#I have held this in for probably nearly decades now

[jaythelay]

I just remembered I have a tumblr in which I can share my thoughts:

Slenderman does not have a mouth.

Slenderman is hilariously cheesy, overused, and everyone's first thought, with a mouth.

There have been billions before and billions after that are eyeless, noseless, hairless, creatures with a mouth.

To put a mouth on Slenderman is not just to miss the point, it's to try and be edgy like a 14yo in 2006 using paint. It's not effective in any artistic regard, especially when you add it as a feature and do nothing the fuck with it.

Slenderman should not have a mouth.

[justagalwhowrites]

Curse and Comfort - A Jackson!Joel Miller One Shot

You get your period when spending the night in Joel Miller's bed. He takes care of you through it. AKA I wanted a comfort fic for that time of the month so I wrote one. Now you can have it, too.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Reader gets her period so there's talk of blood and period stuff, brief mention of past sex but this isn't smutty (sorry), fluff fluff fluff all the fluff, hurt/comfort, bit of an age gap (reader is in her mid to late 40s, Joel is newly in Jackson so 56-57), talk of pregnancy being possible in the future toward the end, Joel is just the best man because I'm convinced he would be, Joel settled in Jackson is the softest of Joels I will die on this hill, reader can borrow Joel's boxers and has hair of no specified length and can have a period but no description otherwise. Whole blog is hella smutty so Minors DNI 18+ only.

Length: 3.4k

A03 | Masterlist

The cramps and a sticky wetness between your legs woke you up. 

You were naked. You usually were when you shared a bed with Joel, the only exception when you went out on patrol together and might need to move quickly but couldn’t resist sleeping near each other, anyway. When you were home, safe and warm and comfortable in his bed or yours, clothes were far from your mind. 

That was usually a good thing. It meant you could feel the heat of his leg between yours when you hitched your knee over his thigh in your sleep. It meant you woke up with his skin everywhere around you. It meant that, sometimes, when you were both half asleep, you found him slipping inside of you with an unconscious, needy groan, his hips rocking into you just two or three times before stilling, like he couldn’t be close enough to you, even when he wasn’t awake. 

But as you woke up with the foreign yet strangely familiar feeling between your thighs and in your stomach, you realized that there was a downside to sleeping naked. 

You carefully, hesitantly, reached down to your slit and cautiously tucked two fingers inside yourself and confirmed what you already knew: it wasn’t come leaking out of you. 

“Fuck,” you whispered, looking behind you to find Joel nestled against your back, his sleepy breaths hot on your neck, one of his thick, heavy arms draped around your waist. 

You carefully disentangled yourself him and tiptoed to the bathroom with your thighs held as tightly together as you could manage. 

The light felt blinding when you turned it on and it took your eyes a moment to adjust enough that you could see the smears of red over your legs. 

“Shit,” you groaned quietly, sitting on the toilet, trying to figure out what to do, your cheeks getting hot as you realized that you’d probably bled all over the man who’d let you in his bed. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” 

If this had been 25 years ago when you were a college student and the world was still what it had once been, it wouldn’t be as big of a deal. You’d have tampons near by and plenty of clean clothes and sheets so if something got wrecked, throwing it away was hardly a tragedy. Hell, you’d even have a Snickers bar to help make you feel better about the whole bleeding on someone thing. 

But that was 25 years ago and this was now, more than two decades into the apocalypse. It had been years since you’d last had a period and, since you were well into your 40s, you’d assumed it was menopause. It hadn’t occurred to you that it might have been just another way your body tried to help you survive as the people you’d been with struggled to find food and were eventually nearly wiped out by raiders. That was how you’d come to be in Jackson to begin with. Joel’s brother, Tommy, found you a few miles away while on patrol as the threat of infected grew worse and you were alone. He convinced you to come back with him and you’d just stayed. 

You’d only been in Jackson about eight months, which both seemed like so much time and none at all. It was hard to remember what life had been like before this, it was hard to believe you’d been here any time at all. You and Joel and his would-be daughter, Ellie, had arrived just a few weeks apart. You’d wound up spending time with him out of convenience more than anything else. Everyone else in town already knew each other, you and Joel had naturally drifted together. It didn’t take long before you were fucking. 

You still weren’t entirely sure how it started or why it had kept going or how Joel actually felt about you beyond friendship. He wasn’t the most forthcoming man. He kept his hands to himself when others were around, he seemed to less seek you out more than just run into you as the cadence of your lives brought you together. It was like he just chose to move alongside you for a while before going his own way. When you were alone, it was different. The way he touched you, explored your body, moaned in your ear made you feel like it meant something. You hoped it meant something. You’d grown attached to him, more than you really wanted to admit to anyone, including yourself. Because what good was there in loving someone who didn’t love you back? It was the end of the world, you’d take whatever small pieces of kindness and pleasure and care you could get, you weren’t about to be greedy and ask for more. 

So you had Joel in his stoic, strong way of being, and you treasured that. But you weren’t together, not really. He didn’t have any reason to tolerate something like you fucking bleeding all over his bed with no warning. And the last time like this had happened, you’d been in your 20s and that guy had practically bitten your head off, pissed at you for not knowing you were about to start your period and wrecking his sheets. Why would you expect Joel to be any different? 

What were you supposed to do? It was the middle of the night, did you wake him up to check the sheets? Did you see if there was scrap cloth to put in your panties to soak up the blood? Did you use his shower and hope that you could get cleaned up without staining something else he owned? 

You weren’t sure when you’d last felt this mortified, tears stinging at your eyes. Why couldn’t this have happened when you were alone? Or at least in your own damn bed instead of his? 

You heard the creak of the floorboard only a second before the gentle knock at the door made you wince. 

“Baby?” Joel said, his voice thick with sleep. “Everythin’ alright?” 

“Fine,” you said, trying to keep your tone from sounding wet. It was easier said than done. 

“Don’t sound fine,” he said. “Can I come in?” 

“Um…” 

“Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said gently. “C’mon, baby. Lemme in.” 

You sighed and stretched to unlock the door before staring determinedly at your clasped hands as you sat, dripping blood into his toilet while it was still smeared and drying over your thighs. 

Joel had pulled on his flannel pajama pants before seeking you out and he leaned against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest as you felt his eyes on you. 

