotions battling out in your head. They’re leaving you dizzy and disorientated.

One year. Had it really been that long? God. It feels like one month since you first signed your contract in front of a roomful of lawyers and high-powered executives. Back then, you were too naively charmed by the golden promises of stardom and fame that they were selling you. Promising that your talent for lyricism, bordering on poetry, would resonate with the hearts of girls who all seemed to unanimously share the parallel experiences of all things love and girlhood. That you needed a team that could provide you with the right connections and the right opportunities to get you there.

And to their credit, they didn’t fail you. As soon as you signed your contract, the label had you in the studio effective immediately with the release of “your” song debuting four weeks later.

“But I didn’t write this and it doesn’t really sound like me…”

“Don’t worry about it, honey. We just need to get you on the charts and then you can write about anything you want. Trust us - this is how it all works.”

And trust them you did.

Your song topped the charts for twelve consecutive weeks. The events that took place after your overnight success were a whirlwind. You released a music video. You did media interviews. You collabed with DJs to release remixes. You performed as a guest on endless TV shows. And when you were done, you thought that you would finally be able to sit down with your producers to start developing the library of ideas and single-line lyrics you had swimming around in your head.

But they had other plans for you in the form of a studio album, and then rinse and repeat. You felt like you were a human cannonball: shot out, forced to perform carefully curated tricks, and to always stick the landing.

Your team had done everything they could to meticulously craft your image; selectively allowing journalists to access certain stories whether it be about your work or your life. You were America’s Darling. Until you weren’t.

A sharp trill of your name grounds you back into reality. You blink and recompose yourself, finding the same four people you entered the boardroom with, staring expectantly back at you. Your mom, your manager, Megan, your publicist, Bec, and sat opposite you across the insanely large table is the VP of your label, Joe. Their expressions are ones you’ve grown used to: sympathetic and slightly defeated.

“Sorry, what was the question?”

Megan sighs and shifts slightly in her chair to meet your front. “Darling, I know how hard this year has been for you,”

Do you?

“But it’s time for us to come back out. We need to face this.”

In all the years you’ve worked with Megan, she has never offered you such softness in her voice as she has now. As a manager, a female manager in this industry nonetheless, she had been nothing short of headstrong, sharp, and commanding. Her confidence and demeanour never wavered and, if you were being honest, you were thankful that she held you to the same standard as the rest of your team. It equipped you with a thick skin, something that you wouldn’t have survived your young career without. And it leaves you to wonder where you would be now without her to guide you through this situation.

“Megan is right,” Joe says. “The world hasn’t forgotten, you know.”

It comes out so matter-of-factly that it feels almost accusatory.

“You’re not the first celebrity to be wrapped up in a scandal and you certainly won’t be the last.”

That line is enough to make your mom snap into a fury again.

“A scandal? She did nothing wrong,” she chastises. “What that boy did is not her fault.”

Joe’s impatience is growing evident with every turn of the conversation. As warranted as your mother’s protectiveness is for this particular circumstance, her resistance was stopping one of his biggest artists from bringing in the label money. You can tell he's trying his best to level his demeanour but you also know that the higher-ups are breathing down his neck. He's balancing it as well as anyone could.

“This wasn’t just any boy. And your daughter is not just any girl. The reality of the situation is that just because she wasn’t responsible for what happened, doesn’t mean we can simply erase her from it,” Joe breaks, voice raising ever so slightly.

“She cannot keep silent on this anymore and the longer we stretch this out, the more intense the backlash will be upon her,” he presses on. “With all due respect, we have been extremely patient and have afforded your daughter twelve months. But this is a business first and there is a contract to be upheld. We are giving you the opportunity to write the narrative or have it forced to be written for you.”

“He’s right,” Bec interjects. She’s always had a good gauge of when to step in when tensions start rising. It’s what makes her such a great publicist - always mediating at the right time.

“But we don’t have to rush either. We can take it slowly. Start off with a public appearance in a controlled environment.

The juxtaposition of that sentence could have made you laugh. Controlled environment? If the last few years had taught you anything, it was that no public appearance was ever fully in your control. Your phone number had been leaked more times than you could remember; the media showed up at your house at all hours of the night; private family events were invaded by obsessed “fans”.

Your mom was quick to make the same connection, “where could we possibly let her go that guarantees her safety?”

