#I had a Johnny thing in mind but then this punched me out

[neodump]

I miss you, bro 😪. I need you to dump something on me rn, like rn babe 😭 been craving for that sexy writing that you carve from that sexy brain.

All I’m thinking about is him taking you on your fifth or sixth date together and he hasn’t gotten laid, and hasn’t complained or made a move on you even once.

He’s driving (wishful thinking) and you’re using a story you’re telling as an excuse to run your fingers along his forearm. You can see him breakout into literal goosebumps, hairs raising up, but he’s laughing and giving nothing away. But when you start putting your hand on his thigh, not high up or anything, he starts squirming his seat a little.

The sound you make, like an oh, makes him look down, following your gaze. ‘Cause he’s hard, not even casually, more like fully pressed to his zipper hard. He’s so embarrassed, he can barely apologize. Mark’s used to feeling near-desperate at the end of his dates with you that he hadn’t noticed he was rocked up.

Five or six dates is enough. He’s passed whatever test you thought you’d be able to put him through without failing it yourself. Good enough.

You ask him how he feels about pulling over onto the side of some dark road and pulling it out through his zipper so you two can get your first fuck in without playing the waiting game any longer. You’re sliding your hand up his thigh, over the tremble it’s doing, right over where he’s hard up and hot. You tell him he can have whatever, just keep the vest on while he does it.

Mark yanks the car over and is gentleman enough to usher you to the backseat without having to step out, but maybe not enough to not flip your dress up (or yank your pants down) and pull your panties aside to have you asap, doggy style, fuck everything else. And then again in some cramped missionary position because he’s been waiting for this and once isn’t enough.

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 3; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

“What is this anyway—‘bring your girlfriend to work’ day?”

She’s snarky as ever, but with an agitated edge. Nerves prickling when Johnny holds her jacket out for her to slip her arms into. Even that makes her snap—something about not being a toddler that Johnny needs to help dress, but by then his head is in the clouds. In another place altogether. 

The prospect of getting to parade his new girl around leaves him giddy, fox-like grin hard to squash. He doesn’t suppress anything, finds it hard to push things down. When he does, it’s often unconscious. 

She doesn’t like the way he savours her anxiety like a fine wine, sniffs it from the top of her head and groans out his breath, cackling when she tries to stomp on his foot to make him go away. He dances away with her coat, light and nimble on his feet because he’s used to ducking and weaving for her affection. 

“The guys wanna meet ye,” he repeats for the umpteenth time. It’s surprising how many times he’s had to say it. 

“Why? Haven’t they ever met a girl before?” she gripes, swallowing now, her stomach probably cramping and poor bonnie lass, Johnny thinks. His poor, pretty girl is trying to put on a brave face when he knows she prefers being in the backroom of her little flower shop, snipping off stalks and tying pretty bows around pretty bouquets. He wishes he could keep her back there forever—put a lock on the door and come only to smother her in kisses and gorge himself on every inch of her—but there’s a whole wide world demanding his attention. 

“Aye, hen, never a lass as cute and sweet as ye,” he crows, ducking a hand that punches through the sleeve of her jacket in his direction. 

In the car, he drops the facade. Loses his teasing edge. It’s a violent removal, like jolting awake to the sound of someone sawing away at a catalytic converter. If his smile is saccharine, it’s really only a smokescreen concealing the apprehension bubbling away in his belly. 

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel on the drive back to base. Heart in his throat, choking his words and rendering him quiet for once in his life. He hears Ghost’s voice in his head, a low rumbling laugh, tectonic plates shifting beneath his feet. These days, his voice acts as a lodestar, the thing steering Johnny home. 

Months ago, it was the only thing between him and annihilation, the ice cold maelstrom dragging him deeper into its maw. Guiding him through the valley of death. The wound in his arm still aches in the first light of day. His sleep is still wracked by dreams of running down alleys and ducking into houses, the rain pattering against the window panes ominous, a ticking clock, each step having to be precise, calculated, each movement quieter than quiet, fading into the shadows, a cool heart and mind bested by agony from the bulletwound in his shoulder.

And then—Ghost’s voice, low and soothing in his ear, shattering the pain. Ghost’s voice in his ear telling him where to go, how to survive. 

It’s hard to explain. Johnny’s tried. It’s like talking in circles when he opens his mouth and tries to get it out. I trust him with everything in me. He could do anything to me, anything. 

He is no less capable, no less competent. His rank demands respect, and he takes what’s due to him. Since Las Almas, he’s worked across a medley of other teams, even solo a time or two. It changes nothing. He still wakes in a sweat, chasing that voice. It takes him back into the real world. The days burn into the fringes of a memory that he is always living.

“Should I know anyone’s name before we get there?”

Her voice breaks through the noise in his head this time. It’s every bit as precious. 

“What d’ye mean, hen?” he asks, clucking his tongue. Sweats a bit when he realizes how far down the motorway they are now, how long it’s been since he checked out, lost in his thoughts. One hand rests loose on her leg, fingers spread wide and thumb gliding up and down her outer thigh, the other still holding the wheel. 

The pinched look has mostly fallen off from her face, but there’s still a tremble in her lower lip when she says, “Well, I don’t know any of your friends. I wouldn’t introduce you to my friends without telling you their names first.”

“No’ my friends, hen—we’re coworkers.”

She looks over at him from the corner of her eye. “I’m friends with my coworkers.”

Johnny shrugs. “It’s no’ the same with guys. Couldnae tell you fuck all about any of them except their names, to be honest.”

“Oh, don’t give me that—you’re not friends with a single one of them? No one?”

No hunger without resistance. His mouth goes bone dry. He’d be wise to learn that. 

He swallows. “Maybe a few.”

No transaction without accountability. Ghost saves his life and now Johnny has to pay that debt back tenfold. Sinking into the crease of Simon’s voice late at night, clutching it to his chest. Breathing it out. Maybe they are friends. 

He’s a bit show-offy at the base gates, dangling his ID card out the window pinched between two fingers. The civilian guard on duty just waves him on, scanning it only for the sake of the logs. His tires spin in the dirt when he guns it down the stretch of road leading into the base, windows still all the way down. Her hair whips around in the wind until she gathers it all up in her fist and shrieks at him to roll the windows up. 

Johnny enjoys showing off. That’s a core aspect of who he is, his charm. Braggadocious, confident in the way he looks, his physical prowess, his lot in life—so why would that change with his girl? He holds her close with an arm around her waist when he drags her through the rec centre, the building closest to where they parked. 

He gets lost in conversation for longer than expected. Pure gloating about the girl he’s managed to bag. Cooing in her ear when he feels her get a bit uneasy, still timid around the other guys despite having him at her side. He supposes that’s fair. She’s more comfortable around the women on base, a bit freer with her greeting and questions, but there’s still a pinch in her brow that never smooths all the way over.

It takes a while to find anyone that he knows. There are plenty of sergeants and corporals that he’s worked with before, familiar faces and names, but Johnny still glances around the room while they make light conversation with his girl, searching. Looking for something familiar, something that’ll reel him in, make him perk up like a dog catching a scent. 

They cross Gaz in a random hallway on the way to the comm centre, hardly recognizable at first with the darker stubble of his beard grown out. He must’ve just come back from wherever he’d been shipped off to the month previous, no time to shave or clean up. He even smells of old sweat when Johnny leans in for a hug. 

“Is this—?” Gaz glances over at her just once while the question dangles in the air. He looks back over at Johnny. 

They lock eyes. A silent exchange of meaning. 

“Aye,” Johnny nods, steering her in front of him with both hands on her shoulders, showing his girl off like a kid with a new toy. Eyes glinting like, don’t say a word. “Brought her in to meet everyone.”

A molasses slow smile spreads across Gaz’s face. It’s clear why men like him always get the girl. Johnny’s hands tighten on her shoulders. “Nice to meet you—thought John would hide you away forever.”

She glances up at him through her lashes. “You talked about me?”

Gaz shakes his head. “Not as much as you’d think. Took Ghost ages to get it out of him.”

Johnny flushes. “Did no’. Jus’ ‘cause I don’ blab about everything under the fuckin’ sun doesnae mean—”

“John says you’re a florist,” Gaz interrupts, turning the conversation back to her. Her lips split up into a mischievous little grin, delighted at the turnabout, probably delighted at seeing Johnny stumble over his words.

Something about her teasing grin gets his dick hard. More points to the rapidly disintegrating belief that he doesn’t have a humiliation kink. He leans forward, pressing it into her ass, delighted himself when she shoots him a dirty look over her shoulder but doesn’t pull away. 

“So, where’s everybody?” Johnny asks casually, trying not to make it too obvious who he’s referring to. The look Gaz gives him is unimpressed. He keeps running into that brick wall, his thoughts written out on his forehead, obvious to everyone around him. 

“Everyone?” Gaz repeats sceptically. 

“Aye.” His voice is tight, warning. “Everyone.”

“Ghost’s actually on his way here now, I think. We got called over to HQ—s’where I was headed, actually.”

“I dinnae say anything about Ghost, now did I—,” Johnny grumbles, but the words dissolve in his mouth when the man in question comes into the room. 

Sometimes, Johnny has the pleasure of seeing Ghost round a corner. The split second pleasure of being the observer, of dragging his eyes up and over, his chest bursting with a light like dawn cresting behind mountains and splitting the sky. In the field, he’s often deprived of that; becomes used to experiencing the phenomenon of Ghost melting out of the shadows, sometimes scaring the daylights out of him. 

It’s what happens now though. Glancing up on a whim only to see a man round the corner of the hallway leading out of the rec centre, shirt stretched out maddeningly over his arms and chest, muscles bulging like he just came from the gym, still pumped. The shirt’s a little threadbare, something old and worn, and Johnny’s seen it a million and a half times he figures; it leaves so little to the imagination that he’s joked about Ghost busting it at the seams from time to time, only to be met with a steady, aloof stare. 

There’s something to be said about how he’s drawn to people who refuse to scratch him behind the ears until he’s more than proven himself. He works tirelessly for Ghost’s approval, for his girl’s approval. Dogs with their bones, tigers with their stripes. 

He has a balaclava pulled over his face, just a simple black one this time, the underside of his eyes darkened by eyeblack hastily scrubbed off the night before, probably. His eyes scan the crowd, locking on Johnny and Gaz almost instantly. It’s the mark of a good soldier—he doesn’t flounder in the dark. Always finds his target, like a sixth sense for knowing when he’s being watched. 

Ghost course-corrects upon noticing them, crossing the room in a handful of seconds. The curt, “Johnny,” he gets is a bounty, a treasure. He grins back when Ghost glances down at the girl at his side. “That your bird?” 

“Told ye I’d bring her in—s’long as everyone’s on their best behaviour, of course.”

Gaz snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Ghost must cock an eyebrow because he can see the fabric of his mask shift. “Pretty.”

He can’t help the way he preens at that. Tucked away by his side again, Johnny can feel his girl squirm, but he pays it no mind. She’s shy—he’s known that from day one, from the first time she stumbled out from the back of the flower shop and scrunched her nose up at his attempts at flirting. 

Admiration is a smooth, buttery feeling. It keeps him aloft while another couple of servicemen take interest in their conversation and come over, Johnny’s girl at the centre of everyone’s attention. He’d be pricklier about it if he didn’t have a firm hand on her waist, keeping her pressed to his side. 

He soaks up the attention. Drinks it up when someone asks his girl a question and Johnny answers for her or pinches her cheek when she manages to pipe up before him. He knows he’ll get read the riot act when he takes her back home later, but he might be able to convince her to ride him while berating him for talking over her. Might beg her to slap him and spit in his mouth—say it’s the only way he’ll learn his lesson.

Dirty dog.

It strikes him that maybe he’s picked up some bad habits in recent months. He’s never been one to overthink, to worry and fret. Yet, he toils in it now, shovels coals into the furnace of it and gives it life. 

His shoulders go slack, the tension finally ebbing out of him. No longer dogged by the incessant fear that his girl is going to run away, bolt at the first loud noise, or that someone’s going to pluck her up out of his arms. She seems comfortable if anything. 

He’s been overthinking all of this, wrapped up in his head. He can breathe out, unclench. 

When Ghost shifts to stand closer to them, he glances over because that’s where his gaze always goes these days. Seeking Ghost out, finding him in a crowd; looking for his North Star wherever he is, wherever he goes. 

Only to watch in mute horror as, in plain sight, not trying to be discreet or hide it from anyone, Ghost gropes his girlfriend’s ass in front of everyone on base. Just reaches out a big hand and fondles her ass, digging his fingers into the cheek. She freezes, back ramrod straight as she stares ahead, eyes going a bit blank. 

He fails whatever test this is, mouth too dry for any words to come out. Humiliation burns him from the inside out. Another sergeant that he’s worked with before frowns, glancing over at Johnny. Neither of them say a word. 

Ghost tilts his head, staring down at his hand on her ass like he’s contemplating its plushness. Admiring it. With how Johnny stands on one side and Ghost the other, the two of them bracket her, like the soft centre of their trio; nowhere for her to go, a handler on either side. That’s wrong though. Ghost is not her handler—Johnny hardly is, more of a self-appointed one. 

Still he—

He lets it happen.

Contention dies a bloody death in his mouth, massacred. Mangled. He lets Ghost sink his fingers into his girlfriend’s backside and hum a little under his breath before finally pulling his hand away. The others look at him, waiting for Johnny’s reaction with bated breath. A reaction that never comes because it gets strangled in Johnny’s throat. 

“Nice meeting the bird,” Ghost finally says, voice a decibel lower, rough enough to scrape. “Gaz and I’ve got shit to do now. Be ready on the tarmac by oh-seven-hundred tomorrow, Johnny.” 

He grips Johnny by the shoulder before heading off, like he didn’t just grope Johnny’s girlfriend. Like he didn’t just reach down and grab a handful of her ass like it was his to feel up. And Johnny just nods. A placid, docile thing under Ghost’s hand, bobbing his head like a doll. 