“You OK?” He asked after a moment. 

“Fine,” you sniffed, trying to get your shit together. You were a middle-aged woman, for fuck’s sake, you had no business crying over a goddamn period. You sat back and really looked at him for the first time since he’d come into the bathroom and watched as his face shifted when he saw your legs, blinking in shock for a moment. 

“Oh,” he said. “I thought you just weren’t feelin’ well…” 

“I’m really sorry,” you cut him off, your chest getting tight. “I can clean it up, I…” 

“S’OK,” he said quickly. “Just… uh… get yourself cleaned up.” 

He left before you had a chance to respond, closing the door behind him and you just sighed, leaning on your knees again, trying not to cry. 

***

Joel tried to not be too loud knocking on his brother’s door. He knew the baby would be asleep, the last thing he wanted to do was send the whole house into a tizzy. He wasn’t trying to be a problem, but it’s not like he had anywhere else to go. 

He knocked, hoping it was loud enough to rouse Tommy or Maria but let their child sleep. 

Just as he was going to knock again, the porch light flipped on and Tommy opened the door, squinting against the brightness of it as he glared at Joel. 

“It’s 3 a.m., Joel,” he said, his voice groggy. “You know what 3 a.m. means, right? It means people are fuckin’ sleeping…” 

“It’s an emergency,” Joel said. Tommy stood up straighter then, reaching behind him to grab his jacket but Joel shook his head. “Not that kind but… is Maria awake?” 

“She is now,” he muttered and then sighed. “Come in, I’ll get her. She’ll really love you after this…” 

Joel hovered in their living room, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets, thumbs drumming against his hips as his brother went to get his wife. 

It had been years since he’d had to worry about anything like this with a lover. Ellie, of course, had needed to keep up with a supply of tampons and they worked their way across the country and he’d gotten accustomed to looking for them any time they stopped somewhere to scavenge supplies but, since they’d come to Jackson and she’d been supplied with… some other solution Joel didn’t ask for details about, it had been far from his mind. 

As far as he knew, you didn’t have periods anymore. You hadn’t said as much but there were clues. You sure as hell weren’t worried about pregnancy. You’d told him as much after the third time the two of you had slept together and he lost control, not pulling out like he knew he should have, apologizing to you over and over as he cleaned you up. 

“It’s fine,” you’d laughed. “That’s not something I need to worry about.” 

He didn’t ask for details. He just relished the freedom and intense pleasure that came with coming in you all the goddamn time. He tried to remember, over the last six months, if there was a time where the two of you had gone more than just three days without sleeping together that he just hadn’t noticed but he couldn’t place one. 

“This had better be good,” Maria grumbled, shuffling into the room, her hair in a bonnet and her arms crossed over her robe. “Lucky you didn’t wake up my kid…” 

“Believe me, ain’t tryin’ to cause trouble,” Joel said. “And this is… it’s kinda awkward but… well… I… I got a… uh… lady friend…” 

“Jesus, everyone knows who you’re fucking, Joel,” she rolled her eyes.

He just blinked at her for a moment. 

“They… they do?” 

“It’s not like you spend time with anyone but her, Tommy and Ellie,” she said. “It’s obvious. Just get on with it so I can go back to bed.” 

“Right,” he said. “Well, she’s over and… uh… she started bleedin’…” 

“OK,” she looked at him incredulous and he just raised his eyebrows at her. It clicked into place then. “Oh! Oh. OK, and I take it she needs… supplies?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t know where else to go.” 

“No, you did the right thing,” she said. “Just… two minutes.” 

She left him standing there again, not gone long before she returned with a brown paper bag and a hot water bottle. 

“Give her this,” she said, handing him the bag. “It has what she’ll need, plus instructions. This,” she passed him the bottle, “you fill with hot water, it’ll help with the cramps.” 

Joel nodded, an odd sense of almost peace coming over him as he did. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Appreciate it. Sorry for waking you up…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” she smiled a little, reaching out and giving his bicep a small squeeze. “Go take care of your girl.” 

Joel smiled a little back. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

He went back across the street, looking up to the sea of stars for a moment as he did. 

In so many ways, Joel was still adjusting to life in Jackson. He’d been here the better part of a year now but it was so different than the lives he’d led over the last two decades it was still a strange reality for him. No more scrounging to survive, no more constant threat of death and misery, no more constant feeling hopelessness and dread. Life was different here. It made him want something different. 

It made him want you. 

He knew it was hard for you, too. You were new to this life, too, more used to the harsh and cruel realities of the world. Falling into you had been like gravity, a force beyond what he could really control pulling him in. He wanted connection here, he wanted understanding and there you were, so like him in so many ways. 

But it wasn’t just that. It was your beauty, your kindness, your passion that drew him in. He’d resisted at first, the lingering fear of what caring for someone would mean heavy inside him, but the safety of Jackson made it safe to care about you, too. Soon, he just did everything he could to be around you, seeking you out at every opportunity, finding a sense of security and contentment unlike anything he’d really known since the world ended every time he fell asleep with you in his arms. 

He just wasn’t sure how to say that or how you felt. He didn’t want to pressure you, he sure as hell didn’t want to scare you off, so he just kept the warm feeling you gave him in his chest where it belonged. You let him be close to you, he wasn’t about to ask for more, especially when he didn’t deserve it. 

This, though, was something different. It was oddly comforting, having a way to take care of you. He understood himself best, it seemed, when he was caring for someone. If he could protect them, provide for them, hold them when they needed it, he was doing his job. He’d just never had a way to do that for you. While it had been a long time since he’d had to worry about a period in this way, this was familiar territory. He loved you, it felt good to have the chance to look after you. 

The shower was running when he got home and he quickly filled the kettle and put it on the stove before heading to his room. He turned the lights on and pulled back the sheets, finding a bloodstain on the side of the bed that had become yours in the months you’d been together. He quickly stripped the bed - balling up the sheets and tucking them out of sight to wash once you weren’t in the shower - and put fresh bedding on before throwing a clean pair of his boxers over his shoulder and going back downstairs to fill the hot water bottle and make a cup of tea for you just as he heard the water shut off in the bathroom. 

Joel took everything - the paper bag, the boxers, the hot water bottle, the tea - and knocked softly on the bathroom door. 