“The suite at MSG has their security system locked down to a tee. We could place her in there with a few friends and guise it as a quiet night out to show their support. Maybe work with the organisation to show her on the scoreboard during a break, totally candid of course, and maybe meet with their guest of the night for some fan engagement. We don’t want the public to misconstrue the appearance as a total cover-up.” Bec rattles off like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Megan and Joe start nodding in agreeance, chiming in with additional tweaks to the plan that’s now been laid out, and it becomes apparent to you that they’ve had this meeting before without you. Your requested input and presence on the matter was just an act of courtesy. But as vexed as you are with this realisation, you know it makes sense. You were tired of the pitied looks your family and friends gave you, afraid to broach the subject as if it would send you into a spiral. You felt like the public owned you; shunning you into silence with all your actions picked apart and psychoanalyzed everywhere you turned.

You missed your fans who called for you every day, writing sweet notes of encouragement and rebuffing shallow attempts of hate accounts concocting false stories. You wouldn’t be half the artist you are today without them and they deserved more than just radio silence. And it’s this last thought that makes you believe it’s the only reason you say:

“Just tell me when.”

#quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x reader #canucks fic #canucks imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #jo's wips

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silviakundera · 4 months

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My wife's double life is not bad but I'm 9 episodes in and the FL is a mess she's so unreasonable and immature and the way she keeps acting like it's the ML that's somehow doing something wrong? What is it with Chinese dramas and female characters like this it's not cute and it's not feminist it's just shit writing is this like one of the CCP mandates or something because it's crazy how common it is?

FL of My Wife's Double Life is starting to grind my gears so I sympathize. But one thing I think we need to remember is we're self-selecting here when we watch this style of dramas: we're watching specifically female-centered, historical romance genre targeted to younger female audience. There are many chinese tv shows that don't have any romance at all and many that certainly don't have this type of character in them. If someone went to american tv and only watched the Hallmark Channel and Lifetime translated to their language, their opinion of American tv would be skewed.

Many dramas are more mature and targeted at broad adult audiences. But there's a certain immaturity of characterization that I see in media targeted at young adults. Emotions can feel very heightened when you're younger. And I think perhaps some younger people wish they could behave this way and "get away with it". Just give into all your feelings.. be loud & disruptive & illogically demanding, yet experience no consequence: your love interest and your family members cater to you instead of being repulsed by the behavior. It's a kind of wish fulfillment.

There are many english language rom-coms that feature seemingly irrational women who make snap judgments and stubbornly stick to them, then make a loud fuss about them; often unfairly judgemental, nit-picky, and self-involved. (If it's a bit less common now in english media, that's probably as a backlash reaction of this tv writing generation being part of an audience that was getting frustrated by it.)

In most fiction categories, 10% will be great and if you're lucky then 40% will be good. The rest... isn't. That's for all regions and languages.

Just off the top of my head, in the last 3 months I just watched cdramas Legend of Shen Li, Blossoms in Adversity, Parallel World, In Blossom, and now The Double with a mature female lead who isn't this characterization type. (In Blossom has a FL suspicious of ML but her suspicions are rational imo). Joy of Life and Heroes aren't romances but they didn't have female characters of this style either.

So we shouldn't say, why are chinese dramas like this? The question is, why is a certain sub-genre of romances written this way, and who is the target audience for it, and why does it appeal to them?

#idk what country u are from anon but #as a person residing in the country that brought the world #secret life of an american teenager i feel i have no legs to stand on #in critiquing mature realism in romantic dramas 😂😭#silvia answers asks

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caughtthedarkness93 · 4 months

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So I just saw Furiosa and first, yeah, the reviews are right, it's really good, but second, it's interesting because the trailers had me primed to look for allusions to Greek mythology and similar allusions to classical epics there were...well, enough that I don't think it was an accident. Most centered around the villain, Dementus.

Like to name just a few (Possible spoilers)

• Dementus' first vehicle is a chariot pulled by three motorcycles.

• The red cloak Dementus wears calls to mind the visage of a Roman emperor.

• He moves on Gastown while someone is copying a painting that I believe is of Odysseus and the Sirens the painting Hylas and the Nymphs by John William Waterhouse, which, while not a direct reference to the Odyssey as I was thinking, is till a painting that depicts a story from Greek mythology. Thanks @kobresias!

• When moving on Gastown, he uses a Trojan Horse tactic. The actors involved in this scene are literally credited using the phrase "Trojan Truck." I did not pull the Trojan Horse thing out of my ass.