Then Ghost leaves, Gaz trailing after him, looking back about a half dozen times to see if Johnny will suddenly follow them until he’s forced to job to catch up to Ghost, the man already yards away, longer legs carrying him fast out of the building. 

They don’t talk on the drive back to her apartment, the inside of the car tense and uncertain. Johnny walks her to the door when he lets her off, but it’s a formality, a chaste kiss at the door instead of the rough fuck that he’d envisioned to send her off. Despite the hard set of her jaw, she doesn’t lambast him like Johnny expected. The silence is worse though, haunting when she shuts the door in his face. 

The drive back to base after the drop off is agonizing in a whole new way. Still pent up, cock heavy in his pants, and fingers drumming over the steering wheel twice as fast now. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do? What he wants to do is turn around at the closest gap between both sides of the motorway and speed all the way back, knock on her door until his knuckles blister and bleed, until she opens the door and lets him in, lets Johnny push her to the floor in the entryway and spread her legs, welcoming him in. 

Until she lets him fit his fingers into the marks left behind by Ghost’s hand. 

Cold fire rising up off his bones, and then something hot. And wet. 

The next day at breakfast in the mess, one of the guys says something like, “If Ghost was into my girl, that’s the last you’d see of me and her,” and his mind goes blank and he goes over the table.

[bunny-jpeg]

boxers

simon 'ghost' riley

cw: smut/pwp, boxing au, boxer!simon, injury/bruises, protective!simon, size difference, unprotected sex, cowgirl position, gentle sex, simon luvs his missus,

you liked strong men. strong however was a broad definition. thought a man could be strong in a lot of ways, not just physical. strong convictions, strong emotionally, there were many examples.

but when you started seeing simon, you were enthralled by his physical strength. he wasn't some eight pack having, dehydrated mess. he was bulky, which was good for what he did.

punch the living daylights out of other boxers.

wide shoulders, a softness in his stomach, strong arms with one lined with tattoos. not to mention those thighs, he could crush a watermelon with them if you asked nicely (no, he wasn't going to crush your head). the facial scars add a scary look as did those dark eyes of his.

despite it, simon was a total sap.

at least to you, no one else. god forbid johnny or any of the others. but when it was just the two of you, he was a big puppy. you once described him as a huge german shepherd who thought he was a lap dog.

simon simply said, "just be glad i don't wanna sit on your lap, love. i'll break ya." then pulled you to him to give you a kiss on the forehead. he'd never hurt you though, he'd rather take his own life than yours.

and you loved him back, even with his loud snoring, you still adored him. you thought that he was the perfect boyfriend. which was why it hurt so much when he came home late at night with bruises on his face.

"si."

he dropped his bag and let you get in his arms. he kissed the top of your head lovingly. and welcomed your embrace. the man had enough fractures and scars. so to see another shiny bruise only left you feeling sad.

you brought him to the kitchen by his hand and sat him down at the kitchen table. he looked so large in the small space, which really highlighted your size difference.

"c'mon, pretty thing." he said as held out his arms to you.

you looked over your shoulder from the freezer, "give me a second, honey. i need to find the frozen peas."

simon groaned. he wanted to touch his woman. he cursed the universe that the frozen peas were in the back of the freezer. you managed to grab the bag before you turned to your boyfriend.

you sat in his lap and pressed the frozen vegetable to his bruised face, "poor baby." you cooed as you gave the bag to him.

he hissed a little at the feeling of it against the heat of the bruise. you rested your head on top of his and held him close to your chest

"do i need to talk to anyone?"

he chuckled, "no, love. i just need you right now. i wanna feel my woman." he nuzzled up against your chest. he even kissed the little gold chain around your neck.

eventually the peas started to melt and you put them back in the freezer. however with your back turned to your lover, you didn't notice his approach towards you.

he cornered you against the fridge with his large, scarred hands on your hips. he let out a shudder, "i need you." his voice sounded a little strained.

you swallowed as you kept your hands on the front of the fridge. you could feel his cock pressed against your ass. the rush was the fight was wearing off, but he needed another release.

"you could've just asked, riley."

he curved his back over you to lean in to kiss your neck. his hands traveled north to your breasts and groped them. the flesh filled his hands, his grip was a little rough. but, you didn't mind that.

"i know, love. but i couldn't find the words. i just needed you." his voice was like driving over gravel. it left you hot all over.

you blushed a bit at his words. you turned so you front was facing him. you took his face in your hands and brought him in to kiss his bruise. you said, "si-"

"please." he said as he curled an arm around you middle and brought you closer to him. your hands were splayed across his broad chest. he pulled you into a kiss and you had to get on your tip-toes to meet his lips.

he held you by your middle, his strong arms draped around your waist. he groaned against the kiss, "mine." his voice was as light as it could be.

you really had no choice. it was either you fucked on the bed or up against the fridge. and you knew the landlord would not want to deal with that. so you got out of your boxer boyfriend's grasp and took him by the hand. then you practically dragged him to your shared bedroom.

his eyes were on you as you walked. he felt his cock stir in his pants. you were just so good to him. you were the perfect girl for him. it made him smirk to himself even if it did hurt a little.

he watched your beautiful body on display for him as you tugged off the oversized shirt (that belonged to simon) and baggy sweatpants (that were yours, because his were two sizes too big!). he put his hands on your hips, feeling the softness under his finger tips.

he leaned in a down at you and kissed your cheek. he squeezed your hips and groaned against you, "pretty girl." you trailed your fingers through his blond hair.

your core throbbed for him, your heart leapt when he got a better grip on you and almost tossed you onto the bed. you bounced a little and laughed. "simon! no need!"

"i need ya love, you were takin' too long." he quickly got his shirt off. he hit his nose in the hustle of it all, but was too wrapped up in his deep lust for you that he didn't even wince at the pain, "c'mon, love. either you get them off, or i'm rippin' em of!"

usually he liked to slowly take off your bra and panties, but tonight was an inferno. a huge fire that burned in his core. his heart thumped as he go the buckle of his belt off and he slid the leather off from his waist. he watched you hastily get your underwear off and laid underneath him.

"i wanna see my girl on top." he said as he leaned in for a searing kiss and grabbed you to put you on top of him while he laid on the bed. you were both naked, two pieces of the same puzzle.

you moved so your pussy brushed up against him. he let out a choked groan as you didn't fully sink down him. he could feel his heart up into his throat.

it should be illegal for you to do that, and punishment for it is to get dicked down for five hours.

"like that, si?"

"if i wasn't so worry about breakin' ya, you'd already be ridin' it." he loved when you were on top. the sight of your eyes on him as you hold onto him for a leverage as you rode him.

"si." you smiled as you splayed your hands on his chest and sank down onto his cock. you could feel your heart in your throat as you sank yourself down on his impressive size. you choked out a moan and felt the pleasure pollute your head.

"that's it, baby girl." he said softly. his voice was a rumble in the back of your head like thunder. he guided your hips. he wanted to see close to his missus.

your big scary boyfriend. close to being the number one fighter in the league. the big shot. the ghost. there he laid under you, his eyes closed and his body melting into the bed. his hands your hips as he slowly guided them up and down. your cunt felt like a comfortable vice around him, he could hear the hitch in your breathing when he hit just the right spot.

what a beauty, the most loveliest woman he had ever laid his eyes on. that's why you were his woman, the only one he wanted. through hell and high water, to the moon and back. he kept his hand steady on your waist as you moved up and down on his cock.

you could hear your heart thumping in your ears from the blood rush of having sex with him. the most handsome man you ever had the privilege of loving. you held onto him for support as you raised and lowered your hips against pelvis.

you felt the curl of pleasure in your gut as his cock prodded at your most intimate parts. he felt so right. that was your man, as you leaned in and kissed him on the lips, you felt the inferno in your gut.

you felt hot and heavy all over, you felt the rush of pleasure echo through your body as you moved against him. he was your simon, the bloodied boxer, the ghost of the ring. he came home to you every night, he kissed you until you fell asleep in his arms, he brought you home flowers on tuesdays and always cooked dinner on sundays.

that was your charming bloke who punched people for a living. with his scars on his cheeks and lips, the crookedness of his nose, those piercing brown eyes and all the love he could give you. while he didn't believe it was much, it was more than you ever wanted.

"si"

"love."

you pulled him in for another hot kiss as you bounced more on his cock. the stabbing of his cock in you made you feel lightheaded, there was so much to fit in you. everything about simon felt big, from the meat on his shoulders to the width of them. his strong arms that were now wrapped around your middle, to of course his cock that was filling any gap in your pussy.

you dug your nails into his tanned skin and you let out a loud moan as simon clutched onto you and continued to push his cock up into you. it made you see stars as he moved.

"that's my woman." he huffed, "bright beauty." his voice drew as he bounced you on his cock. even if the pain in his face was still there, the sight and feeling of you around his cock managed to dull the pain. who thought pussy was a good cure for a bruise.

he pulled you closer to him, until your chest was against his. simon bent his knees and got a different angle to hit the back of your soaked cunt, "been thinkin' about my missus all evening. probably why my game got thrown off. was thinkin' about this sweet treat rather than johnny's punches." he chuckled as he managed to fuck you faster.

you whined, you didn't want to be the cause of simon getting hurt. but he quieted you down with a searing kiss. he didn't need to hear that, he wanted to hear your pussy getting fucked by him.

the angle made your head a little dizzy as you tried to keep some more of control. but it was too late, simon had already dominated your little pussy yet again. it was alright though, the feeling left shivers through your body.

he continued to make out with you, the kisses were sloppy and needy. it made your cunt ache as he rocked into you. the bed shifted under you two as you continued to make love.

simon loved you. he'd never hurt a hair on your head, even a chipped nail was a cause of concern for him. he kissed at you hot face as he felt you grow tense around him.

a few hard thrusts later and you were clamping down on him, orgasm pulled from you and you felt hot all over. the pleasure left your head swimming. you panted wildly as he continued to move against you.

he gave you filthy praise as he felt his own orgasm come over him. with a heavy thrust into you, he slammed his cock all the way into you and finished. spurts of cum hit the inside of your pussy and he left out a harsh grunt.

he dropped his arms down onto the bed and laid fully out. you clung to him and his cum clung to your pussy lips. you both laid there, basking in each other's embrace.

you leaned up and kissed him gently on his bruise, "my boxer." your fingers dragged down his chest, "you have to be careful. i hate when my man gets hurt." you kissed him on the cheek under the bruise, "i need you to come back to me in one piece."

simon's cock soon slipped out of your pussy and you softly kissed him on the lips. he said to you between kisses, "i always come home to my love. i love you so much." his words were like honey that melted to your core.

you laid in each other's hold. he had been a fighter all his life, but now he was simply yours. wrapped up in the comforts of bed, the bruises would heal but your love for him would be eternal. <3

[lushrve]

hockeyteam!141 x figureskater!reader

cause who doesn't want the image of these boys all sweaty and bloody in hockey gear (also i haven't mastered writing in a scottish or manchester accent yet so don't come for me)

you’re a figure skater, something you’ve devoted your whole life since childhood to. over the years, you’ve honed your craft, becoming one of the best in your area. you do well enough at competitions; not olympic material, but skilled enough to bring home a state title every now and again. you take pride in the way your body glides across the ice, painting pretty pictures with each scrape of the blade of your skate. it’s methodical, structured, clean. if you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you’re dancing on clouds.

it’s a small town and there’s only one ice rink for miles, so of course you run into the local hockey team practicing and warming up for matches. you don’t know most of them (don’t care to, frankly), but some are more notorious than others.

the team captain and center, price, the tactical mind behind their victories. from the few games you’ve watched them play, you can tell that he calls the shots. you watch as he sits on the bench, watching his teammates rush back and forth across the ice. it’s like he sees beyond the game. sometimes, you see him close his eyes, like he’s seeing a play take shape in his head, before calling out to the others and making it happen. they always listen, his booming baritone too compelling to disregard. (that voice made you feel something too, but you didn’t want to admit it.)

then there was a defenseman, simon. you just knew him as “riley” by the last name emblazoned on the back of his jersey. but if you listened closely (and you did), his teammates called him ghost. it didn’t take you very long to find out why. ghost was a large man, all broad shoulders and hard lines. he preferred the silent approach to taking down an opponent, slamming them against the boards before they could even register the sound of his skates scraping the ice. he played dirty, your eyes often meeting his when the referee threw him in the penalty box. (he winked at you once as he cleaned some blood from his lip, fresh from a fight. you pretended not to notice.)

left wing belonged to johnny, a scottish man they called soap. he got his nickname from his assist record, always coming in to clean up what price or ghost or another teammate had fumbled to lead his team to victory. he was quick on his feet, but brutal. while ghost was the primary muscle, soap wasn’t afraid to get physical if someone was coming between him and a goal. soap was also mouthy, chirping in his thick accent across the ice to get in the other team’s head. half the things he said, you don’t understand. hell, the other team probably didn’t either. but the tone was what mattered. (he leaned over the plexiglass after a solid win, personally inviting you back to their next home game. you blushed crimson.)

right wing was kyle. by far the prettiest one on the team, you thought. he’d take his helmet off as he skated back to the bench, running a hand through his sweat-soaked curls. the sight of him was like a work of art, a canvas brutalized by the nature of an aggressive team sport. he wasn’t as quick to get physical as the others were, but the moment everyone dogpiled on the ice, he was right there in the fray, throwing punches that landed just as loud and hard as the rest of them. the way he moved on the ice almost reminds you of your routines, careful and choreographed. he knew exactly where he was going, and he always hit his marks. (you wondered if he always moved like that, wondered if he danced through life.)

ghost and soap approached you after a win, coming up into the stands after they’d stripped themselves of their gear. while soap looked a bit smaller after shedding the heavy padding, ghost didn’t. still a hulking wall of muscle. “oughta sit in the stands mo’ often, birdie,” soap chirped, a smug smile on his face as he leaned on his hockey stick. “y’r like a good luck charm fer us.” you blushed pretty, averting your eyes and missing the way the two men looked at each other. you’d do just nicely, they thought. ghost cleared his throat, your eyes snapping up to him like he’d commanded it. (he could’ve. you would’ve obeyed.) “when d’you skate again?” he asked, arms crossed over his expansive chest.