“Sorry,” you called to him. It still sounded like you’d been crying. He frowned at that. “I’ll be out of your way in just a minute, I…” 

“Not worried about that,” he said, frown deepening. “It OK if I come in?” 

You sighed. 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

You had a towel over your front when he came in and your eyes were red but you were, at least, not actively crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I haven’t… I had no idea that was going to happen, I’ll clean up whatever mess there is and…” 

“Why do you keep apologizin’?” He asked, setting the brown paper bag and the boxers on the edge of the sink, near the toilet. “You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry about, baby. Shit happens. I just want to make sure you got what you need and that you’re feeling alright.” 

You just looked at him for a moment, blinking in shock. 

“Really?” You asked, brows raised. 

“Course,” he said, nodding to the bag. “Ran out and grabbed… whatever that is. I’ll be honest, I ain’t sure, I didn’t look. But I got something to help with the cramps, made tea… just take care of what you need to in here and come back to bed, OK baby?”

You just nodded and he turned to go before thinking better of it. Instead, he leaned over and kissed your cheek, breathing in the smell of his soap on your skin before heading back to bed. 

It didn’t take you long before you came in, closing the door quietly behind you, wearing his boxers, your hair still wet. You seemed surprised when you saw that he was sitting up in bed, the lamp on his side of it on as he flipped idly through the book about space he was trying to work his way through so he could talk about it with Ellie. 

“You doing OK?” He asked, marking his place and setting the book aside. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. Your eyes weren’t red now but your arms were crossed over your chest protectively as you came over to the bed. He pulled the covers back and you froze for a moment. “You needed to change the sheets?” 

He shrugged but you didn’t climb in beside him. 

“I really am sorry,” you said, your hand on the bed. “If I knew that…” 

“Baby, I really need you to stop acting like you did somethin’ wrong here,” he said. “You think this is the first time I cleaned up some sheets or ran out and got tampons or whatever was in that bag in the middle of the night? I’ve loved women before, this ain’t new. Besides, you’re the one who has to deal with all the pain and shit. Think I can handle cleaning up some sheets now and then.” 

Your eyes met his then, an odd, almost misty expression on your face. 

“What?” He asked. 

“You love me?” You asked quietly. 

It was his turn to freeze then. He hadn’t meant to say that. He wasn’t sure how you felt, he didn’t want to pressure you or freak you out but… the way you were looking at him made it seem like that may not be a bad thing. 

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I do. Is… Is that OK?” 

“Yeah,” you laughed, smiling for the first time since this whole thing had started. “Yeah, it is because I love you, too.” 

He smiled, too, something warm and comforting starting in chest and spreading over his whole self when you said it. You loved him, too. 

“Well, should get in bed with me then, woman,” he said and you laughed before climbing in. 

You snuggled against his side before putting the hot water bottle over your lower stomach and drinking your tea, Joel’s arm around your shoulders, fingers trailing over your bared skin. When you were done, he turned out the light and the two of you settled in, you on your back, Joel on his side, one arm below you, his other hand resting on the hot water bottle, holding it in place over your skin. 

“I haven’t had a period in forever,” you said quietly. “I thought all that was done for me.” 

“Place like Jackson can change a lot,” he said. “Having enough to eat makes a hell of a difference.” 

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Should probably… probably start being more careful now that… well, you know.” 

Joel was going to agree but something stopped him. 

He’d meant it when he’d said that a place like Jackson can change a lot. Before be came here, before Ellie, before you, he’d have agreed. He wouldn’t want to bring a child into this world, wouldn’t want to know what he could lose if he did. 

Now, things were different. There was still the twinge of fear at the thought of having a child, the same one he’d have if the world had never ended, especially given his age, but it wasn’t the same terror there would have been even just a year ago. 

“If that’s what you want,” he said instead. “But… I wouldn’t be against the other option.” 

“Really?” You said, turning your head to look at him in the dark. “You… you would want that?” 

“With you?” He smiled softly. “Yeah. I… I think I would.” 

You snuggled closer and he pressed his lips to your temple, his hand still holding the hot water bottle in place. 

Maybe your period wasn’t a bad thing after all. 

[mydearlybeloathed]

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐌𝐘 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: even as you grow older, you'll always be his baby sister

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: strawhats x sanjissister!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: lowercase intentional, cursing, allusions to insecurities

𝐚/𝐧: this is basically just sanji curing my childhood wish for a big brother. i have more ideas about how sanji would be at his wits end with a reckless little sister so look out for those hehe

i imagine sanji is two years older than you, but it never felt like it. you and him were never apart for too long, more by obligation than choice.

so it was no surprise when sanji dragged confused little you with him as he hid from the pirates invading the ship, only outing your hiding place in the name of saving his food from oregano.

you'd hurried after him, of course; that's all you knew to do at such a young age.

and when zeff had sanji up against the wall, being so young meant you also knew only one thing to do in this situation: you bit zeff, latching your teeth around his arm and drawing blood from his broken skin.

zeff howled and very nearly threw you into the wall as well, before his eyes zeroed in on you, this little girl with wild eyes and a mighty strong jaw. he only jerked you off him, then, staring from you to sanji then back to you. "wha—? what kind of little gremlin just bites a man?!" your eyes were steely. "I'm not a gremlin." then, "bitch." though it was clear you didn't understand what it meant, probably catching it from the other chefs of the now sieged ship. gritting his teeth, zeff continued on his shouting. it made you and sanji angry, and zeff marveled at how your expressions were twin–like, despite your difference in appearance. then, the ship had wrecked, and it all went downhill from there.

sanji always made sure you’d eaten more than him on that damn rock, even when you fought him and scratched him as he forced a morsel of bread into your mouth.

he'd held your hand as you cried the first ten days, and he had mourned when on the eleventh, your eyes took on a dead sort of sheen, like you were now a decade older in the head.

it was unnerving, really.

sanji learned a lot on that rock. like what it meant to be the responsible one, or at least more responsible than you.