• Most notable of all, Dementus' truck has a Cerberus motif. He has three dogs that are kept in a cage on the back - and with their three heads sticking out and the rest in shadows, they have a profile that looks like the three-headed hound of Hades quite a bit. And lest you think I'm crazy...

Look closely

It's got a Cerberus hood ornament.

I think I'll have to see it again before I make any really strong judgements about it. There are, of course, arguable parallels to the Odyssey and the Iliad, given that Furiosa is 1. a story about a long and difficult journey home, like the Odyssey, and 2. a story about a warrior's rage - which...well, no matter the translation, one of the first things that the Iliad talks about is Achilles' rage or wrath.

But maybe there's more to it, yeah? I dunno. I'm not sure what to make of this one let. Any thoughts, anyone?

#furiosa #george miller #mad max #mad max fury road #furiosa a mad max saga #film #movies #film critique

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anxiousgaypanicking · 4 months

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Fucking Machine

Loceit (Logan x Janus) Kinktober 2023 Day Ten: Fucking Machine Warnings: robot porn, wire play, electrocution, overstimulation, premature ejaculation, grinding

"Forgive me if I don't exactly trust you to check my hardware," Logan states, as Janus leads him through the house and up a flight of stairs. "Typically, I run an analysis on myself, and - if I need human assistance - I ask Virgil. You, on the other hand, have never been that... mindful of technology."

Janus shrugs off Logan's concerns. "I'm more trustworthy when it comes to technology than Patton."

"That's not hard to accomplish," Logan refutes, as Janus guides them into Logan's own bedroom. It's decorated to look human, but the metal table donned with a singular pillow clashes with the dresser, closet, and framed photos quite a bit.

Still, it was what Logan had requested. He had no need for a bed; he didn't much like laying on his front, and his charging port was on his lower back. If he needed to sit at all, he'd rather do it on a table akin to the one he was created atop of. It also meant he could sit straighter while charging.

Janus guides him to the table and encourages him to sit, before sitting criss-cross behind him. Janus finds the cold metal to be rather harsh and uncomfortable, but he keeps quiet about that for now.

"I don't understand why you're doing this anyway. According to my recent self-scans, I've been running perfectly fine."

"Isn't it nice to double check, though?" Janus asks, as his fingers slide beneath Logan's polo.

Logan's skin is synthetic - it's made to feel human, but lacks warmth. Janus can even press his fingers into Logan's sides or arms and they'll sink a bit into the fake flesh, but it's just an outer layer designed to protect his wires and circuitry, the same way the skin is just an outer layer made to protect muscle and bone.

Logan frowns. "It won't be nice when your unskilled prodding causes a server shutdown," he argues, as Janus slowly pulls his shirt up and over his body.

He's able to process each touch to his body due to an array of microfibers built into the synthetic skin. He's been told it should feel identical to the way a human would feel when being touched the same way, but Logan had no way to compare the two. So Janus's fingertips brushing against his soft back makes his internal nerves spark, with Logan stiffening and straightening his posture.

"If you're going to pull out the panel, I'd suggest you get on with it. I'm not here to entertain you."

Janus chuckles softly. "Aren't you made to be patient?"

"I can tell you that I'm definitely not made to be tampered with." Logan turns his head to the side, and gives Janus a cold glare. "Especially by someone already acting so unprofessional."

"Such a snarky tongue. Is that programmed, or just preferred?"

"Preferred."

Janus grins. "Hm. I like it."

"I'd like for you not to damage my hardware."

"Relax," Janus soothes, as his hands push into Logan's back in two specific spots parallel to each other on his left and right side. The pressure causes Logan's skin in a rectangular shape to sink a bit, before it springs out with a soft hiss. Janus dips his hand underneath the left-hand opening, just barely able to wedge two of his fingers under it, and undoes a latch. This allows him to fully swing the panel open like a door, and reveals Logan's innerworkings beneath.

There's a metal spine down the center of his back that allows Logan to turn and bend like a typical person, but Janus is able to reach his arms into Logan around it, which immediately has Logan clicking in disapproval.

"Anything you'd need to look at would be on the screen on the inside of my back panel," Logan states, though Janus is fully aware of this. "There's no reason for you to be sticking your hands into my body."