“y’ve seen us in our element. now we wanna see you in y’rs.”

[oceantornadoo]

the cabin in the highlands (johnny mactavish x f!reader)

reminder that i suck at scottish accents

--

“johnny, why did you bring me here?”

he flicked the ash off his cigarette and raised it to his mouth.

“ye said ye were gonna be lonely on the next break.”

actually, you had said you were going to be alone, which is different. you wanted to be alone because you needed a break from this. the overbearing presence of johnny, his scent cloying with your nostrils and settling in the air. every joke. every playful punch, every brush of the waist was wrapped in your mind like a twisted christmas present, with no end and no beginning. you treasured your moments together but couldn’t make sense of them at all.

of course, johnny didn't care about any of that, which was why you were smoking outside a cabin in the highlands, eyes tracking the fog rolling over the distant mountains. you could have been relaxing in your flat near base - alone, sure, but at least you'd be at ease. instead, your heart rate was perpetually elevated, shoulders bunched at every movement of johnny's. it was quiet here, no gunfire or commands in your ear. just you and johnny, in his small cabin that he liked to come to in between deployments. "air clears everythin' up 'ere." he had said, pointing to his skull, where the bullet had grazed. you couldn't deny him that - it was beautiful and peaceful and calm, your thoughts slowing to the pace of a dripping faucet when you had a moment to yourself. not now, of course.

it was early morning, the sun just cresting over the horizon. bit chilly, but not enough to see your breath. johnny had honest-to-god rocking chairs on his back porch, wooden creaky things you both sat in as you watched the sunrise in silence. you wrapped your hands tighter around your tea mug as johnny finished his cigarette, a habit he seemed to have picked up from ghost in the past few weeks. you'd thought you brought warm enough clothes, leggings and sweats packed to the brim, but clearly you underestimated the kind of cold in the highlands. even with the summer air, the early morning chill sank deep into your bones. "ye're shakin' like a leaf, lass." you shook your head, taking another sip of your tea. "still waking up, johnny. unlike you, i try to sleep in when we're not deployed. still catching up from three weeks ago." he grunted, finishing his cigarette and putting out the stub on his ashtray. you tracked his movements, eyes tracing the veins and battle worn callouses of his hands, disappearing into his thick fleece jacket.

"c'mere." you must have heard him wrong. you turned to him, furrowed eyebrows asking a silent question. "i'm sorry?" he grinned, patting his lap. "am warm. c'mon." you rolled your eyes, averting your gaze to the mountains again. "don't be dumb, johnny. i'm fine." silence. and then, a large hand appeared in your vision, plucking the mug out of your hands. he came back, tucking one arm under your knees and the other around your back, tugging you up into his arms. "johnny! i was comfy!" he laughed into the nape of your neck, mohawk cutting off your field of vision. he smelled good, like pine and the remnants of last night's fire, home mixed up into a scent.

johnny maneuvered himself back into his seat, plopping you into his lap. "better, bon?" you nodded meekly, tucking yourself into his lap. he was warm all over, your forehead coming to rest on his collarbone. he ran one hand up and down your thighs, tracing the lines of your pajama pants, while the other hand secured you against him. "thin pants." he murmured, almost to himself. you weren't sure where to put your hands, suddenly thrown by the absurdity of your position, curled up in your fellow sergeant's lap. your ass was directly against his crotch, rubbing against his sweatpants. you swore you could feel something getting harder against you, choosing to ignore it completely. "johnny, this is hardly appropriate we're-" "not at work. jus' ye an' me." you blew out a harsh breath. "i don't know what to think, johnny." what to think about his offer to go see his cabin. what to think about accepting and following through. what to think about wearing his sweatshirt, sitting in his lap. what to think about being the only two people around for miles. "don't. lemme hold you, mo chridhe." you gave up, sinking into his arms.

your focus turned from the mountains to him. his scent, wrapping you in his embrace. the softness of his fleece jacket. the safety of his arms, still petting you like something precious. out of nowhere, an idea came to your mind. you turned slowly, pulling a bit out of his embrace. he grumbled and you shushed him with a glare. gently, you took your hand out of your lap to run it through his hair. your theory was correct. this harsh military man kept his mohawk butter soft, your hand passing easily through the strands. you pressed your nails in a bit, just to experiment, and were rewarded with a low growl, reverberating in your thighs. he closed his eyes, blue gaze now hidden, leaning into your touch. you shifted your weight, pulling out of his lap to straddle him instead, thighs surrounding his own like a vice. he pulled you forward, eyes still closed, hands digging into your pajamas as he forced you as close as possible. your core rubbed against him, clothed cunt rocking in his lap, reveling in the hardness there. your hands were still exploring his hair, dragging your nails this way and that, tracking his every groan and tucking it in somewhere hidden in your heart. whenever this bubble popped, whenever he got bored and moved on from this tug of war, you'd hoard those groans like a dragon protecting her treasure. his hands had traveled to your ass, pushing you even closer as his thumbs dug into your hips, circling. he gave you a roll of his hips, cock pressing against your aching cunt through layers of fabric.

"johnny, feels good." he did it again, catching your clit at a perfect angle. you let out a moan, uninhibited and from your center, and felt him grow even harder under you. you dropped your hands from his hair, forehead resting on his shoulder. "what if- fuck. just once, johnny? won't get awkward after, i promise." he stopped suddenly, hips falling against the chair. you let out a sound of protest, moving your head from his shoulder. "shit, i'm sorry i didn't mean-" he shut you up with a kiss: harsh, bruising, possessive. his hands came up to craddle your face, one moving south to grip your jaw in an almost-chokehold. he tugged you closer by the neck, earning a moan from your lips. you felt him smile against you, all content, before he dove back in, dominating the mood. coming out of your shock, you kissed him back with a fervor, biting his bottom lip slightly. johnny pulled back, suddenly all business.

"dinnae want t' fuck ye." oh. "then what...? why am i here?" he shook his head, removing a hand from your neck to rub it through his mohawk, then down his face. "d'ye like th' cabin?" the change in subject threw you. "the- the cabin? yeah, it's nice. i'm confused, how does that relate?" his eyes found yours again, searing into your soul. "it's fer ye. us." oh. your mouth dropped and he laughed at the sight, his honeyed sound soothing your nerves. "for us? what? why?" he smirked, all cocky now that he'd recovered from whatever that was. "dinnae want ye once, chridhe. want t' wake up with ye here every mornin. watch th' sunrise with ye in ma lap. no eyes, jus' us."

wildly, some part of your brain was still functioning, recalling all those interactions that had brought you here. your first duo mission, screaming at each other over comms. when you lost your pocketknife gifted to you from your last captain and johnny gave you his own, which now traveled with you everywhere. shitty safehouses with no mattresses, sharing sleeping bags to stay warm. his hands, practically paws, always around your waist, keeping you close. movie nights in the common room, organized by yours truly, always ending with your head on his arm, using his bicep as a pillow. dancing on bar dancefloors, drunk logic making it ok to hide your face in his neck, johnny's arms always on the top of your ass. that one fight with that creepy sergeant from another team, your pleas the only thing to stop johnny from breaking his neck. and finally, the ring around your fourth finger (right hand, not left) in your favorite metal. something he had presented to you privately with pink cheeks, scratching his neck and murmuring something about found it at a flea market, even though you both knew it had to cost hundreds and just happened to be your exact size.

"johnny, you're my best friend. what if it-" you hiccupped suddenly, overwhelmed. "what if it doesn't work. what if in five years, we're screaming at each other over small stuff. god forbid, what if it's silent? i can't do it without you, johnny. fuck." the tears in your eyes were threatening to fall, the image of johnny blurry. he shook his head with a small smile, fingers gently brushing the tears out of your eyes. "aye an' if it does? five years an' yer ma wife? breakfast watchin' th' sun, christmas wi' th' lads, bairns in a few more? no doubtin' us." he slipped that ring off your hand, transferring it to your left, fourth finger. you emitted a small gasp, the metal warming under his touch. "please." his voice broke on the last syllable; your stupidly insane loveable hunk of a man had a few tears in his blue eyes. the sight nearly broke you, and you vowed he'd never have to beg you again. "yes. yes with you, johnny."

and like all best promises, you sealed it with a kiss.

more best friend!johnny here

[lologoinsolo]

Part 3, Part 4

Minds Us All Masterlist

TW: Mentions of seizures, choking to induce visions, epilepsy and schizophrenia is mentioned, I don’t think there’s more but tell me if there is

Price stands by the board, his arms crossed over his chest as he reads over the scans and the numerous notes from the doctors that Nik sent over. The doctors were as thorough as could be expected but it left more questions than answers.

—High stress and anxiety could be the root cause for her seizures or there could be a potential for something more. The Patient's mother had a history of depression but nothing to indicate anything else. Patient’s health records show that she has not been tested prior for epilepsy or schizophrenia or for being at risk of seizures.

—Paitent experienced no symptoms of those neurological disorders at her young age despite being tested as per the request of Patient’s mother. Granted, the last time the patient was seen by her primary doctor was at the age of 9 years old.

—The most recent visit, which was a year ago, the hospital reported that she left without checking herself out. Her health chart only showed a high heart rate but was, surprisingly, not at risk of a heart attack. Unfortunately there is only so much that we are able to do in the short amount of time allotted to us. In our professional opinion, we believe that she is experiencing these hallucinations under strong duress. It could explain how she claims to ‘see’ the things she claimed she did.

Your brainwaves and the brainwaves of a woman around your age with schizophrenia are placed side by side. The difference between the two scans is stark, an ocean wide difference between the two. That woman’s brainwaves are lit up while yours is relatively normal. The doctors that came to see you cannot know for certain the cause behind your ‘sight’. Stress? Anxiety? That’s where it’s all pointing to at the moment.

Logically, this could explain that your ‘sight’ is caused by a stress factor and he could agree with that if you were spouting bullshit—But, you knew. You knew about Johnny’s near death before anyone could and it very well could’ve been explained if you were a spy. Price could work the spy angle but he can’t work around the fact that you knew about Simon’s family. You knew neither of his men on a personal basis and yet Kyle heard you murmur about Sarah, Joseph, Tommy, and Beth in your sleep. Names that he knows for a fact that Simon would never, ever mention even if he was being tortured.

Price takes in a long, hard breath. Laswell digged up everything she could find on you. Only child, mother was in an out of the psyche ward, father never claimed you nor was in the picture. At age thirteen, your mother took her own life and you were thrown from foster care to foster care up until you were 18 years old. You never went to college, bounced around from job to job. Moved from place to place, constantly moving like you had a reason to. He recalls how bare your apartment was when they came, “no roots to put down.” Laswell found absolutely nothing that ties you to Makarov. Nothing save for coded words you wrote. Furthering the nail into the coffin that you’re not a spy.

His eyes move up from what he’s reading when he hears boots hitting the ground. Doesn’t take a genius to know who’s coming around. “You want to talk to her, don’t you?” Price turns to the side when the Ghost steps inside. Giving his Lieutenant a look, he wasn’t allowed back in your room when the doctors came around.

“Yes.”

“That a good idea?” Ghost’s been spending time longer on the punching bag here lately. Nearly broke it open from how hard he’s been hitting. The safehouse they’re all in allows them a gym of sorts, well… it’s not really a safehouse. This place is Price's, a house far into the country and guarded by numerous trees. A private place that he took you to in hopes of getting quick answers. And just in case you turned out to be what he assumed, there’s enough land here on his property to hide a body from prying eyes.

“Johnny wants to as well.”

Now that… that might be a better alternative. Ghost can handle himself, he’s hung from a meat hook for god sake, he knows how to keep a handle on his emotions. Ever since you made him see what you saw he’s been… off. John’s been keeping a tighter eye on him even though he’s not fully convinced in your ability. He trusts Ghost enough to tell the truth even when it doesn’t sound believable. “Give me ten minutes with her, sir.”

Ten minutes is all he needs, you’ve been awake and alone for the past two days. You willingly allowed the doctors to help you, didn’t argue with them for fear that you’d be killed most likely. Or maybe you knew that they’d find nothing.

“I’ll give you that,” Price uncrosses his arms, stepping towards Ghost and his lieutenant doesn’t move away. Stays still like a statue. “Best to let Johnny go in first before you do, yeah?”

Ghost grunts out a “yes, sir” before he turns to leave. A man on a mission in how he steps. Price needs to sit over this, think over what can be done. Laswell mentioned that you should be tested one more, three times the charm after all.

…

Kyle came in earlier to bring you food and clothes to change out of. You asked him if you would be able to leave now but he gave you no reply. Only placed the food on the table and left. You don’t know what’s worse. The fact that you’re alone and craving some kind of contact or the fact that you’re glad he nor the one called John has come back to interrogate you. You don’t think you’ll be able to handle it once more.

Your mind has been empty, to say the least. The doctors recommended medication but you know they’ll do no good. It’ll only make your curse worse and do you no favors. Sometimes this’ll happen though, sometimes your mind will get so quiet that you’ll beg for a vision. It’s a horrible cycle but it’s one you’ve always known and it’s better than the silence. On the bright side, at least that Ghost hasn’t come back. You don’t know how you’ll react if he does or what he’ll do to you.

There’s a small pinch in the back of your mind but it fizzles away almost as quickly as it came. You brace yourself for what’s bound to come.