sanji just wanted you to listen, but it seemed like all his words went in one ear and out the other. you wouldn't eat despite all his begging, only staring at him with that horridly blank stare and pushing the food back toward him. tears started to form at the corners of his eyes as he held up the very last piece of bread. "please," he begged. "please just eat it." you shook you head, forcing the tears to stream down his cheeks. that broke through your indifference, your frown deepening as you inched closer to him. "we'll half it," you offered, taking his shaking hand and guiding him to split the bread, taking one half and waiting for him to calm down before you ate in silence. you really did feel older than him, and he didn't like it. only when that night fell did he realize you were simply a very, very good actor. your whimpers were like thunder in his ears as he sprang up from a featherlight sleep, his eyes locking on your quivering form just a hair's breadth away. "y/n?" he whispered, shaking your shoulder. you spooked awake, and in the reflection of moonlight he saw glinting tears traced down your face. "nightmare?" your nod and sniffle tore him up inside, and in seconds he was hugging you to his chest, telling you stories till he was sure you were at least sleeping better than him. "someday," he said, "we'll find a place where we'll never go hungry. where every flavor and ingredient can be found. the all blue. i'll take us there, and we'll never starve again." you were asleep by the time he started plotting to raid zeff's side of the rock in the morning. it had been sanji who guarded you from seeing the stump left of zeff's leg, ignoring you when you asked him to explain what was happening.

growing up on the baratie was an experience, for sure.

your only company were the crooks who worked in the kitchen alongside you and sanji, and you found them amusing company indeed.

especially when they started teaching you how to be a remarkable little con-artist. once in your late teens, it wasn't long before you'd abandoned your work in the kitchen to wait tables.

not only were the tips amazing to pocket away, but your charming smile and whimsical attitude made you a master of sympathy.

there isn't a customer you can't placate, a fight you can't break up; sanji would never admit it, but you'd save him from one too many brawls with just a single simper.

it was easy to hold that over his head, but for some reason, sanji never let it keep him from completely wrecking your social life.

to say sanji is protective of you is the understatement of the century; you'd be the first to attest to that.

it was growing to be annoying and just plain inconvenient, if you're being honest.

was it too much to ask for some time to yourself... with the company of a horny teenage boy... in your quarters... alone?

"sanji!" you hissed, face bright red as your brother dragged you and this young sailor boy--you hadn't caught his name--out of a broom cupboard, his grip on the boy's collar deathly. throwing the boy aside, sanji stormed back up to him. "did you touch my sister? you think you can just take advantage of her like tha'?" you ran your hands over your face and rushed to separate sanji, shaking in anger, from the boy, shaking in his boots. "stop! he wasn't takin' advantage of me, sanji. hell, i started it!" "y-yeah!" the sailor boy piped in, cowering behind you. "she was all over me and—" "shut up," you and sanji said in tandem, shooting the boy matching glares that sent the poor sailor darting for his crew's ship.

as the years dragged on, you and sanji couldn't deny that the idea of remaining on the baratie all your lives would be... well... sad.

you wanted more for yourselves—you specifically wanted to get sanji away from zeff's constant criticism, no matter how well–meaning it was.

but the years really were dragging, and could you ever really bare to leave the man you'd nearly called father on several occasions? could you leave the shit-hole restaurant that raised you in it's wooden arms?

probably not. you'd probably die washing dishes (snore) and burning water (whoops) and charming the pants off grumpy old men (yuck).

that is, it always seemed that way until a grand vessel with a goat for a masthead docked at the baratie.

the day had been it's usual level of boring, until two customers decided to have a little row which heated up with every word shot back at each other.

you, having a good track record, rushed forth to prevent the fight just itching to break out. but today was not your lucky day.

"gentlemen," you grinned. stepping between the two men, you held up your hands and settled each of them with batted eyes and a soft expression. "what's this about, hmm?" sanji loitered at a nearby table, refilling drinks with one eye on you. he was ripely kicked out of the kitchen, snug in his waiter's jacket. one of them huffed, "he's at my table!" "i don't see your name on it!" the other snapped. your patience wanned, your thoughts screaming man-child. "i'm sure we can work something out. just please, don't start anything in the restaurant." the first man seemed to consider you, his eyes dragging up and down your form, but any progress you might have made was destroyed by the next second. "i ain't movin', girl. he can go shit 'imself in the corner." that was how you winded up directly between them, your hands pushing against either chest to keep them separated, your heartrate accelerating as they pressed in on you as if you weren't even there. grunting, you called out, "brother?" in seconds, sanji had a grip on your sleeve in one hand and a fistful of the first man's collar in the other. he jerked you away from them and swiftly shoved the men away from each other. "sister," he said in turn, cracking his neck as the men continued to not learn their lesson. "take these rolls to table four, yeah?" you didn't need to be told twice, swiping the tray of bread from his arm and beelining for a booth housing a motley crew of people. behind you, grunts and winces and crashing could be heard, followed by the thick silence of your brother's victory. you set the tray down on the table, shooting a tight lipped smile up at the guests. a boy wearing a peculiar straw hat locked you in place with his bright eyes and wondered aloud, "he's a great fighter." "yep," you quipped. "a real hero. any drinks for the handsome crew?"

it turned out the boy with the straw hat was crazy: he intended to become king of the pirates.

you admired his tenacity, of course, but really? he had a death wish.

still, the more you spoke to luffy and the more you observed his character, being king of the pirates didn't seem so crazy. he had guts, that was for sure.

as crazy as it sounded, you started to believe he could do it.

so it was really no surprise you said yes when luffy asked you to join his crew.

he had already asked sanji the day before—before luffy's swordsman friend got obliterated by a warlord of the sea.

you didn't know him, but when you rushed onto the going merry after zeff an sanji, and you saw the bloodied man lying there, you could barely move a muscle.

you were never good around the air of death, and it was all around roronoa zoro, lingering like a knock you expected but never came. so you couldn't move, not even when they moved zoro to a bed, out of sight. not when zeff and sanji retreated back to the baratie.