"Physical checkup," Janus reasons, before sitting up on his knees. He places his chin on Logan's shoulder, with his hands sliding up Logan's spine. "You can't exactly see inside your back; how sure are you that everything's still in order? It seems to me that every time Virgil's worked on your system, he's only paid attention to your digital data or reports. When was the last time he made sure there were no exposed wires, twisted circuits, or dented metal?"

Logan hesitates, before claiming "I think I'd be able to feel if things were damaged."

Janus's fingers reach back into his innards, and his fingertips lightly caress the thick, black wires braded around thin metal rods, which all formed together into a makeshift ribcage. The action makes Logan bite his lip, an artificial - but incredibly noticeable - flush spreading over his cheeks in an almost cartoonish manner.

"Careful," Janus murmurs. "We don't want you to overheat, now do we?"

Logan's fingers tap against his thigh. "No. No, I suppose not."

"Good. May I check?"

Logan glances at Janus, knowing full well what Janus means by "check." And yet, he nods. "Only if you're careful."

"I'll make sure you're still functional afterwards," Janus assures him, before adding "but I can't promise much more than that."

He kisses Logan's bare shoulder, before leaning back down to poke at Logan's autonomy. Logan's mostly still as Janus's hands explore his insides yet again, but he knows it's only a matter of time before Janus is determining what looks the most fun to play with and decides to pull and push at it.

And seemingly, the first thing that seems to interest him are the coloured wires, which he runs his fingers over.

He decides to tease the yellow one first, and pinches the cord lightly, before sliding upwards, and then dragging his fingers downwards, tugging briefly on the wire and making Logan jolt suddenly.

"Careful!" Logan insists, but his voice glitches as he rubs his hands over his thighs.

"Trust me," Janus responds, pressing a kiss to the back of Logan's neck. He hears a click, followed by a soft whirring sound as Logan's fans begin, with his outer layer heating up ever so slightly. Janus smiles against Logan's skin.

"Do you secretly like it when I pull on that wire?" Janus asks, as he tugs on that very cord again. This time, Logan hisses, but it's not the reaction Janus wants. So he hums, and runs his fingers over a few others, before stroking the red cord. That has Logan moaning and jolting, his hands gripping the edge of the table they're seated on.

"Ahh," Janus muses, "I see. You were just waiting for me to find the right wire. This one is fun, but I wonder what the blue one does..."

Janus again switches wires, and tugs a lot more harshly on the blue one, with something becoming unplugged and Logan's innards sparking. Logan lets out a glitchy cry as Janus rushes to pull his hand out of Logan's back, not wanting to injure himself.

"Fuck," Janus curses quietly, before setting a hand gently on Logan's upper shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Logan pants. "You just... unplugged my ethernet port."

Janus chews his inner cheek. "Do you... do you need that?"

Logan huffs, turning to glare at Janus over his shoulder, who smiles prettily at Logan's narrow eyes. "You're going to dismantle me someday."

"I'm going to take that as a 'no.'" Janus grabs the loose cable and ducks a bit to try and figure out the plug the small, cylindrical plug into. He sees the silver ring clear on a small black box up inside Logan's body. Janus reaches up to rub over the port with his finger, making Logan moan softly. "However, I'll be nice. I'll plug it back in for you, so you can... connect to the ethernet."

"It allows me to tap into the local network in order to access speedy data transmissions," Logan murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut as Janus circles the hole with his plug, teasing the very tip of it at the plugs entrance. Janus pushes it in just enough for it to be noticeable, and then pulls it out again, making Logan shudder and stutter as he attempts to continue. "It doesn't... it doesn't do much for me at home, but it's useful for when we're out."

"Oh yeah? So should I just..." Janus slips the cord in just enough for it to be noticeable, but not fully, edging Logan out of that satisfying click, "not plug this back in, then? It doesn't do anything anyway, right?"

Logan whines, taking in a shuddering breath that lets Janus watch as small pistons nestled in his faux ribcage pump the air back out. "Please. Plug it in, please."

Janus smirks, and does just that, and while normally plugging something in wouldn't feel this intense, something about the way Janus speaks or the way he teases his outlet makes it such, and so when Janus fully plugs the ethernet cord in, Logan jolts and sparks, eyes briefly flashing fully white, and moaning outright. Again, Janus has to rush to pull his hand out, before huffing.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to electrocute me."

Logan pants, arching his back and reaching behind him, as if trying to dig his fingers into his open panel and play with his cords himself. "I'd just be electrocuting us both, in that scenario. I spark because this is unnatural; it's not my fault I wasn't built to be played with."