A knock sounds on your door, an illusionment of courtesy. The knob turns and in walks a man that you’ve met twice but have seen over a hundred times over in your mind. “Hello, bonnie.” There’s a jagged pink scar on his left side, his hairs a little longer, not the mohawk you saw originally. Beard grown out and scraggly looking, he looks rougher than you remember. “Can we,” he pauses a little to step into the room and you freeze up when Ghost steps in as well. “Can we just talk?”

Ignoring him in favor of seeing him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you immediately say to Ghost. “I’ve never done that before. I didn’t know I could do that. I’m sorry.” You still see his family's faces in your mind, can smell their blood staining the walls and on their Christmas tree. You’ve seen a lot of things but you could never stomach seeing deaths. “I’m—“

“Hey, hey,” Johnny comes your way as he speaks gently to quell your rolling anxiety. Your body flinches involuntarily from where you’re sitting on your bed by the sound of his steps. “Ye didnae ken ye could do tha’. We just want to talk.” Johnny pulls up a chair and notices the food at the table. You haven’t touched it nor the other two plates either. “Ye need tae eat, lass,” he laughs slightly, hoping to ease you, “when I was in and out of the hospital I—“

“I want to go home.” You cut him off. His hand twitches, “tell them, tell them I’m not a spy or a soldier or—“

“And where would you go home to, little bird?” Ghost’s arms are crossed over his chest. He stands besides Johnny, “got a place to go home to that we haven’t figured out yet?” Johnny turns to give Ghost a look but he ignores it in favor of continuing on. “Your visions tell you where to live now?”

“I’m sorry that you saw what you did. That wasn’t my intention, it’s never my intention. I can—“

“I didn’t ask for an apology.” He growls out, your knees tuck to your chest immediately. “How did you see them? Tell me.”

“Ghost,” Johnny tries to intervene in some way but it’s no use.

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Your voice growing insistent, begging for him to understand. “It’s— it just happens. I-I can’t help it.”

“Can’t help it.” Ghost mutters under his breath. The muscles in his back are tense, pulled taunt. You’re like a fluttering bird in a cage from how you squawk the same thing over and over again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop. Apologizing.” He takes a step towards you and you scoot back further up the bed, practically pressing yourself into the corner. Johnny stands and places a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. The anger simmers only a little but the tension still stays. Ghost’s hands ball and flex, “can you do it again?” He asks, more like demands.

There’s a hush pause that overtakes the room, even Johnny looks to you for an answer. “I…” you swallow thickly, shaking your head slightly. “I might?”

“Might?” He doesn’t sound pleased with how unsure you sound.

“It’s uh…” you never knew how to explain it, your mother could never explain it herself either. “When…” you take a breath, “when you look into a kaleidoscope do you see the same thing if you move it around?” Johnny shakes his head no but Ghost does nothing, “that’s… that’s kinda how it’s like for me. Sometimes it’s clear enough that I can see it many times,” flickering to Johnny, his moments haunted you for the longest after all. “I don’t know if I can see yours again, Ghost.” His was more than just his memory, it showed a pocket of time before he even saw it. “I’m,” you almost say sorry again but you bite your lip.

“Price said ye started seeing mine after we met,” one accidental touch that led you here. Your visions never hanged around long, it’s why you came to the practice of writing them down. Your curse, for some reason, latched onto Johnny’s future and never let it go. “Saw it for about a year, did ye ken ye’d find me? Is that why ye came up to me?”

You cross your legs, feeling just a smidge at ease while you pick away at your fingers. “I couldn’t have day to myself without seeing you.” You look down to the shorts you're wearing, missing the look that settles in Johnny’s eyes. “There would be this static feeling in my head the closer I thought I got to you.” He was like a flame and you a moth, only the static got louder and louder the closer you were next to him that day. Maybe you weren’t supposed to find him…

“I’m sorry, hen.” You shake your head but he slowly steps closer to the bed. His knees bumbing the edge of the mattress. “I wouldnae be alive without ye. I heard yer voice in my head when I was on that mission. Heard ye screamin’ for me to pull back and I did.” He’s calm in his approach as he takes a seat now. Scared you’ll try to bolt off the bed if he moves too quickly. “Fucker still got me.” He points to his head, the scar telling a story of an almost death. You prevented that. “Shoulda seen me in recove—“

“Let me go home— please.” He sighs at your attempt to leave once more. “I won’t say anything, I won’t talk about this to anyone—“ your muscles seize when Ghost comes closer, his steps heavy against the floor. There’s no way to leave, you know their names save for Ghost. You’re hanging by a thread that can be snipped at any movement. “Please.” You can’t run or they’ll give chase but even then, there’s only so much space left in here. Boxed completely in with one sitting on the bed and one that could easily tackle you.

“I want ye to try,” Johnny sits closer to you now, the bed groaning under joined weights. “See somethin’ again, show me somethin’, hen.” His hands start moving for you now. “Can ye do that for me?”

“I-I don’t know if I can. I don’t,” you bite your bottom lip when his hands wrap around your wrists. His fingers wrapping firmly around them but still enough room that you could twist if you wanted to. “Please, stop. I don’t know if I can make it happen.” There’s the smallest of a buzz in the back of your head. “I’ve never been able to—“

“Try,” is all he says as he pulls you forward enough that you have to sit on your knees. Your trembling, fingers shaking as he maneuvers your hands to cup his face. You can’t pull away even when you try to do so. His blue eyes search yours, his scar damn near pulsing under your cold hands. “Just try, lass.”

Wobbly and unsteady like a newborn doe, your knees are weak as you close your eyes. Brows pinching tight lines in forceful concentration. Your curse only works when it wants to, never for you. The time spent goes to show that it’s not working the way they want it to, “I can’t,” you say once more. “It’s not working.” Hoping they’ll understand, you’ve never been able to just make it happen.

“Maybe you need some motivation,” Ghost doesn’t give you a chance to turn as he lands a solid hand on the back of your neck. The air you had in your lungs punches out, “just need some fear to get it rolling.” The last two times was through fear and if he needs to choke you out then he will.

“S-Stop—“

“I’ll start squeezing,” he warns, his thumb digging in, “won’t take much to make you pop.” He’s cruel in his laughter, Johnny says nothing as his grip stays steady even when you try to tug. “I’ve broken necks easily, just needs,” Ghost’s thumb presses deeper over your raging pulse, “enough force and it’ll crack.”

“Please!” Chest heaving now, anxiety shoots through the roof as your eyes are wet and frantic. You can’t move back, can’t move forward, can’t even swing to the side to get away. You try once more to make it work but, “it’s not wor—“ gasping suddenly. The walls of your throat tightens from his fingers coiling around it like a vice grip. A sharp static jolts to life, his hand squeezes more, air begins being cut off from you.

Your vision starts building up faster, almost painfully now as your grip onto Johnny’s head tightens. An itching, scratching noise burrows in the back of your head. There’s a screeching, halting sound, like nails that claw down a chalkboard but stops before finishing. It echos in Johnny’s ear that he winces at the same time you do. Your vision blurs whether because of the loss of air or because your curse is letting you see once more.

Laughter. Kids, 4. 1 boy. 3 girls. Blue eyes. Backyard. Swing set, swinging. Laughter.

Johnny inhales a breath, he sees the blurred moments alongside you begin to form. Like a projector being cranked to make an old timey movie start. It’s slow but starts to pick up in pace, pushing through the memory faster and faster. Barreling down the spirals of a pocket of time.

You can see a young Johnny playing with his sisters. It’s a warm sunny day, the heat beating down on them and you. He’s swinging and his mother is yelling at him to get off to come eat some snacks. He swings as high as he can before jumping right off. His sisters scream when he lands hard, blood on his mouth and he pulls a tooth out. There’s laughter from him, he’s laughing. His sister, his oldest sister is��

You struggle for air, lungs painfully begging for something to breathe in. You're pulled out, shoved forcefully away from the memory. Figures form in the shadows as your eyes look wildly around. “Good,” you hear Johnny say but it’s distant, far away from you. Miles away. Your forehead is heavy against his shoulder, you don’t know when you did that. Did you do that? Must’ve done so as your mind started twisting into knots, for once you don’t convulse like you typically do but something is wrong. Really wrong.

Ghost let go of your throat the second you started gasping for air. Only seconds for him but to you? You saw 30 minutes of Johnny’s memory. “Well?” He peers down at the both of you, “report, Johnny.”

Johnny tugs you easily into his lap, your body limp against him. “I saw it, Ghost. Saw it like I was there.” They speak now as if you’re not there. Are you here? Where are you right now? Your head tucked under his chin as your heart beats fast while you feel like your realities are blurring and blending together. “We cannae let her leave.”

“Never planned to, Sergeant.” A voice that’s not Ghost’s sounds from behind the two. Price leans against the door frame, he knew they were up to something. Just had to let it happen.

The shadows dance around in your mind, the kaleidoscopes of moments and memories of your own past starts to mash together. The webs are all sticking and rolling into a ball. You feel like you're floating and crashing at the same time. It’s becoming harder and harder to pull away from it. Harder to separate what’s real and what isn’t. Johnny holds tighter to you when you begin shaking. Head hitting against his chest as—

“We need to sedate her.”

— the static buzzing noise sharpens louder and louder. Your fingers spasm and hands thrash around, writing out words in the air. Make it stop, make it stop.—

“Not yet,” Price comes forward with a pen and paper, “she’s seeing something.” Ghost watches in cold curiosity, his eyes squinting under his mask as Price sticks a pen into your thrashing hand. He balls his over your right hand and holds the paper in his left. You jerk it around, scribbling jagged lines till words start forming.

Stop. Stop. Make it. Stop. Let go me. Let. Hand, Let.

“Tell me where Makarov is.” He whispers into your ear. “Where is Vladimir Makarov?” Your eyes roll back into your head as your legs kick out. The lower half of your body flails about while your upper is held tightly. “Write it down.” His voice echos in your head, becoming like an arrow as it breaks through the maze. Zeros you in like a beacon to follow and you fall deeper into the spirals of your vision.

Make it. Make off. Her. Her in. Rus. Northern. Lights north. Rush, make her off. Old. Building. Under, under. Guarded. Old, guarded. Weapons.

You fill the page with words you see that pile in your head. Picture like moments pour into your mind’s eye of a man you’ve never seen. It’s only half a second intervals, like someone’s slowed down the internet speed to the lowest setting possible.

Man. Man, 1. Talk, yells. Rush in. Rush. Hidden. Under. Ground under. Men. Loyal. Men. Men. Men. Cold, snow. New Clear. Nu. Er. Er, boots. Boots. Boots. Blinding Lighstj thaoies gbauqot—

Price pulls the paper away once your words start becoming unreadable. “Good enough,” he gives no sedation this time. You’ve never needed it before, “let her rest, Soap.” He allows you that as your left on your side. Soap reluctantly stands up as you're left to tremble, you’ll pull out on your own time. He reads over what was written and a location comes to mind. “I’ve a feeling I know where our Russian is.”

[itsnesss]

I have a request 💖 sensei wolf x reader, she is his wife, and consoles him after his defeat against Johnny Lawrence

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭 | sensei wolf × fem!reader

summary | he's defeated, and you comfort him silently, reminding him that one loss doesn’t define him. you offer your love and support, assuring him you'll always be there, no matter what

warnings | reader!wife, emotional distress, vulnerability, implied past trauma, comforting touch, slight angst, kissing

word count | 1.0 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The sound of the fighters' screams, the crash of punches, all had ceased. Only the stillness remained, as if time itself had decided to stop. There he was, the man who had been an unstoppable force to many, now leaning on one of the training bars, head down, shoulders hunched, as if the weight of defeat was crushing him.

The man who had never known the meaning of surrender, the man who had taught you to fight not only with the body but also with the mind. But in that moment, all he seemed to have was a bitter defeat, marked by the punch of Johnny Lawrence, a man from the past who had resurfaced to teach him a lesson. A lesson that, whether deserved or not, had left him vulnerable. And that feeling of vulnerability was the last thing he accepted.

You could see how his gaze emptied. Sitting there, with his legs stretched out, he seemed smaller, more human, than what people usually saw. You, who knew him better than anyone, understood that behind that facade of strength, of the image of the invincible leader, was a constant battle. Not only against others but also against his own demons, the ones that never disappeared.

You approached him without making a sound. You didn’t need words, only your presence. You knew that the touch of your hands, the warmth of your body near his, would be more effective than any verbal comfort. You leaned in slightly, placing a hand on his shoulder. You didn’t say anything, but you could feel how his body slowly relaxed, as if your touch were an anchor in the middle of the internal storm that was pulling him away.

He didn’t look at you at first. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, as if he couldn’t find the strength to face you, or maybe, out of pride, he didn’t want to show his vulnerability. You knew the weight of the defeat was heavy for him. He had invested so much in this fight, so much in that image of invincibility he had built over the years, and now it all felt like it was crumbling before his eyes.

Finally, he raised his head, and for the first time, his eyes met yours. His dark eyes, which always seemed to have an answer for everything, now were empty, lost. The look he gave you was that of a defeated man, someone who felt like he had failed not only in front of others but in front of himself.

“I’m sorry...,” he murmured, his voice heavy with regret. “I should have never underestimated him.”

You shook your head softly, giving him a calm, almost imperceptible smile, but one filled with assurance. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, Feng.”

But he wasn’t convinced. You could see it, how his mind tried to find an excuse, a way to justify the defeat, how he saw himself as a man who had failed. In his mind, Johnny Lawrence was not just a rival, but a reminder of his own past, of his own vulnerability. His insecurity.

“Johnny is just an obstacle, a challenge. Just another fight. That’s all he is,” you said firmly, taking his hands in yours, which were cold from the tension building up.

He looked at you for a second, skeptical, and then, with a sigh, leaned back, resting his back against one of the dojo walls. “You don’t understand. I’ve always been the best, I’ve always led, but today… today I felt like I had taken a step back. Like my efforts didn’t mean anything.”