you snapped back to life at the sound of luffy's voice, finding him leaning down to be directly eye level with you. he was still speaking, and it felt sort of like being under water, till finally, you surfaced. "sorry what?" "are you okay?" he asked, brows knit. you pondered your response while looking anywhere but his face. "yeah, sorry. i... i don't like feeling helpless, i guess." you vaguely gestured to where zoro's limp body had laid upon the nearby table. "being out of control makes me wig out." luffy tilted his head. "why're you out of control?" "because," you nearly laughed. "your friend is dying." immediately, you regretted your word choice, hating how the light fizzled from his eyes. "he's not dying," luffy snapped back. "he was injured and now he's healing. why does everyone insist he's dying?" you shuffled on your feet. "right, sorry." when you met his eyes again, there wasn't any frustration like you assumed there would be. instead, he settled you with a curious look. "you don't have to keep apologizing." luffy was an odd type of pirate, you thought with a forced little grin. "then how will people know i'm sorry?" he smiled. "fair point." taking a hold of your sleeve, luffy started to drag you deeper into the going merry, leading you right to where zoro was laid. his grip on you loosened as he passed into the room, but you stayed cemented in the doorway. nami was there, sullen looking. you watched as nami berated luffy and stormed away, shoulder checking you on the way out, leaving luffy smileless. that didn't sit well with you. walking up beside him, you took a kneel just as he did, and turned your eyes on zoro's pallid face. "hello," you murmured. silence was your reply. "i'm y/n. you don't know me... your friends care a lot about you. it'd be... sad, if you died." luffy stiffened at your side. "which you won't! i've heard of you. no way the demon pirate hunter will let—let a scratch get him..." as your rambling died down, luffy slowly shifted to look at you, all serious for a moment. unnerved, you chuckled nervously. "what?" a tiny grin worked its way onto his lips, a glimmer in his eyes. "will you join my crew?" you nearly laughed. "luffy, you don't want me." "yeah. i do. why else would i ask?" "i'm useless." "you're kind," he said, shutting you up as a flush bloomed in your cheeks. "not everyone can say that."

a long story short, you joined luffy's crew of strawhats right along sanji.

your parting from the baratie had been watery, to say the least. whilst sanji shouted curses at zeff and stormed out to luffy's ship, you stood shaky as zeff huffed, his eyes roaming toward you.

you very nearly tripped head over foot in your sprint to wrap him in a hug. he was the only father you'd ever had, really. leaving him was bittersweet.

the going merry was a very nice place to call home, in your opinion.

you were a jack of all trades amidst the crew, choosing to do odd jobs around the ship. most days, you found yourself asking around with a little list in your journal, taking note of everyone’s grocery needs and even keeping track of the ship’s supply inventory.

not only that, but you found your crewmates tended to lack the sense to take care of themselves in a timely manner. 

that is, none of them could be faster than your attentive eye, and no one was safe from your protective inclinations.

nami was attentive, but she tended to disassociate, and when she did it was very hard to get her back. she would go on for hours, working herself to the brink of exhaustion, not accepting even a sip of water. (she couldn't stop you, however, from forcing a cup of ice water down her throat. even she was intimidated by your determination to hydrate her).

then there was zoro, who absolutely refused to allow anyone to help him dress his wounds; and since he wasn't the best at it, you often stared at his haphazard bandages with fear of infection. he brushed you off enough times to invoke your wrath upon him. (zoro quit refusing after the first three times you ambushed him, wrapping your arm around his neck and blocking his airway).

you always listened to usopp's stories, but oftentimes you grew tired of the repetitive and clearly fake tall tales. you wanted to know his real stories, and you told him so. he'd laughed awkwardly and replied that he wasn't interesting enough for that. (he was fairly surprised at your insistence, and was warmed at your fascination with the silly story of how he met kaya).

luffy, your captain, was a walking migraine most days. he was smart, but just as brave, and jumped to action faster than you could process. it left you stressed beyond what you could handle, and this alone was enough to make luffy more cautious. (he never wanted to make you unhappy, so you'd inadvertently given him some of your common sense).

finally, sanji, who you'd been dealing with all your life. you knew all his tells, whether it was baking macarons when he was upset or going eerily silent for far too long. you always knew what he needed, and when he needed it. (more often than not all he needed was a compliment, and not just from some doe–eyed woman at a bar; a word of sentiment from his baby sister could drag him out of any stupor).

overtime, the crew took to calling you their boatswain. after all, you fit the job description, and you took the title with pride.

as time flew by with the strawhats, you began to listen to the dreams and aspirations of the others, and began to wonder what exactly you wanted out of life. the all blue was sanji’s dream… so what was yours?

the going merry was docked at a friendly port for the next few days, meaning the crew was free to explore and roam the city as they pleased. you, however, remained behind that very first night.

as far as you knew, the others had decided upon a bar for the night’s celebration. The quiet dwelling over the ship was calming, and from your sweat crisscrossed on the afterdeck you had a wide view of the stars. 

your notebook rested on your belly, pen tight between your fingers, thoughts moving a million miles an hour. there hadn’t been time to get shopping done that day, so you would rouse the ship early the next morning and assign them to fetch groceries in pairs of two—just to be safe. 

and though the heavy thinking could wait till the morning, you were stuck in a spiral of inventory and lists. it was… exhausting, and offered little to no fulfillment. still, it was what you did to help. 

A familiar patter of boots broke your reverie, and you peeked up to find sanji coming to loom over you, his hands shoved in his pockets. his suit jacket was draped over one shoulder and his hair was a mess—he wasn’t drunk though, which was a very good sign.

silently, he disposed of his jacket and laid down beside you, resting his hands behind his head. for a split second, you got a glimpse of the damn rock imbeedded in your memory for all time, and how sanji used to make up stories about the stars.

since then, you’d come to know their true stories. you knew every constellation by name, having memorized them upon the baratie and spoken to them every lonely night. the stars had been your friends in your youth, and though your conversations with them were few and far between now, they always shined for you. so as far as you knew, you were never alone.

sanji raised an arm and pointed in a random direction. “bet you can’t name that one.”

a grin worked its way up your face. “how much?”

he turned his head, eyes boring into you. “if you can’t, you tell me what’s on your mind.”

“that’s hardly fair.”

“take it or leave it.”

you huffed, but complied, glaring up at the sky. “cassiopeia. cursed to remain in the stars for claiming her daughter was more beautiful than the nerieds.” you kissed your teeth. “hardly a punishment. i’d love to be in the stars.”

there was a weight behind your words; a truth so deep you had to take a long breath to recover. wetting your lips, you asked your brother, “do you think, someday, i could study them?”

“why someday?”

“well, you need supplies. tools. there’s only so much our eyes can tell from down here.”