Humming, Janus's hands circle around Logan's body and run his hands down between Logan's thighs, feeling the straining bulge in his jeans. "What's this for, then?" he asks, while grinding his palm over the area, making Logan squeeze his legs together, unintentionally pushing Janus's hand further against his crotch.

"Anatomical accuracy," Logan weakly explains, but he knows Janus doesn't care.

Janus blindly undoes Logan's jeans, struggling briefly with the zipper before he can get it down, and pulls out Logan's cock.

He was built to be average in terms of size, but sensitive in terms of touch. The purpose of that feature was so that he could touch distinct surfaces and identify what they're made of, but it meant he was also incredibly sensitive to touch from others, especially in areas which weren't normally stimulated.

Janus strokes his fingers over Logan's cock with little hesitation, before pulling his hands away and peering into Logan's back.

"Your... fluid compartment... does that connect to your shaft?"

"Of course it does."

As Janus's eyes find the small, round-shaped, bag-like compartment, he's delighted to see it's full of a milky white liquid. "Is that for anatomical accuracy as well?"

Logan swallows the nonexistent spit in his mouth. "It is."

Janus reaches out to touch the compartment, and cringes with fascination and disgust at how it feels. It's like a ball made of nano-tape; just thick enough to hold firm, but malleable when squished. And so, out of morbid curiosity, Janus squishes it.

Perhaps he wasn't thinking about where that fluid would go when squeezed out of its compartment, or maybe he wasn't aware that such an easily overlooked piece of hardware was essentially created to be similar to a human prostate, but either way Janus is incredibly startled when Logan's body jolts as pleasure rushes through him, and he lets out a warped cry as an orgasm is quickly forced out of him before he's ready.

The sudden excitement has Logan sparking with delight and surprise of his own, and despite having previously been careful to avoid the loose electricity, Janus couldn't possibly have seen this coming.

A loose wire comes into contact with the back of Janus's hand, and before he can even gasp electricity is coursing through his body, and sending an overload of electricity through Logan's as well as he conducts it through his flesh and back into Logan's hardware.

The shocking, the pain, and the pleasure last for mere seconds before Janus is pulling away, but it's just long enough for them to both fall of the table in opposite directions.

Janus falls onto his backside near Logan's wall. Logan falls forward onto his chest across from him.

Struggling to catch his breath, Janus holds his hand and turns to look at Logan, who's laying limp. Immediately, he freaks out. Sure, he's human, and that much electricity could be dangerous, but Logan was a fucking machine. He's not supposed to be electrocuted; Janus could have seriously damaged him!

As Janus moves to stand up, he realizes he's hard in his pants, and curses at the poor timing as he circles the table and drops to his knees beside Logan. His pants land in a sticky mess of Logan's artificial come, and he cringes, but attempts to ignore his disgust in favor of flipping Logan over, closing his back panel in the process.

Logan's eyes are shut, but when Janus slides his eyelids up, he sees that his eyes are completely black.

Filled with a rush of anxiety, Janus reaches his hand around to the back of Logan's neck, and feels a button at the base of his hairline, which he presses and holds down, praying that it starts to glow.

And thankfully, it does.

There's a small power-up tune that plays as the button on the back of Logan's neck flashes, before Logan's eyes are slowly blinking open. They shift from solid black to bright wide, and then with a few more blinks blue irises are forming, swirling around like a loading screen before solidifying with a black pupil.

Logan stares blankly for a minute, before his face heats up into an embarrassed flush.

"Sorry," he mumbles, as Janus helps him sit up.

"Sorry?" Janus repeats, in disbelief. "I'm the one who should be apologizing! Are you... hurt in any way?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Janus's hands reach for Logan's face, but Logan grabs his wrists and causes him to stop short. Logan's eyes flicker away from Janus, before settling back on him as he admits "I shut myself down."

"What?!" Janus frowns and smacks Logan's shoulder. "You're not funny. The others would have never let me hear the end of it if I'd damaged you!"

Logan clears his throat. "I could feel a server overload coming due to the electricity and so shut myself down in order to reprogram myself and install better hardware. It's still processing, but it should finish in a couple minutes."

"Better hardware?"

Logan stretches his arm out, wiggles his fingers, and then circles his arm around, testing his mobility. "Yes. Better hardware. Obviously a surplus amount of electricity can cause physical damage, but I'm fairly resilient. My main concern would be my hard drives or servers becoming overwhelmed and either corrupting or frying them altogether. So... I installed a few failsafes."