You moved a little closer, not taking your eyes off him, and sat next to him. The atmosphere between you both was charged, but what you felt wasn’t hopelessness, but a deep connection. You knew this moment was necessary, that he needed you to remind him of who he truly was, outside of the fight, outside of the dojo.

“It’s not the end of the world, you know?” you said softly, touching his face with one hand, caressing his cheek. “Everything you’ve done up until now, everything you’ve achieved, it doesn’t disappear because of one fight. You don’t define yourself by this defeat, or by the outcome of this match.”

The lament on his face didn’t disappear immediately, but something in his posture changed. You could see how his shoulders slowly relaxed. Despite his pride, despite his resistance, he trusted you, your words. He knew what you said was true.

“What truly matters is who you really are. What you’ve built in your life, the people who follow you, those who respect you. And me, I’ll always be by your side. No matter how many times you fall, Feng, I’ll be here. Always.”

With those words, you felt a weight lift off his shoulders. It wasn’t victory that he needed to hear, but the comfort of knowing that even in defeat, he wasn’t alone. You knew that for him, the fight never ended. And you also knew that, although today’s battle had been important, there was something much bigger than that: the future they could build together.

He looked at you intently, and for a moment, words weren’t necessary. Without saying anything more, he raised his hand and ran it through your hair, touching you gently, as if he were thankful for your support, for your patience. His gaze was deep, but calm. He was a man who had been touched by defeat, but at the same time, felt the strength of your love and understanding.

Then he hugged you, a deep and warm hug. There was no need for words. The simple fact of being there, together, was enough. And in that moment, he knew that no matter how many times he fell, or how the world saw him, he would always have your support, and that was more important than any victory.

“I need you,” he whispered, his voice barely a murmur, as if the vulnerability of that moment had stripped him of his armor.

“I’ll always be here,” you replied, hugging him tighter, clinging to him, to the peace that only he could give you. “No matter what happens, Feng. No matter what comes. We’ll get through it together.”

[yourstrulyrani]

haii idk if you write for soap but if you do could you do john “id die for you” mactavish x f! “but would you live for me” reader? (could also work with simon if you’d prefer writing for him)

john "soap" mactavish x reader angsty // wc: 1180

a/n: hii can i just say you have perfect timing because i was planning to write about the another 141 boy next!! i'm gonna make this one a little angsty i hope you don't mind 😃👍🏼 also a belated happy national decision day to my fellow americans!! i truly wish you all the best in these next four years ♥︎

He was supposed to come home today. You had faith in him.

You lay on the couch, void of his touch and sweet words to offer you comfort while you fidgeted with your wedding ring, spinning it around your ring finger deep in thought. You thought that for once your husband would actually come home the date he promised he would. You opened your phone to glance at the text he sent yesterday:

Johnny ♡: I'll be home tomorrow, sweetheart. I can't wait to see you.

Then you shift your eyes down to the text he sent a few minutes ago:

Johnny ♡: Sorry, darling. Price needs us a little longer. Please don't wait for me tonight. I love you.

What was once a strong aroma of the dinner you cooked now became a mockery of the devotion and care you held for Johnny. He loved food, especially your cooking. It's too bad he wasn't here to even eat it. Even the “Welcome Home” garland detached from the wall on one side, now hanging vertically. Everything at this point in the house became a mockery to you now. From the fireplace giving out warmth you'd rather have from Johnny, the couch not dipping on one side because he isn't here, and the feeling of your unswollen lips because he is not here to kiss you senseless.

It was late anyway and Johnny confirmed it himself that he wasn't going to be here, so you decided the only way to get rid of these thoughts was to sleep it off. You went upstairs to the bedroom, the room stinging with the scent of his cologne that you sprayed everyday to remember him by. You left the food you cooked on the kitchen island, careless that it would go bad if left outside unrefrigerated overnight. You slipped out of your clothes into something more comfortable to sleep in and pulled yourself under the covers. 

Usually after a few minutes, you were knocked out. Tonight it was different. You couldn’t get comfortable enough. With the covers over you, it was too hot. With them off, it was too cold. When you slept on your side, it was almost as if the pillow was digging into your neck. When you slept on your back, the mattress sank too low. Your mind needed the rest but there was no use to even attempt again when the only thing on your mind is your husband at war. Sleeping without John knowing that he was out on deployment was already difficult in itself, but knowing he was on deployment and that he didn’t come when he promised makes it even harder.

You punched your pillow one last time in an attempt to soften it up. That’s when you thought your ears were deceiving yourself when you heard the door open. It could only be one man.

You froze at the sound with your fist still stuffed in the pillow. You wanted to get up and greet him yet for some odd reason your legs felt too heavy to move downstairs to do so. You heard the rustling of what you could only assume was his duffle bag and some extra gear that he shredded off until you heard John head up the stairs, the floorboards creaking subtly at his weight. You decided to fake being asleep, your head pointed towards the door to get a view when he finally walks in. With his heavy steps and your heavy heart, you heard the doorknob to the bedroom click open and his sounds grow closer. 

He’s here. You should jump in his arms and smother his face with kisses and tangle your fingers in his hair. You should be feeding him the dinner it took you hours to make after you got off work. You should massage him like you do after every deployment. You’re stubborn though and he came too late even though he promised. There is no use for it now, you thought.

That’s when you heard it, a wince of pain out his mouth. You couldn’t stand it anymore. You sat up gently and widened your eyes to finally take a look at your husband. He left scratchless when you last saw him. Now, he’s battered and bruised. A bruise on the curve of his jaw, his eyes squinted in what you knew was exhaustion, and his shoulders were slumped. Your gaze moved from his shoulders to his neck, where wound dressing was applied, which was hidden by the rest of his t-shirt. Your gaze moves down. Down. You saw his arms in the t-shirt and the cut that slashed across his forearm tattoo. Your heart broke. Broke. You felt the tears prick at your eyes and decided to let them fall. Johnny hasn’t said a word and neither have you, but he broke the silence.

“Sweetheart,” his voice sounded just as wounded as his body looked. You didn’t say anything and could only manage to anticipate what he was going to do next. The view of Johnny became more blurry the more tears welled up in your eyes. It wasn’t until you felt  Johnny’s body wrap around yours in a tight hug that you let them fall with your eyes shut closed. You felt his head snuggle into your neck and the stubble prick across your neck and collarbones. 

You laced your arms through Johnny’s to hug him back, one hand rubbing the nape of his neck and the other moving up and down his back. “Johnny,” your voice broke. He said he wouldn;t be home tonight and he’s here now. You didn’t know whether to feel frustrated or thankful.

You felt his stubble move away and be replaced by a light kiss on his neck. “I’d die for you, dear.”

Those words made your heart twist. You kept rubbing his neck and back for your own comfort and you could finally taste your tears. He said that all the time and you knew he meant it. He’d say it sometimes in the morning when you thought you were at your most unflattering. He’d say it sometimes out of nowhere when he would find you on the couch lounging. This time it was different. He was back home from deployment, physically and mentally battered.

Your lips could only whisper one thing because of the saying now that he's home and not in his best condition, “But would you live for me, Johnny?”

That’s when you felt Johnny’s grip around you loosen in the slightest. That’s when Johnny felt his lips quiver. Now you weren’t the only one crying. “That’s why I came home.” He stammered before he continued, “I couldn’t bear it. I had to come home to you.” His voice felt his arms tighten around you again and another kiss was planted onto your neck.

You couldn’t be mad at him anymore. You were just happy that you had another chance to feel your husband in your arms and his lips on your body. Who knew when it would be the last time?

i don't miss the college application process one bit

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

[satansapostle6]

Love The Sinner | Dexter Morgan

Dexter Morgan, a vigilante serial killer hiding in plain sight, loses sleep for the first time in his life when he’s met with the very last thing he expected: a kindred spirit.

Warnings: Violence. Mature language and themes. Sexual content.

Part One. Eyes of Darkness.

Most people, when they’re getting arrested, shit their pants with fear. Some scream, some cry. Some rage, and some try to run, and some just freeze. That’s what you usually see, when you’re in your parents’ living room, and your dad can’t wait to turn on the TV to the channel dickety-six news, of all things. But sometimes, people have other reactions when being handcuffed and shoved in the back of a squad car. Sometimes people enjoy it, for one reason or another. I smiled when Miami Metro put me in cuffs on the news. Laughed, even. You see my story is many things, but boring certainly isn’t one of them.

Let’s start simple. My name is Nicole Carvalho, and as of today, America knows me as ‘Murderous MILF’. You really can’t make these things up; I love this country. I keep reminding myself, if I ever go free, I need to clip that out of the newspapers. But see, right now, at this very moment, I’m sitting alone in an almost blindingly white interrogation room at the precinct, waiting for a cop to question me while they study me on the surveillance footage. I can’t lie, I’m sitting back right now in my chair, smirking. You see, I killed the men who violated and later took my baby girl’s life, and I’m currently very pleased with myself.

I don't think my grandfather pictured this when he left Brazil. This truly is the American dream; committing a crime and letting your own peers decide whether or not it was justified. In all honesty, a jury will be much kinder to me than ‘God’ has been. So, I figured I’d let myself have this one thing. I think I waited about a half an hour before they sent someone in; a female detective. They must’ve figured a matching vagina couldn’t hurt. The first thing I noticed about this detective was that she was strikingly young; close to my age. I’m thirty-six, so I would estimate her to be maybe a little younger.

But apart from her age, the next thing I noticed about this detective was that she was very robotic in how she interacted with me; she didn’t necessarily look like she wanted to be there. She barely looked up at me when she came in, holding my files and looking down at them like a teenager doing a presentation in high school.

“So. Nicole Carvalho. I’m Detective Morgan.”

She sits down across from me less like I’m a murder suspect and more like she’s interviewing me for a secretary job. I look at her, sitting forward as I join her in the conversation, still smug as ever. I think she was secretly hoping I’d say it, the four words that usually drove most cops insane that, for some reason, no one ever thinks to say in the movies.

“I want my lawyer.”

I smile as I say it. Detective Morgan also smiles, looking down at the table before getting up. I’ll never forget how pleased she sounded.

“Guess that means I can’t ask you anymore questions.”

She gets up and walks out, and that’s the end of it. In all honesty, I don’t think she was looking forward to questioning a woman about the murder of her daughter’s rapist. After the detective left me alone, I was allowed to call myself the lawyer that I had in mind. This, of course, was a friend of a friend, a perfectly shady guy named Johnny Bertelli, who was, in the nicest way possible, a fucking scum bag. You see, I work as a project manager at a marketing firm, so I’ve met my fair share of good lawyers, but Johnny was the fucking best.

He made Johnnie Cochran look like an idiot. He was the kind of lawyer who laughed at the prosecution in court, and I needed him. So there i was, in the Miami Metro precinct punching a number I’d gotten off Google into a wall phone. I looked around the precinct as I waited for someone to pick up, and suddenly it was like I felt a pair of eyes on me. I turned around, and I saw a pretty timid, mild-mannered looking guy who seemed as if he’d been standing there trying to figure out how to get my attention.

But the strange thing was, he didn’t seem to want my attention, at all, actually. If anything, he seemed perturbed by the fact that I was looking his way. I looked over at him, not knowing what the fuck his story could’ve been. Miami’s a weird place, because in this moment, I realized the guy wandering the precinct in a Polo and khakis could very well be an employee. I looked at the guy, not knowing what he could’ve wanted with me as I struggled with the phone. Funny enough, he actually just wanted to be helpful.

“You gotta press pound,” he says quietly, “For the call to go through,” and I almost laugh.

I appreciate the odd moment, just thanking him.“Thank you.”

He just nods, and says nothing as he quietly retreats to wherever it was he came from. I took his advice, and sure enough, the phone worked and patched me through to Johnny’s office. I wasn’t quite sure at the time, seeing as I was obviously a bit preoccupied, but I felt that strange man’s eyes linger on me for a moment. Even as I turned around, I could sense his surreal sort of presence that he had. Sure, I was used to having men’s leering eyes on me out in public; it was hardly unusual. But this was different.

Like he was less looking at my body and flesh, but more so imagining what was underneath it.

*****

The next couple years of my life were eventful, to say the fucking least. Johnny of course advised me to take my case to trial instead of taking a plea, for obvious reasons; there was no way any jury was going to give me the maximum sentence, or God forbid, the death penalty. I was a single mother who stabbed her twelve year-old daughter’s rapist seventeen times. In the eyes of the public, I was practically a fucking hero. Johnny’s confident that any jury would feel sympathetic to me, despite the brutality of what I’d done. As he says, the facts are still there.

My neighbor, a weasley little creep named George Randall got me, and my Isabelle, to trust him, and took advantage of her in the worst way. Then she killed herself, because of what he did, and I had to find out through a note left on her desk for me to find. So, I went to George’s with an empty baking dish of his, and once he let me in, I whipped out the knife I’d borrowed from him, the same knife I used to use to cook for my little girl, and I made his stomach burst like a water balloon. At this point, I’d already chosen to show little remorse for the crime I’d committed, feeling perfectly at peace with the possibility of prison, or the death penalty.

But Johnny said there was probably no need to be too fearful of either. He’d even told me there was a possibility I’d just get a few years, and then parole, or something, and I wasn’t sure that wasn’t bullshit, but I also liked his confidence. The reality of it was, Johnny had made much worse people look way better. To him, my case was already closed. All I had to do was play the part of the grieving mother, which took no effort on my part. I had to wait almost a year for my case to go to trial, which I of course did outside of a cell.

This gave me enough time to get all my affairs in order, or so to speak. My job was okay for the time being, and I knew I’d probably still have it so long as I wasn’t convicted of murder, given my ‘years of dedicated service’. Things were going to be relatively fine, eventually, but for now, I was stuck being paraded around like a jester on some twisted apology tour for avenging my daughter’s death. I’m a pretty good actor, but even my patience has its limits. And maybe wearing my white So Kate’s to court wasn’t necessarily the best judgement call.