“tools,” he murmured. “so, you want to study the stars?”

the words flooded from your lips. “i want to know everything about them. i want to know why they shine, how far they are, what’s beyond them… can we get there?” you sighed into a smile. “there are some cities that have observatories dedicated to astronomy, but you’ve got to be some kind of noble scholar to get in.”

sanji listened, and he listened well. He laid by your side and listened to you tell him about the stars till nami and zoro came lugging a drunk usopp between them, luffy taking the lead. he remained in thought for most of the night, and sought out nami to ask about expenditures, and then set out to find luffy. 

it was safe to say you weren’t quite as upset at sanji and luffy for disappearing all evening when they returned at sunset, some beri short, with a gift in hand.

you stood slack jawed as they revealed a beautiful telescope, the metal polished and bright and shining. how they had managed to sneak it past you and set it up on the afterdeck was beyond you, but you hardly cared to ask.

you threw your arms around your brother, whispering your thank yous, and quickly turned to tackle your captain in a hug just as tight. the night to follow was marked by your awed sighs and the excited way you told the crew about ursa major and ursa minor, then about castor and pollux, and so on till you could barely keep your eyes open.

and sanji would never say it out loud, but he admired you. you turned out pretty damn good despite having him as your big brother. someday, you’d reach the stars. he knew that for certain. he could only hope you’d come visit once or twice.

“g’night,” he muttered to the crew as he stood, making his way over to where you’d drifted off against a barrel. he scooped you up in his arms and was veyr careful to not wake you as he made his way to your and nami’s quarters. 

sanji rested you down and moved to take off your boots and pull the blanket over you, and he found himself frozen all of a sudden. lips pursed, he patted your hair, and turned to go. at the door, he paused and looked back. you slept so soundly for once, something he was so very glad for. he wasn’t blind to how you’d been overworking yourself.

perhaps he would talk to you about that in the morning, but for now, he simply smiled. “good night, sister. love you.”

and whispered back to him, just in time for him to hear: “g’night, sanj. i love you.”

[ohbo-ohno]

lamb to the slaughter

summary: Recently injured, discharged, and desperate for money, Johnny manages to find a job at a local prison by calling in a favor. What seems like just the blessing he needs to get himself back on his feet quickly becomes his worst nightmare when one of the prisoners fixates on him in the worst way possible. (or: dark ghoap prison au. mind the tags!)

word count: 26.3k

cw: GRAPHIC NONCON SEX, trans soap, victim blaming, transphobia, watersports, forced feminization, drugged sex, use of the word "faggot" during sex, prisoner ghost/prison guard soap

author's note: many many endless thanks to ceilidh, who served this plot on a silver platter to me when i was complaining pathetcially about being incapable of thinking. also lumi for listening to me scream ily <3 two quick disclaimers: (1) i do not know how prisons work, and i did not google anything about them for this fic bc i knew i’d get bogged down in research lmaoo. this fic goes by my rules, which means everything that happens works for plot convenience and not by any real world logic. (2) this plot is held together by duct tape and sex scenes, pls do not come here looking for a rich story

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

The man in front of Johnny is familiar. Not because they’ve met before, but because he’d spent nearly a decade surrounded by men just like Herschel Shepherd - tall, broad, commanding assholes like him had been his least favorite part of being enlisted.

Johnny spent his entire military career being doubted and underestimated by mirror images of the man in front of him. He sees the doubt now in the way Shepherd looks at him, the way his eyes linger on Johnny’s middle and the quick expression of shock when he’d walked in the door and stood eye-level with the ex-General. 

It makes him want to let his lip curl, to bite out something insulting, but this is his only worthwhile job prospect so he holds his tongue and shifts in the uncomfortable chair set in front of the dark wood desk.

“Well,” Shepherd sighs, folding his hands over his stomach and leaning back in his seat. His shirt is tugged tight over his abdomen, almost pulled out from where it’s tucked in his pants. Johnny wonders if he’ll try and get in shape again when he realizes, or if he’ll fully let himself go and embrace the beer-belly he’s halfway to. “I’ll be honest with you, MacTavish - if you didn’t come highly recommended, I wouldn’t consider you for a second.”

Johnny barely keeps from snorting. That’s certainly an interesting way to say if I didn’t owe John Price a near unrepayable favor I’d laugh you out of the building .

“I know, sir.”

“We’ve never hired someone with your…” Shepherd pauses, bites his tongue like he’s tasting something nasty. “ Condition .”

Johnny resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I know, sir.”

Shepherd looks like he wants to say something about Johnny’s tone, and he probably would have were they still in the military. But in the concrete walls of his office, he only sighs and sits forward, forehead creasing. “I suppose you’re lucky you’re so tall. The inmates might not even notice.”

Johnny wants to say obviously, you wanker, I’ve been injecting hormones into myself for over a decade and I’m taller than you are .But he can’t say that, or anything like it. The fact of the matter is that it doesn’t matter how tall he is, or how long he’s been on testosterone, or how muscular he is - because Shepherd already knows what he was born as, and nothing else will matter to a man stuck so firmly in the past.

That had been one of the only things Johnny was looking forward to outside of the military - the chance to meet people who didn’t know he was transgender before he could even introduce himself. In the service, every superior he’d ever served under knew he had transitioned before they knew anything else about him. It had never mattered that he could hardly look less like a woman, they were going to treat him differently because of something he never could have controlled. The thought of his first boss as a civilian only seeing the M on his ID, of not dealing with the shock and confusion and inevitable prejudice that come with being trans, was one of the sole bright spots he’d thought of after being discharged.

He grits his teeth now, sitting in a shitty chair with cracking vinyl in a superior officer’s barren office. Somehow, thousands of miles away from any military base he was ever stationed at, Johnny feels like he never fucking left the service. His knee twinges in pain and he barely manages to keep from shifting to try and ease it. 

“Folks usually cannae tell,” he finally replies. “Not unless someone tells them.”

Shepherd catches the implication in his tone and nods to himself, letting his head roll to the side. “You’re a surprise hire, so the other guards won’t know of course. It’s probably for the best if you keep it that way.”

“Probably,” Johnny agrees, just barely keeping the sarcasm from his voice. He tacks on a, “Sir,” for good measure. 