"Such as...?"

"I lowered my electricity output temporarily," Logan begins, listing items off the top of his head, "both for my benefit, and yours-"

Janus looks away at the implication he'd be reaching back into Logan's insides.

"I downloaded some protection agencies that increase my server's abilities to withstand extreme stress, I copied and uploaded some of my most important assets to the cloud, I ran a diagnostic and made sure no permanent damage was done, and reprogrammed myself to shut down in the event of extreme electric damage so that neither of us would be killed if that intense of a shock were to happen again."

Staring blankly at Logan, Janus clasps his hands together. "So... we're good to resume?"

Logan sighs, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Yes; if you so desire."

And Janus does so desire, and so flips Logan back over without warning, where Logan obediently stays on his hands and knees. He lets Janus push his chest against the ground and flip his back panel open once more, and tries to keep his body from overheating when he feels Janus's bulge push against his clothed ass.

"Your fans flicked on again," Janus comments, as his hands plunge back into Logan's innards. He feels wind blow over his scales and shivers, but is more than amused at how quickly they were activated.

"It's a precaution," Logan murmurs, visibly embarrassed.

Janus leans over Logan, grinding his hard cocks over Logan's backside and groaning into his ear, before Janus searches for a new item inside of Logan to play with. He pokes the small compartment, though now it's lacking fluid. While that means no more mess, Janus suspects that Logan won't mind having a dry orgasm or two.

Logan lets out a shaky breath as Janus's fingers rub over his ribcage, his spine, and then back down to his wires, some hanging looser than others. Briefly, Janus's fingers rub over an unused outlet - fit for a hard drive, if Logan ever needed to transfer outside information to his servers - and it makes Logan moan outright.

"I've heard of plugs being used during sex, but you take it to a whole new level," Janus teases, as his other hand tugs firmly on an intertwined group of wires, which makes Logan suddenly cry out, arching his chest against the floor. Janus grinds his thumb more purposefully over the empty socket. "Maybe I'll download some of Remus's porn onto a hard drive and plug it into you without warning. Would you like that? If I overwhelmed your intellectual technology with graphic, defiling content?"

Despite Logan's typical stoic behavior, he actually pushes his forehead against the floor as he moans out "yes." His voice is glitchy and quiet, and it causes Janus to let out a shuddering breath of his own as he ruts his hips against Logan's ass.

As Janus's hand continues to slide against the open plug in the lower right hand side of Logan's back, his other caresses the wires up to where they disappear into a black box. And so, he slides it back down to a circuit board, which he is gentle when touching despite Logan beeping in surprise as Janus's fingers tap against it.

"Careful!" Logan again exclaims, though he sounds more excited than anything. "That's fragile!"

Janus grinds harder against Logan's ass at just how cute he sounds. "I am careful," he assures Logan, while pushing his longer thumb nails into both the plug and the circuit board.

Little flickers of electricity bounce off the circuit board, shocking Janus once or twice, but it's significantly tamer compared to what he's already experienced. And with Logan's little jolts and whimpers, Janus can assume he's feeling the shocks too.

But what Logan's really amazed by is how foreign and obviously wrong the protrusion of Janus's nail is into his outlet, and the scratching of his circuit board, and yet... he's getting off on this technological malpractice.

Everything that Janus is doing to him is unique. New. And so Logan desperately tries to record and memorize the strange way it feels. However, the light touches also allows Logan to breathe - both metaphorically, and artificially. In this brief respite, Logan's reminded that he's pathetically hard due to the weight of his cock hanging between his legs. He knows his fluid compartment is empty, but that doesn't negate his ability to have an orgasm, and he knows Janus will going to push him to his limit again and again and again if he so desires.

Embarrassed, Logan hides his face in the floor, picturing how lewd and unprofessional he's being. He must look like some sort of sexbot! But before he can complain, Janus is dipping his face into Logan's panel, and lightly blowing air over his circuit board, causing Logan to gasp as his head shoots up in surprise.

He tries to crane his head back to look at Janus, who just grins at him in response and grinds a little harder, reminding Logan that Janus is also getting off on toying with him like he's some sort of do-it-yourself robot kit.

Logan opens his mouth to complain, but nothing comes out. Still though, Janus playfully explains "I thought I saw a speck of dust," lying right through his teeth. His words however have Logan whining anyway, and Janus draws a particularly loud noise from him when he begins to snake his fingers around a couple wires.