But Johnny, being more than worth the money I pay him, made it work. I walked into the courtroom with him, humble and graceful, and didn’t let my eyes linger so as not to appear guilty. But even then, I caught a glimpse of him in the room. The guy who helped me with the phone. He was watching my trial, probably just as a police department employee. Probably.

“Will the defendant please rise?”

I complied with Judge Willis’s request, with my trusty guard dog by my side. I remained dignified, my head held high, but not too high, of course, as the proceedings began.

“Miss Carvalho. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, your honor,” I told him.

The damage was done. My fate rested entirely in the hands of twelve strangers, and for some reason, there was a thirteenth who seemed oddly invested in the outcome.

-

Part Two.

[killerpancakeburger]

SILVER-TONGUED

SUMMARY: Soap drops by your office to pick you up, like every friday evening for your poker game with the Task Force. But when you turn out harder to remove from your desk than expected, he's going to resort to a different method.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader

TAGS: Civilian!Reader, Anxious!Reader, Clingy!Soap, Established Relationship, fluff, swearing, mention of chronic pain, suggestive/light smut: dirty talking, gropping, foreplay (?), semi-public (happens in your office on base but no one walks in lol), (they keep their clothes on). Idk how to tag, help

WORDS COUNT: 1.2k

A/N: Just because I wish I had a Soap to sweet-talk me from my desk at the end of the workday. *sigh wistfully* This is the filthiest thing I've ever written, so... enjoy? But also forgive my amateurism.

Plunged into your work, you’re essentiellement deaf and blind to the outside world. When you notice Soap's presence, he had the time to sneak into your office and behind your chair, arms folded over your backrest. By the way he pronounces your name, you can tell this isn’t the first time he's calling it.

“Hey,” you salute, surfacing back to reality with difficulty, focus not leaving your computer's screen, but reaching backwards blindly with one hand for contact. He grabs it right away.

“What's up?”

He chuckles a bit at that.

“Day's over is what's up. Ye coming?”

Your eyes fly to the clock in the bottom right corner of the screen. The evidence is damning: your shift has been over for ten minutes. It is far from unusual for you to stay too late, but tonight's friday and the 141's weekly poker game is summoning you in the form of an overeager Scotsman whose eyes you would damn yourself for.

On the field, the Sergeant MacTavish can remain immobile for hours on end with a sniper rifle in hand, stoically waiting for a target to get in his sights. On base however, your lover can hardly stay still more than a minute without a reason he'd deem legitimate.

His question is very much rhetorical. You tried to slip away once, not because you didn’t want to come but because you were worried the guys felt obligated to invite you out of politeness, and somehow Johnny must have read your mind because he snatched you and fireman carried you all the way there.

You wouldn’t have forgiven him if he had dared to pull those antics in front of others, but he managed to keep that spectacle just between the two of you. You still yelled at him a lot afterwards though. And punched him. And kicked him. Felt like hitting a punching bag anyway, so you didn’t feel guilt over the fact that he wasn’t defending himself at all. Once you were done huffing and puffing, you just glared at him, out of breath, fists clenched, and he stared back shamelessly, a grin on his face. The genuine joy in his expression was contagious, so you started laughing uncontrollably, and he joined you quickly. 

Coming from anyone else, this overly familiar behavior would have disturbed you. Being carried around like a helpless toy, powerless to resist someone else's will, wasn’t something you were fond of. But Soap proved himself time and time again to be safe. He could tell apart your serious reluctances from your playful protests, and if he had any doubt that you were uncomfortable, he would have stopped messing around instantly.

Deciding for you in that particular moment eased you off a burden, saving you from crippling indecisiveness and from endlessly weighing pros and cons in awkward silence. It was a favour.

You never contemplated refusing the offer again after that.

“In five minutes,” you bargain, not wanting to interrupt yourself in the middle of a task.

He loudly whines in protest at that, acting more distressed than he actually is.

“Nooo. Come ooon. Ye can finish later.”

“Be quiet,” you retort, and yet unable to curb an amused smile from stretching your lips.

He sighs exaggeratedly before admitting defeat. For exactly five minutes and not one second more.

“Bonniiiie.”

You don't relent.

“I'm almost done!”

“Ye were s'pposed to be done 20 minutes ago!”

You don't have any good argument to oppose that truth, so you remain silent. Soap does not.

He starts massaging your shoulders and dispensing cajoleries into your ear to coax you into compliance. You manage to tune him out until he curiously presses the tips of his fingers into your trapezius muscles and you wince. He lets out an impressed whistle.

“Fuck, yer tense. Yer shoulders feel like reinforced concrete.”

You sigh, having heard that one before.

“Bane of my existence,” you mumble absently.

He hums pensively, and you think that's the end of the matter, until his hand slides down your chest, all the way from your collarbone until your navel, leaving shivers in its wake, and his lips settle on the crook of your neck.

Concentrating suddenly becomes impossible.

“Johnny,” you call out in warning.

Or at least that was the goal, but you can hear in your own voice how affected you already are.

He treats his name like a demand for more, and leaves a trail of kisses along your neck and your shoulder, tugging on your collar to have more skin to work with. Meanwhile his hand caress and grope your torso, burning you through your clothes, in slow, unhurried motions that feel terribly suggestive. He knows your body so intimately well, only brushing the sore spots, like the side of your ribs, where the bone presses right beneath the skin, teasing the sensitive areas and tenderly stroking the rest.

“What do you think you're doing?” you contrive to ask, resisting the temptation to close your eyes to focus solely on his touch.

This may be afterhours, but you’re still in your work office, and anyone could barge in. While the idea may be arousing in theory, you know that the reality would mortify you.

“Just helpin’ ye relax, hen. Ye work too hard. Lemme take care o’ ye.”

Once again, you can’t find a good argument to oppose him. You do work too hard, and you desperately need to unwind before the pressure you self impose makes you explode like a time bomb. Since you've started dating, Soap had a tendency to mentor you into taking it easy, and he never steered you wrong until now.

You sigh in defeat, lift a hand to grasp his mohawk, letting your head tilt backwards, and surrender to his wandering hands and mouth.

Two fingers glide on the inside of your thigh, from knee to groin. In the meantime, his hand squeezes your breast. His lips stop from sucking and licking your flesh only to whisper filthy nothings into your ear.

“Could sneak under yer desk… make myself at home between yer legs… and let ye fuck my face while nobody knows. Would help with yer tension, ah'm sure.”

You suck in a gasp at the conjured mental image, legs spreading almost immediately. You, digging your fingernails into your palms with restraint, Johnny's cerulean eyes almost shining in the half-light of the bottom of your desk as he's staring hungrily at you, kneeling. Him raising a finger across his lips in silent command before spreading your knees further apart and nuzzling against your crotch. You fighting back against the urge to grind on his face and suffocate him between your thighs, the knowledge that he's not averse to the idea making things worse.

“Johnny,” you whimper, beguiled. “Fuck.”

He lets out an appreciative hum.

“Knew ye'd like that.”

The fingers tickling your inner thigh finally move to where you want them most. You grit your teeth to contain the moan that threatens to escape you as his middle finger runs up and down your slit.

Then the racket of your phone vibrating against the wood of your desk abruptly brings you back to reality. Your eyes open wide and you raise your head to see who's calling, only to swear in horror as Ghost's mask occupies the screen. As the contact's photo vanishes, a notification indicating seven missed calls makes your stomach twist in fear.

One does not stand up Lieutenant Riley and comes out unscathed.

[rejectedbytheempty]

from the dirt we rise, ch. 4

pairing: farmer!john price x reader, no use of y/n

word count: 2.1k

cw: misogynistic language, brief violence

synopsis: when your car breaks down in the middle of the english countryside, a tall, dark stranger comes to your rescue

masterlist

nathan blinked at you, almost as if he was waiting for your words to catch up with his brain.

“what did you say?” he asked in a dangerously calm voice. your bravery wavered the moment the words left your lips, resolve melting under his dead stare.

“ye heard her, she’s done with yer sorry ass,” johnny said, startling you from your staring contest with nathan. his friendly demeanor had shifted into something more menacing, the blue of his eyes seeming to ice over as he glared at nathan.

“i know what she said,” nathan practically hissed out, staring down johnny before whipping his attention back to you, “i want to hear you say it, because i don’t believe you.”

you started stuttering, finding yourself floundering under his withering glare. to be fair to nathan, this wasn’t the first time that you had tried to break up with him, and each time you had come running back, like he had some kind of evil curse on you. though, that wasn’t fair either, it wasn’t as if he was all bad, he helped you out of multiple depressive states and he never made you stay with him, necessarily.

“she’s not saying it again, once is enough” john said, stepping in front of you, half-blocking your view of nathan. you peaked around john’s frankly massive stature to look at your boyfriend, whose face had gone red in the face with rage.

“oh yeah? well, i’m not leaving this house until she says it.”

simon, who had been a silent observer, took this chance to step closer to you, “you try that and you’re getting tossed out on your ass.”

nathan looked between the three men, as if just now realizing the predicament he was in, then looked back at you, almost pleading.

“please, babe, don’t do this. i don’t know what kind of bullshit these men have been putting in your mind but i promise that i’m the best thing for you. i mean, look at all i’ve done for you, i’ve put up with you-“ nathan began saying, and you didn’t know if it was the fact that you had three huge men willing to beat him up for you or the fact that something inside you snapped but you cut him off.

“put up with me? put up with me? are you serious? do you know how many times i had to justify our relationship to my friends? my family? how you never have anything positive to say? how many times i’ve had to apologize when you were in the wrong? i’m sick of you and your excuses, so you want to hear it again? i’m breaking up with you, for good.” you huffed slightly at the end of your rant, feeling the weight of your relationship slipping off your shoulders.

nathan’s face seized up, twisting into something ugly and spitting, “fine. i knew you were a whore anyways, you know these men only want to help you because they want to fuck you, right? and that’s what you deserve, to be a worn out hole for men.”

that was all it took before your fist connected with his face. he went sprawling out onto the carpet, head connecting dully with the floor. the room went silent except for the sound of nathan’s quiet groans from the ground.

you never expected that punching someone in the face would make your hand hurt that bad, but there you were, sitting on the couch with a bag of peas on your knuckles.

after nathan had recovered as much as he could, john had grabbed the back of his shirt and lifted him in the air like a mewling kitten, gotten close to his face and told him he had five minutes to pack up and get the hell out of his house.

you weren’t really sure where he went but he couldn’t have scrambled out of that house faster than if his ass was on fire. while john was handling your boyfriend, or, ex rather, johnny congratulated you on your punch, saying that he never wanted to get on your bad side. simon just grunted in agreement, patting you on the back before retrieving the frozen bag of peas that you were currently holding to your aching hand.

you realized that in the couple of hours that you had been here you had hurt both of your hands, and you laughed when wondering which body part would be next.

this startled john who had been sitting in the room with you, reading his book. “what’s wrong?” he asked, putting down his book and moving to get up.

you shook your head, “no, no, i’m okay, sorry. i was just.. never mind, i’m fine.”

he calmed down visibly at your words and settled back into his chair. after the whole debacle with nathan, soap and ghost decided to head home early, figuring you would need some space to process things, and they could just eat dinner at home, simon adding that johnny might be too much to handle after a breakup. this led to the two of them bickering as simon herded johnny out the door.

although you did miss their presence, you admitted to yourself that he was probably right. you kept running over your breakup with nathan, finding yourself tending back into your doormat tendencies before you shook yourself out of it and the cycle began again.

you were knocked out of your thoughts by john asking, “you hungry?” you hadn’t even noticed that he had gotten up from his chair, the book long abandoned on the sofa. you chewed the inside of your cheek as you shook your head.

he looked slightly worried, standing there for a moment before he spoke again, “okay, well, there’ll be a bowl of it in the fridge for you in case you want any.”

you nodded, “thank you, i’m sorry.”

that just made him look even more worried, “hey, don’t apologize, if you’re not hungry, you’re not hungry, nothing you can do about it.”

you swallowed back another apology and just nodded. he gave you one last look over, seemingly analyzing the state of you, then deciding that you were alright for the time being and turning on his heel back towards the kitchen.

you sat there on that couch until the peas had all but thawed out. your hand was still throbbing but the pain had faded to a dull ache, so for the first time in a couple of hours you moved from your spot and rose to your feet. you headed to the kitchen, peering around the corner first to see if john was still in there cleaning up, which thankfully, he was not.

you tiptoed over to the freezer and put the bag of peas back before shutting the freezer door gingerly, wincing at the loud noise it made.

“you don’t have to sneak around, you know?” you yelped and jumped slightly in the air before turning around to see john leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. his face had an annoyingly amused expression, seemingly taking joy in the fact that he had startled you.

“christ, you scared me,” you said, clutching your chest and leaning against the counter.

“sorry” he lied, “thought you knew i was there.”

you just glared at him, which ended up having the opposite effect you intended as he laughed and shook his head.

“i did mean what i said though, no sense in sneaking around, i already know you’re here,” he said, making you flush slightly as you realized how stupid you looked.

“yes, i know you know i’m here,” you sputtered out, finding that that’s the best comeback you could come up with at the moment.

he shrugged, leaning off the wall and uncrossing his arms as he walked closer to you until he was right in front of you. you swallowed thickly as you looked up at him, having to crane your neck slightly to meet his eyes.

“you’re blocking the fridge,” he said, and you felt your face heat yet again, of course that’s why he was standing in front of you like that, not any reason your mind was coming up with. you quickly moved out of the way, muttering a hasty apology. he opened the door and took out a bowl with a lid on it and motioned it out for you to take it, “you hungry yet?”

as you took the bowl from him your stomach audibly growled and you smiled sheepishly, “guess so.”

after insisting that you go sit down at the kitchen table, he heated up your soup on the stove, then placed the steaming bowl in front of you. you muttered out a soft ‘thank you’ and he smiled softly in return.

you picked up your spoon and then looked at him, “so.. are you gonna watch me eat?”