Shepherd eyes him again, scanning him head to toe like he can see all of Johnny’s weak spots. It takes effort not to shift in place and stretch his stiffening knee. The damn thing hasn’t stopped aching since he was let out of the hospital, even with the painkillers he takes daily. He worries about how much worse it’ll be when he runs out.

Finally, Shepherd grunts and stands, leaning his weight against palms laid flat on the desk. “You’re dismissed, MacTavish. Officer Garrick will be waiting for you just down the hall. He’ll give you a tour and help you get settled”

Johnny nods and stands, finding himself grateful when Shepherd doesn’t offer a hand to shake. Neither of them are under any illusions that the other wants them there, and Johnny’s glad he’s not expected to pretend this is anything but his final resort. There’s no coming up with a lie about how he wants this job, no pretending his strengths and weaknesses fit into this career - just a silent acknowledgment of an owed favor and a contract with his name signed on the dotted line. 

He lets Shepherd’s office door close behind him and takes a deep, stabilizing breath, a modicum of tension melting from his shoulders. 

The air in the prison is warm and stale, and Johnny feels like he can’t quite get a full breath in because of it. The halls are suspiciously silent, and if he were still a betting man he’d say the air conditioning has gone out and left the whole building just past the point of comfortably warm. 

His steps are near silent as he walks back the way he came, his old training keeping the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It’s a conscious effort to keep from limping at all, and his right knee screams at him for it.

Johnny’s determined not to show any weakness, though. He can sit on his ass as much as wants to give his bum knee a break - after work. But here in this building, he knows he can’t can’t show such an obvious weak point.

The man waiting for him at the end of the hall strikes the same chord in Johnny’s mind as Shepherd had - they both look like men straight out of the military. Garrick is a few inches taller than Johnny, with buzzed black hair and a dark complexion. 

“Hey,” the man smiles, standing from his relaxed position against the wall once Johnny gets within a few feet of him. “Officer MacTavish, right?”

“That’s me,” Johnny confirms, holding a hand out for a quick but firm shake. “You’re Garrick, then?”

“Call me Gaz.” Garrick smiles, wide and easy, showing off teeth just slightly crooked in his mouth. Johnny smiles back, almost surprising himself with how easy it comes. “It’s my callsign, from when I was enlisted. Nothing else ever quite feels as natural, least not when I’m armed like this.” He laughs, open and light, and Johnny finds more of his tension easing away.

“You can call me Soap, then,” he says, falling into step beside Gaz as the man leads him down the hall. 

“Alright, Soap, I’ll be showing you around and giving you a quick rundown of everything you’ll be expected to do. You ready?”

“Course. Lead the way, Officer.”

———————————————————————

The job ends up being easier than Johnny expected. He almost wants to turn to Gaz and say that’s it? You just want me to babysit these killers all day? Is that really all you do? But even Johnny’s rusty - and that’s being kind - social skills tell him that would be a step too far on his first day.

Gaz tells him that the first few weeks will be easy, that Johnny will mostly just be expected to travel with a pack of other guards and act as an extra set of eyes. He’s to go where his CO tells him to go, watch who his CO tells him to watch, and do what his CO tells him to do. Really, it’s nothing too different than he’s been doing for the last decade - except here there are no targets , only prisoners, and his objective is to keep them alive instead of killing them. 

Quite frankly, it all sounds boring to him. The thought of standing around for hours on end and watching prisoners just go about their day-to-day lives sounds like hell on both his bad knee and his attention span, and Johnny’s far from eager to start his new job.

But it’s the only place he’s found that’ll pay him nearly enough. Anywhere else, and he’d have to stop sending money to Nan, and it’s not like any of his cousins would be decent enough to pick up the slack - they’ve long since proved that they’ll smoke or gamble any spare change away before taking care of anyone else. So if he wants to keep the lights on for his family, he’s not getting out of here before any of the prisoners.

“We really don’t have much of a behavior issue here,” Gaz says on their way out, the sun just beginning to set as they stop just outside the door. “The prisoners have their own hierarchy, and they tend to keep themselves in line. But when they don’t-” Here he smirks, sending a conspiratorial look Johnny’s way. “Well, that’s what the baton and taser are for. Don’t be afraid to use them if you need to, alright?”

“I’m not worried,” Johnny says, waving the other man off. “Plenty of the men I was deployed with probably shoulda been locked up, same as these blokes. If I can’t handle them, I’m worse off than I could’ve thought.” 

They share a laugh, and Johnny can physically feel some of the weight lifting off his shoulders when he realizes he doesn’t have to force it. Maybe the new job won’t be so bad if he can make some real friends.

The thought tugs him to a stop, stalling his laughter. Friends. It’s been nearly a decade since he’d had a friend. His fellow soldiers were brothers in arms at best, despised acquaintances at worst. The prospect of having a coworker he’s truly amicable with, someone he’d maybe go out for drinks with, gives him more hope for life as a civilian than any mandated therapy session ever had.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gaz says, once they’ve both stopped laughing. “Where you parked?”

“Oh, uh- I’m takin’ the bus for a bit. Car’s in the shop,” Johnny explains, wincing internally at the lie. He’ll have to come up with something a little more permanent before long, but the explanation is satisfactory enough for now.

“You sure?” Gaz’s brows furrow a bit, in what reads to Johnny as genuine concern. “I don’t mind giving you a ride, the bus is quite a walk.”

“I’ll be fine, mate,” he reassures, clapping Gaz on the shoulder and turning away, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, yeah? See you then.”

He doesn’t wait for the other man’s response, just wraps his jacket tight around himself and tucks his hands beneath his arms. It’s just cool enough for him to shiver, and to wish he’d worn boots instead of runners.

The prison yard is full of inmates as Johnny walks by it - a good distance away from the fence, but still easily visible. He knows they’ll be out for another ten minutes or so after he’s officially off the clock, which means they’ll be locked back in their cells before long.

As soon as one of them catches sight of Johnny - and his ugly khaki uniform - they start howling and shouting through the fence.

“‘Ey, where you goin’ Officer? Headin’ home to your nice mansion?”

“Goin’ back to fuckin’ suburbia, pig?”

“Don’t you come back, damn polis! I see you tomorrow, I’ll make you my bitch!”