Even the faintest of touches make him moan and shut his eyes, submissively pushing his face back into the ground as Janus messes with him.

"What-" Logan starts, but his voice abruptly glitches and cuts out, making him flush and focus for a moment on steadying himself. After clearing his throat, he tries again, and asks "what are you doing?"

Janus just smiles. "I think I see a few tangled wires..." he says, as both of his hands move to a cluster of them. Feeling Janus's fingers caress the cords makes Logan gasp, only for him to moan when Janus begins to carefully pluck and untwist a set that were indeed wrapped around each other. They're guided out of sockets in order to be looped through the meshed cables, and then re-plugged in such smooth tandem that Logan's never given a break to catch his breath.

He's touching multiple wires for a prolonged amount of time, gently maneuvered back to where Janus believes they should be, even if it doesn't affect their ability to function at all.

And Logan repeatedly moans and groans as Janus continues to slide the wires past each other, rubbing them against other cords and in-between his own warm, fleshy fingers. Logan's noises increase in pitch the longer Janus touches, and raise in volume the firmer his caresses get.

And while Janus takes his time initially in playing with Logan, he can't help but become impatient at the lack of pleasure he's feeling himself, and so grabs Logan's wires more tightly - almost as leverage - while he grinds harder against him, moaning into Logan's back panel and breathing over his sensitive hardware.

A click is heard followed by Logan's internal fans whirring slightly louder, as though they've increased in intensity and kicked into high-gear, and Janus can't help but laugh softly as he rests his forehead against the side of Logan's back - teetering on the edge of his synthetic flesh and Logan's exposed innards.

"Feeling hot?" Janus teases, before his forked tongue licks across the rim of the panel's opening. That has Logan crying out; the power button on the back of his neck flashing excitedly. Janus raises his eyebrow as he looks at it.

"Is this draining your battery?" he asks, and watches Logan slump in humiliation, as pleasure rushes through his body as Janus continues to twirl his wires around like they're fidget toys for his amusement. "My, we might just have to leave you plugged in all night to recuperate after this!" Janus's fingers pull out of Logan's panel, sliding over his inner walls before leaving entirely, and instead move to circle around his charging port on his lower back.

Lightly, Janus rubs his pointer finger over it, and that's all it takes.

Logan's gasping, crying and glitching - his moans a stuttering cacophony of different sound bites and start-up noises, all mixed in with his artificial breathing and the differing noises spilling from his back. His charging port sparks and the electricity catches Janus again, shocking him more intensely this time, but he moans against Logan and just presses his finger harder against it, rubbing it feverishly against the outlet as Logan's worked through a dry orgasm before he lays limply on the ground, wonderfully overstimulated and burnt out (literally).

Janus smiles as he moves his hand away from Logan's port, and spends the next minute or so humping against Logan's ass before he comes in his own pants with a soft moan, and then closes Logan's back panel before falling against him. However, the constant light from Logan's flashing power button bothers him, and so he pulls away.

"You really should plug yourself in," Janus comments, as he helps Logan to his feet.

Logan struggles to stand for a moment, mumbling "hold on... recalibrating balance settings..." while trying to get his loose cock back into his jeans, before he falls over onto his metal table chest-first.

He lays against it limply, and thanks Janus after the latter struggles to lift Logan's heavy form fully onto the surface.

Janus circles around Logan to his wall outlet, where he takes Logan's charger into his hand and promptly plugs it in. Logan whines, as though he's still sensitive, but his power light glows happily at being plugged in. Janus leans against the table and sighs.

"How are you feeling?"

Logan turns his head to the side, so he can speak without sounding muffled. "Fine. I don't think anything's permanently damaged."

Janus huffs out a laugh. "That's a relief."

"Knowing you? I agree."

Janus smacks Logan's lower thigh playfully, before focusing on his breathing for a moment. Logan's rhythmic, synthetic breathes contrast greatly to Janus's more irregular exhales, but there's both visibly pleased, albeit a tad messy. He'll get himself cleaned up after catching his breath, and he supposes that when he's done with a bath he'll come wipe Logan down. He'll even be extra careful! He's sure Logan will appreciate it.

#sanders sides #sanders sides smut #not safe for sanders #agp smut #loceit #loceit smut #kinktober 2023 #robotfucking #wire play

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