“i’ll do whatever you want me to do,” he said, looking down at you.

it was too bad that there was already a spoonful of the soup in your mouth because you choked indelicately at his words. taking a moment to catch your breath you shook your head, “i’d prefer if you didn’t watch me.”

he shrugged, “as you wish” and he left you to your dinner.

as soon as he left the room you put your head in your hands, “fuck, what is wrong with me? he just made you some dinner and you’re already blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl!” you whispered harshly to yourself. you scrubbed your hands down your face before shaking your thoughts away, resolving yourself to finish your dinner without any more stupid thoughts.

after you had finished, you washed out your bowl and put it on the drying rack because he didn’t have a dishwasher, something you found slightly egregious, but it did go with his whole homestead vibe.

you walked back into the living room and he was reading on the sofa again. your head cocked slightly in surprise when you realized he was wearing wire-rimmed reading glasses on the tip of his nose.

you weren’t sure how you didn’t notice it before but there they were, making him look like some kind of distinguished librarian.

he looked up at your small giggle, peering over the top of his glasses at you. “what’s so funny?”

you couldn’t stop yourself from giggling again as you answered, “i just.. wouldn’t think that you would wear glasses?”

he raised an eyebrow, taking them off and folding them with his chin, “and why is that?”

you bit the inside of your cheek, “i don’t know, you just seem so.. manly and.. i don’t know, i just never pictured you with glasses.”

“manly..” he repeated slowly, “i’m too manly to wear glasses?”

you shook your head, laughing slightly, “sorry, it’s dumb, it just made me laugh.”

he chuckled at you, “well, i’m an old man, and i need to see. usually i wear contacts but at night i take them out and wear my eyeglasses.”

“to be honest, now that i got over that initial shock, i think they suit you” you admitted.

“not really sure how to take that, but thank you” he said, mirth crinkling at the edges of eyes. it was silent for a moment, just the crackle of the fire john had lit in the fireplace filled the air.

“i’m.. i’m going to head to bed, if that’s alright with you,” you fiddled with your hands at chest height.

“you don’t have to ask permission to go to bed,” he laughed.

“i wasn’t asking permission,” you retorted, it was embarrassing how easily john could turn your words around on you, “i was just.. making sure there wasn’t anything else you needed.”

“from you? darling, i don’t need anything from you, alright? don’t you worry about me.”

there you went, blushing again, which made you utter out a quick “good night!” as you turned from him and headed up noisily up the creaking stairs.

after you finished your nighttime routine you heard john head up the stairs as well, his footsteps passing by your door and heading towards his room before you heard the door close softly. peeling your ear off the door, you paced backwards and then flopped on the bed, sighing loudly.

maybe nathan was right to be worried about you, it hadn’t even been a whole day after breaking up with him before you found yourself getting a schoolgirl crush on the farmer whose house you were crashing at.

as you slipped under the covers you tried to summon tears over ending your relationship with nathan but all you could think about as you drifted off to sleep was john standing in front of you, his gaze shifted downwards into yours.

a/n: alright! now i’m all caught up w how it was before i accidentally deleted my blog!!! now i actually have to write again.. lmao 😭

taglist:

@readgoods

@rip-cod-brainrot

@anticipayosbot

@cyaniderainfall

@theclassicvinyldragon

@watermelontidewater

[onlykindaweird]

Did you know?

(spoilers for the musical if you want these to be a surprise)

In the outsiders musical, its stated that the day the curtis parents die is actually Darrys birthday. Ponyboy had forgotten to get the frosting after school, and when the curtis parents went to pick it up, they got stuck on the tracks.

yeah, dallas gets hit by a train in the musical! a theory i recently saw suggests the train is a metaphor for death following ponyboy. (he "swears that deaths following him" in Deaths At My Door)

In several of the songs, the church fire is foreshadowed! (instances being "I try to keep you from the fire, but its me whos getting burned" in Runs In The Family (reprise).

Also in Grease Got A Hold, Sodapop spells "grease" as "grae". (okay, ive heard someone say the "not too selective" is S, but sodapop being dyslexic is way more funny) "G is for getting the girls every time cause youve got irresistible charm, R is for reeling them in and then keeping the prettiest one on your arm, E is for effortless swagger the kids that the ladies can never deny, A for affected b ut not too selective and E is for catching their eye." (I probably also spelt this wrong.

In Justice For Tulsa, there is a pause towards the end of the song. that pause is Two-bit getting burnt by Bev with a cigarette. (Bev is a soc, shes interesting. you can follow her actor Melody Rose on tiktok.)

at the start of Finale (Tulsa '67) "When i stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, i only had two things on my mind. Paul Newman, and a ride home." thats not Brody Grant (Ponyboy)! thats Brent Comer (Darry)! hes reading ponyboys essay! which is a reference to the fact darry always reads and checks ponyboys homework!

Bob, Dally, and Johnny all fight in the rumble! another metaphor for Ponyboys battle and race against death. "Ponyboy!" is shouted when ponyboy realizes he was about to punch Johnny.

Randy isnt in the musical, instead we have Paul, played by Dan Berry, having a more major role.

(Some minor edits made after I rewatched the musical + reread the book)

[siri-ike]

Empty chapter 8

Dpxdc crossover fic

Chapter 1 chapter 7

"I think she's me." He said after a long silence.

"She can't be you. You're you." Johnny responded slowly.

He stalled a moment, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. of course, you're right. That would be impossible. " There's no way. She can't be him, and he can't be her. But there's something about her. Something so familiar they can't possibly be separate. "I need to see her again."

Having a spirit around that can punch your father's lights out seemed like a sweet deal at first. But just like Scrooge, Johnny was quickly learning how persuasive ghosts can be. And by the time their lease was up, his bags had mysteriously been packed already.

Dani's house was pretty normal looking. She had cleared some hangers for his outdoor clothes, and there was a bedroom ready for him, too. Although it was decorated like an observatory. Does she think he's an alien or something? The ghost seems to like it.

Did he glow like that before?

"Johnny!" Dani shouted from the kitchen. "I got some takeaways from West End Burgers. Yours is on the table, I'll be in my office.

She is the weirdest woman John has ever met. For starters, she's a detective, so she carries a gun. She wears pants instead of a skirt. She doesn't even curl her hair. Or cook dinner, apparently. Then there was the whole violence thing.

When he got to the kitchen, he was surprised to see three hamburgers on a plate, still wrapped in foil. He checked the receipt to see if she actually bought 6 hamburgers for the two of them.

"You seem distraught."

"I'm perfectly traught." Johnny insisted. "I'm probably just supposed to take one, right?"

"They're on a plate together."

Johnny picked one up. "I can't eat 3 burgers." He paused for a moment, then offered it to the other boy.

He hesitated to reach forward. Concentrate, be tangible. He carefully held it with both hands. He watched as Johnny took a bite and followed suit.

"You're supposed to take the wrapper off."

"Huh?" He chewed through the third of a hamburger he had stuffed in his mouth. And without a thought, swallowed it, wrapper and all.

"Never mind, here." Johnny handed the third one over as the first disappeared into a snake like jaw while taking a normal sized bite out of his own food. The sight alone was enough to give him a stomach ache. But not enough to make him not eat.

Come to think of it. Johnny had never seen the, ghost? Eat before. Maybe that's why he's so spaced out all the time. Johnny sure wouldn't like to skip months' worth of meals. "Are you still hungry?"

"I don't understand." His voice was less of a whisper than it was, this clearer version sounded, lively. He sounded like someone. It was a voice Johnny had heard before.

Just then, the door behind them opened, and detective Dani walked in with three empty hamburger wrappers on her plate. She really eats like this!? She threw them in the trash under the sink and got three large glasses from an upper cabinet. "Compleatly forgot water." She smiled at him, filled her's with water, and went back to wence she came.

"You two freaks are cut from the same cloth." Johnny addressed the air beside him.

"Yes... we are, " a nearby whisper follows her.

The room was an office. She sat at a desk covered in Manila folders and paper. The moment he stepped through the wall, she looked up. Directly at him.

She can't see him. No one can see him! How can she see him?

She exhaled a small fog of white breath. "Are you here?" She asked, looking around the room. She can't see him. But she knows.

"I've been looking for you." She paused longingly. "That's OK. You don't have to say anything. Clockwork said you might forget some things." Her smile lacked any emotion. It was like she wanted to be happy but couldn't overcome the hollowness. "I met some of our friends. Walker's still alive... Sydney isn't. I've been working on a way back to the ghost zone, but it's proven difficult without hurting the timeline." She looked so worn out. She looked wrong. This wasn't the person he had recognized. It's someone else. "Danny, please. Just show yourself, let me know you're alright."

He stepped back out. Johnny had left, probably went back to his room. He started in the direction, pretending not to hear the quiet whimpers from the office.

~~~~~~~

"Is it true you're taking the Crane boy?" Asked Commissioner Reynolds.

"Yes, sir. Picking him up after work." Dani glanced at the clock on the wall. One more hour.

"It's a big commitment, Nightingale. Are you sure you're up for it." It was less a question and more of an accusation.

"That's the beauty of teenagers, commissioner, they don't need 24-hour surveillance, just food and guidelines. And, you know, attention obviously."

"That's not what I meant. Are you ready for this?"

The air went stale.

"I read your transfer reports. I know about Pointdexter."

"Sydney was a good boy" Dani defended.

"Doesn't mean he was good for you."

Dani didn't answer. She couldn't.

One more hour.

[lovebugmusings]

🥵 you and glossy 🥵

Sooo.. when did John finally get them into bed?

glossy @glossysoap indulges me and my worms too often <3 and always comes in with her own like !!! ty babyyyy

~✧

john gets his hands on johnny first.

stuck in a safe house with just each other, waiting on exfil but weather makes it almost impossible to covertly get them out. so they have to wait. it only takes a couple days before the tension becomes too much and they snap.

“you have fun with it?” john asks, smoking out the open window.

“fun with..?” in johnny’s defence, he’s not good with sitting still waiting when there isn’t a target. he’s excellent when there’s a goal, a mission, a mark. but just sitting, waiting in a tiny cabin in buttfuck nowhere? he’s antsy.

“m’ cock.” he says it so casually johnny chokes on his own spit.

“i, uh… yeah. bon cried so pretty. and i dinnae think i’ve ever been stretched so nice.”

“hm. want t’ have a go with the real thing?” johnny thinks his having hallucinations. no way his captain just offered to fuck him. it was one thing to gift you both a mould of his cock, it was one other thing to send a photo of himself covered in his own cum after clearly jerking off to johnny fucking you with it. it’s another entirely to offer… that. “yes or no sergeant?”

“yes.” it’s almost pathetic how johnny whines as he clamours to his feet, john’s finger crooking to summon him over.

“your cunt looked so pretty takin’ the silicone, bet it feels like heaven around my cock.”

it doesn’t take long for johnny to have his pants and boxers thrown elsewhere in the room and be bent over the arm of the dingy sofa, wet, puffy cunt presented for john while his little cock twitches.

john knows that johnny can take his cock, watched the video of you taking him apart on it god knows how many times, but he still wants to have his sergeant cum on his fingers first. wants to feel just how warm and wet johnny’s pussy can get before giving soap what he desperately wants.

when he finally, finally, sinks into johnny’s cunt, he almost collapses forward. it had been too long since he’d had a warm pussy around him, and soap’s flutters and clenches around the thick length as it verges on overstimulation.

john can’t help himself as he bottoms out over and over again, fucking into johnny at a bruising pace, punching his cervix every time. but it’s clear soap doesn’t mind at all, not with the way he keeps reaching back to scratch at the captain’s thighs while moaning out thank you’s between his swearing and whining.

they both shudder as john fills soap’s cunt, pelvis flush against his ass to keep him full for as long as possible. john clumsily reaches for his phone, taking a slightly graining video of the way johnny’s cunt stretches over john’s cunt, fluttering once he’s pulled out and forces cum to dribble out.

when you watch the way john swipes at johnny’s cunt from clit to hole before pushing the cum back in, listening to john rumble out “don’t waste it”, you can’t help the “oh fuck” you whisper out.

~✧

john goes with johnny to your little home when they finally get back, inviting himself while johnny was between his thighs, cock too far down his throat for soap to argue.

you get no warning, only expecting johnny to walk through the door while you move around in only one of his shirts and a pair of panties. despite the fact that john has already seen everything, you still squeak and pull the front of the shirt down between your legs.

“sorry for intruding without warning, love.”

“oh! it’s- it’s okay john.” you wave him off with one hand, the other trying to keep the shirt in place. “i can make some food for you both if you give me a minute to put some pants on.”

“no need, sweetheart. if it’s okay with you, i’d much prefer you take them off so i can have a proper meal.”

you’re lucky to make it to the bedroom with how desperate they both are to have you naked. soft and warm. john makes you squirt on his fingers while he and johnny alternate between eating you out and making out with each other, making a mess of spit and slick

[moody-alcoholic]

MIA

Price x Ghost but Ghost is kidnapped on a botched mission…

Who am I kidding it’s basically a poly141 again because I have no self control.

CW: Kidnapping, violence, use of weapons, description of injuries, torture, possessiveness, death.

---

Price would do this for anyone on 141. Sacrifice his entire military career for any of them.

Kyle.

Johnny.

Simon.

They’re his fuckin’ family, his reason to wake up in the morning. His reason to keep fighting the good fight. Right now he feels like he’s failed them all, most of all Simon.

He remembers Shepard's brief; a new terrorist organisation sweeping through Europe. Put a stop to them before they can attack again.

They had a location, they had solid intel, they had a name. It was almost routine, painfully so, infiltrate, capture or kill.

Textbook.

It was a shock to them all when the tunnel blew, when Ghost got left behind.

Price couldn’t tell what was worse, Johnny’s screams or the thought of leaving Ghost behind. Not Ghost, Simon. His family, his partner.

He let him down, left him behind to be captured by the enemy. He had to make that choice as a Captain, for the well being of his team.

The shouting at Soap and Gaz to run felt like a fever dream, he needed to get them out the tunnel before the rest of the charges went off.

He left Simon behind. MIA.

That’s what they classified it as. When they were going through the debrief. Shepherd stood there with Laswell by his side refusing-point blank-to let them go back for him.

“We do not have the resources for a full blow rescue mission captain.” Shepard snapped over the table.

“Are you going to stop me?” Price asked snapping back at him. He felt Kyle’s hand land on his shoulder, Johnny’s raw tear stained eyes digging into him.

“You have orders to follow Captain. Anything else will be classed as treason.”

“General.” Laswell called trying to calm him down.

John didn’t care, he had already made his mind up. They were getting Simon back, no matter what it takes.

He tried to stop them. Told Johnny and Kyle to their faces that if they followed him they would be ending their careers too. He was more then happy to do this alone, he was ready to do this alone.

“This is not your responsibility.” John said watching their expressions, they looked between each other before turning back to him.

“We do this together.” Kyle said.

“No one fights alone.” Johnny said.

It was easy to grab gear and a car. Almost too easy. No one stopped them, no one questioned them. If they did it wouldn’t have mattered, they would have to catch them first.

“I can’t believe Shepard wanted to leave him.” Soap says a few minutes into the journey.

“We never leave anyone behind.” Gaz snaps looking over at Price from the driver seat. John smiles at him then goes back to looking out the window.

“Sure this is where he’ll be?” Soap asks from the back seat.

“If Laswell’s intel is good it’s the best shot we have.” Price said.

The rain was hammering down by the time they made it to to the building. The whole place was an abandoned office block or something. Price didn’t care, Simon was in there that’s what mattered, that’s all that mattered.

The car comes to a stop the engine is turned off. Price jumps out, he picks his weapon up, feeling the cold metal on hands. He looks up at the dark building, he can feel his heart thump in his chest as he steady's his breathing trying to ground himself.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve got your back Captain.” He swallows the nerves.

“Lets move.” He orders.

…

Its dark. Dark and cold.

That’s all he feels, cold air making him shiver. They stripped him of his clothes first. Hands wrapping round his throat, skin meeting skin. Punches to the stomach and face.

He tried to fight but the explosion was close, it hit him hard knocking him off his feet. He barely had time to orient himself before people attacked him.

He heard John last. He heard the order to fall back.

He heard the order to leave him.

That was the last thing he heard before he woke in a new place.

It’s dark, he's strapped to a chair in a room with open windows. He can hear the wind, the rain.

It’s cold, the chill causing goosebumps to rise on his half naked body.

They took everything but his boxers and jeans. They’ve already tried to get info from him, the flashes of pain across his chest. Never deep enough to kill him, just enough to hurt him.

He’s stronger then they think, stronger then they’re prepared for.

John left him behind but he will never betray them.

Not his family, the people he loves. The people he spent the last few years letting himself get close to.

John.

Johnny.

Kyle.

His family. His partners.

No doubt his captors be back soon for another round. Another attempt to get him to talk. This could go on for days, weeks. He has to assume the worst, that no one is coming for him.

He has to keep it together, he can’t let them break him. He’s stronger then this, he's been through worse. He’ll keep it together till the bitter end.

He chuckles, he can hear shots. His mind is already playing tricks on him. For a second he lets himself believe its rescue, he lets himself have a moment of weakness. A pained groan leaves his throat as he tries to pick his head up. His eyes are swollen from the beating he’s taken. His chest caked in a thick layer of dried blood and sweat.

There’s a bang, so loud his head snaps to the side, a faint light floods into the room. His ears are ringing as he hears orders being shouted.

The voice sounds so familiar, his heartbeat picks up as someone comes over to him. Hands find his face for a second pulling his head straight.

“We’re here, you’re okay.”

“John?” He asks, his voice catching in his throat. A mask is pulled over his face, it feels familiar, warm, safe. He feels the restraints round his hands vanish.

“It’s okay, we’re here Simon.” It is John talking to him. He feels Johns forehead pressed against his. “We got you, you’re safe, we’re here now.”

Hands grip his shoulders.

“Get him out of here.” John says standing up. Simon almost wants to reach out for him.

“Where are you going?” That’s Johnny. His voice is usually so relaxed, he sounds serious, his words harsh cutting through the air.

“Get him out of here!” John snaps.

“‘Cause sir,” another set of arms hooks under his armpits. He looks over at John pressing another mag into his weapon. His arms are pulled over shoulders as he’s dragged over to the other side of the room.

“John.” He tries to call but it comes out so quiet.

“Stay with us Lt.” Johnny says, pulling him against him so Gaz can call the lift. He’s dragged inside, Gaz coming to look at him, his hands running over his chest.

“We’re getting you out of here. You’re going to be okay.”

He lets out a breath closing his eyes as the door to the lift closes.

…

John is on a warpath. It’s been years since he’s been this angry, this focused. His he squeezes the barrel of his weapon firing off shots at anyone he sees. The image of Simon, blooded and bruised tied in a chair, so exposed, so vulnerable. It made him feel sick.

There are only enemies in this building, a building that needs to be rid of the despicable people who hurt Simon. His lieutenant, they have no idea what they’re messing with.

How dare they.

He lets the smell of blood and gunpowder fill his nose with every room he clears. He expected more, more resistance, more people to take his anger out on.

Christian, that was the name they were given. He was running the whole operation, that’s his target. The person who would have ordered terror attacks, planted the bombs in the tunnel, ordered Simon’s torture.

How dare he.

John makes it to the next floor he spies someone with his back to the door. He takes his knife off his hip sneaking up to the man and pressing the knife to his throat, wrapping his arm round his body holding him in place.

“Where’s Christian?” He growls in his ear.

“N-next floor.” The man sobs. John slits his throat letting his body fall to the floor. He doesn’t bother cleaning the knife putting it back in the holster. He continues clearing the floor. One body, two, three, four…

The walk up to the next floor feels surreal. He changes the mag in his weapon clicking it in place before walking into what used to be an open plan office. The place is surprisingly empty, still he can’t help checking every cubical, every corner. He makes it across to the only other room in the building. There is light coming through the bottom of the door.

He takes in a deep breath moving his finger to the trigger and kicks the door open.

The man behind the desk stands up, his arms raised in the air. He reaches for his weapon, Price fires off the shot hitting him in the shoulder causing him to collapse to the ground. He walks round the desk watching him writhe on the floor.

Price kicks him, his hand tries to grab Price’s foot. Price pulls it away then slams his foot down on his wounded shoulder.

“Christian?” Price asks.

“Fuck you!” The man shouts back. Price lets out a breath and shoots in him in the head. His body goes limp, he removes his foot and turns back to the office door.

It’s done.

Now all that matters is Simon. All that matters is Simon.

---

[angelflms]

Cobra Kai has a tone-deaf problem.

Now, I am a Black woman so all of my observations are through the lenses of that. You can critique my words all you want, but don't be disrespectful because I will be equally as disrespectful in the replies.

I have this phenomenon that I've noticed for a lot of shows I have watched that I call "The Leo Dooley effect," inspired by character from the Disney XD show Lab Rats, where the main character, a POC who set the tone for the whole story, is surrounded by a white ensemble cast that slowly but surely pushes that character aside to serve their purpose.

Cobra Kai does the same thing with Miguel Diaz, as he seems to be the sole reason why any of these things on the show are happening (for better or for worse) and gets one of the worst character driven storylines throughout the series post-coma (I rewrote his story on my blog. Go find it under the Miguel or Xolo hashtags) to further make the show The Robby Show (we'll get into the tone-deaf writing of his character this past season in a minute). He becomes a shell of a character, empty, boring, and in the sidelines all up until the final season, where the writers seem to remember *snaps fingers* oh shit, Miguel's one of our protagonists, and writes an okay story for him. Better than his s5 plot, but not as good as the stuff we got in s1, 2, and the last half of 3 and 4.

Now, s6 has him in his true prime (not in the way people claimed he was in the past seasons). He's got a clear mind, he's goals-oriented, you wouldn't even be able to tell that this kid was paralyzed from the waist down a year ago (in-universe time). However, he's out-performing everyone, was single-handedly saving his team, and it wasn't even enough for Johnny. It was very interesting to watch as People of Color, especially Black and Brown people, tend to have to go above and beyond to prove that we're the shit, but it'll never amount to anything if our white associates (minus Devon in this case - more on her later) aren't doing anything. But the second they do, everyone is getting praised. Miguel knocked his opponent out in forty seconds. FORTY SECONDS. But because the team wasn't doing good overall, he got no attention. I know that feeling all too well and it sucks.

As much as I thought Johnny's "Miguel is our anchor" line was powerful, it also didn't at the same time. The Magical Negro is such an annoying stereotype, as well as the Strong Black Woman/Man, and the Brown and Asian variations that come with it.

Miguel is the Brown equivalent of the Magical Negro, trying to tell the white Johnny what's right and wrong. Teaching him what's okay to say and what's not, despite Johnny being grown enough to probably understand shit on his own. He basically is teaching Johnny in a sense despite the fact that it should be the other way around. And I know that's a typical mentor/mentee thing trope but with how the show goes out of its way to show how self aware of modern problems it is, it's hella tone-deaf.

In terms of the Strong Black Man trope (or in this case Brown), Miguel isn't always strong. He breaks down and cries pretty often but it's viewed by the fandom as annoying, weak, and pathetic, as well as not manly which pisses me all the way off because every time he gets emotional, it's with valid reason. Losing his girlfriend (both times), finding out he's paralyzed, apologizing for running away, his mom possibly dying, not getting into Stanford (tho this would've had more of a punch if Stanford actually mattered but it doesn't whatever). Also, he's a 16/17 year old Brown kid in poverty who was embarrassingly bullied MULTIPLE TIMES. You're telling me you didn't cry as a kid? But when Robby cries every once in a while (which is also equally as valid because he was also a kid in poverty who was bullied), everyone holds his hand and says "it's okay."

"He's our anchor." It just sounds so off to me. Like has to be the one to help everyone else, when you have two Captains who can do the exact same thing. We as POCs have to be the ones to hold down the fort and keep things steady on our backs while white people can settle for mediocrity and not have to do to much because "hey, the POCs got us." It's just like that "if you're in danger, find a Black woman" thing. Because we're expected to be the ones to save y'all when y'all are in trouble. But when the roles reverse, we're expected to save ourselves because we're strong. Y'all don't like it when Miguel isn't emotionally or physically tough because y'all expect him to push through since he's the main character, but it also feels like he's expected to push through because he's a Brown boy in poverty so he's been through enough.

Tory's "we have to fight to get a spot in life" speech was well performed by Peyton List but it felt strange to see a white woman explain privilege to a Brown boy who has less privilege in comparison to her. I have always had a problem with that scene and I never won't have an issue with it.

Moving on to Kenny. Kenny is the only Black character of current time to be in the ensemble. Aisha was on the show but left ofc. Kenny, like Miguel was brutally picked on, primarily by white kids, especially by white rich boy Anthony LaRusso. In the fandom Anthony tends to be the more favored overall. Kenny is primarily favored on the Black side of the fandom (much like Miguel). Similar to Miguel, there was a moment in s6 part two that may have not been intentional but in my eyes, felt very racially targeted.

Hawk and Demetri were very skeptical towards Kenny because they assumed that he was working with Silver despite the fact that Kenny didn't even want to do the Sekai Tekai to begin with after he became publicly bullied again. During a round of tag-teamed fighting, the boys refused to let Kenny in, causing them to lose the round due to Robby not being prepared to be tagged in (he thought they were gonna tag Kenny). Kenny gets mad, rightfully so but the boys didn't back down on their theory (the only reason this theory was even a thing was because they say Kenny and Silver talking and assumed the worst). It took the team's "anchor" to give Robby a pep talk to lead and the others will follow (you know, something a Captain should already know) for Kenny to get the attention he deserves. And then Hawk and Demetri finally accept Kenny. All because the white guy said "hey, we should tag him in."

That sounds so off in so many ways.

It wasn't intentional, I know. But the fact that this was something that happened and the boys didn't even apologize to Kenny after for the assumptions they made only furthers my point on how tone deaf this show can get. Amanda, Miguel, and Robby are literally the only people who see Kenny as more than just a Silver puppet and it sucks because Hawk and Demetri were in the same spot as Kenny once upon a time.

And then there's Devon, the overworking, overwhelmed Asian girlie who tries her hardest to seek validation and gets overlooked. Similar to Miguel in this new part, Devon got ignored badly in the first part. It was so bad that she cheated to get into the Sekai Tekai and got her ass handed to her. And like Miguel, it takes her to have to explain to her white sensei that she's being ignored for him for her to be taken seriously. She's not the best fighter by any means but I thought we were done with this Asian stereotype years ago. And the way Sam talked to her after literally celebrating her victory with all smiles and everything in the first part??? Like it felt so fake as hell.

Finally, Robby. Robby is written well, we all know that. But this shit that they did to him in the second part pissed me off, especially since it's not gonna get addressed apparently. So Robby gets drunk at a bar and basically follows Zara back to her hotel room. Next time we see them, he's disoriented, and she's kissing him. I'm sorry, but that's sexual assault, yes? Robby was drunk and didn't remember anything. So that's her taking advantage of him, yes? Well the creator apparently doesn't think so and is saying that Robby made a mistake and that the interaction won't be talked about next part.

Bitch, Robby is a VICTIM.

Zara sexually assaulted him. Just because he's a man doesn't change the fact that the man got taken advantage of by Zara.

Like did we watch the same scene?

This show has so many problems and I feel like since it's a show about fighting no one cares. But as a Black woman, I see this shit and in between the lines, there's so many issues that won't even get fixed because the show is over.