Johnny’s lip curls at the insults, and he has to force himself not to shout something back. His pride chafes against his silence, but he knows instigating will only make things worse. Still, he’s tense as he walks, jaw clenched tight enough to give himself a headache when he hears a wolf-whistle as he turns the corner.

Jackasses, all of ‘em, he thinks, only relaxing when he knows he’s no longer within their sight. He can see the bus stop now, even though it’s a few blocks away.

His knee twinges just as the first drop of rain hits his nose and Johnny sighs, hustling as much as his aching leg will allow.

He’s soaked to the bone by the time he finally makes it to the bench. 

———————————————————————

The next day, Johnny finds himself in surprisingly high spirits. The bus had been right on time that morning, instead of ten minutes late like it had been the day before, and it’s started to sink in that he’s finally got consistent work - and more importantly, a consistent paycheck. His walk to the bus, and then the prison, is clear and pleasant, not a cloud in the sky.

By the time he finally clocks in, he’s almost walking with a pep in his step. The only thing that clouds his mood is the pain in his right knee - he hadn’t walked as much as he had yesterday since finishing off his physical therapy, and he hasn’t been doing the best at keeping up with his exercises. The joint is stiff and tense today, and it’s harder to mask his limp. Not impossible, but something he has to focus on.

Still, the dull pain isn’t enough to fully cloud his spirits. He picks up his baton and taser from the staff room, clipping them to his belt and smiling at Officer Garrick when the other man steps in.

“Mornin’,” he calls, glad to see the other man step to a cubby right near his to start getting ready for their shift. He counts the keys on his keychain, making sure that they haven’t impossibly disappeared, and hooks it through a belt loop, tugging to check that it’s secure.

“Morning, Soap. I’m glad to see you’re in high spirits.”

“Aye. Got a good night’s sleep, got me ready to take on the day.” It’s a lie - Johnny hasn’t truly gotten a good night’s sleep since he came home. He’d heard similar things from other soldiers, something about a real bed being too comfortable, but he had managed to sleep decently the night before.

“I’m glad. You’re working under Officer Graves today, and… well, he’s not particularly popular with most of the guards.”

Johnny cocks an eyebrow at Gaz, leaning his hip against the counter as the other man readies himself. “Really? I figured I’d still be with you a few more days.”

“Neither of us are that lucky, I’m afraid.” Gaz smiles at him sardonically, then steps back and holds a hand toward the door. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

The walk to the lobby of the prison - a large room right before the entrance into the actual prison, but with thick windows to see in - together, both lingering at the back of the small crowd of guards.

Johnny’s boss - Graves, a man he hadn’t met yet but already had a sour opinion of, thanks to Gaz‘s description of him during their tour - stands at the front of the room, reading off job assignments from memory and sending guards into the prison to get ready for the day.

“Garrick, I want you in the yard today. Keep an eye on Vargas - he’s been gettin’ too cocky recently. And then… ah, our new guy.” Graves smiles at Johnny as he stands from his place against the wall. Gaz pats his back heavily as he heads off, and Johnny moves towards his new CO when the shorter man gestures him forward.

“I want you to take food to our guy in solitary,” Graves says, clapping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. He’s got to reach up, since he’s several inches shorter than Johnny, and something about that difference makes his spine straighten. “He’s a mean bastard, but he shouldn’t cause you too much trouble. You won’t get the easy assignments everyday though, rook, so don’t get used to it.”

Johnny just barely keeps from rolling his eyes. “Aye, I’ll manage. Where’s solitary?”

Graves claps him twice more, then steps away. “Read the maps on the wall, MacTavish, it’s not my job to hold your hand,” he says, turning away. “Parra! What’d I say about gettin’ close to the cells like that?”

Johnny grumbles under his breath as he turns to the faded map pinned to the wall. It’s not the easiest thing to read - one corner is unstuck from the wall, and the creases across the whole paper are so deep that certain words are unreadable. But Johnny’s read more confusing under worse circumstances, and it doesn’t take him long to find himself and the cafeteria on the map.

There are a few guards already in the large room when he arrives, most of them paired off among each other and lingering around the edges of the room. He doesn’t bother talking to any of them, and instead heads straight for the assembly-lines of cooks, eager to get his first task done and hopefully get assigned to something he can stand still for.

“Excuse me,” he calls, waving down the first woman to look towards him. “I’m supposed to be taking breakfast to a prisoner in solitary. Have you got that for me?”

The woman he’s speaking to - Rhonda, her name tag says - looks entirely unamused by Johnny’s presence, but she slides a tray of food across to him.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling at her. He’d always enjoyed getting the tougher soldiers to crack when he’d been assigned to their teams. Seeing a burly sniper’s lips finally twitch after days of joking around felt nearly as good as praise from a CO, and something about Rhonda makes Johnny think she’ll be ten times harder to amuse than even the most hardened soldier. “Should I just bring the tray back to you, then?”

She gives him a long look, scanning him head to toe. “You new, then? He’ll give the tray back to you when he’s finished, then you drop it off with the busboy.” She points over to an older man leaned against the counter, cigarette hanging loose from his lips despite the strict ‘no smoking’ policy Johnny had been warned of. He only notices a moment later that the fag is unlit, and the man seems more interested in rolling it between his teeth than smoking it.

“You’re a doll,” he says, winking at Rhonda as he picks up the tray and only grinning more fully when she rolls her eyes and turns away. “Back in a jiffy!”

He’s almost positive he can hear her curse at him under her breath, and that only makes his smile feel more real.

The walk from the cafeteria to solitary isn’t a long one, but it is lonely. Johnny occasionally passes or spots another employee making the rounds, but none of them bother to even acknowledge his presence. After such an open greeting from Gaz, he’d expected most of the guards to be somewhat like him, but he’s quickly finding that it seems to be the opposite. He can’t bring himself to be too disappointed, though - he’s content enough with just one friend for now. He tells himself that he never would have been able to keep up with more than that - he barely keeps contact with family, these days - and pretends he doesn’t feel just the slightest bit disappointed.

The solitary confinement hall has ten cells, five on each side, though only one of them is closed and locked. There’s a guard waiting at one end of the corridor, half-asleep and leaning most of his weight against the wall, but he jerks straight when Johnny clears his throat.

The man has to blink for a minute to clear the sleep from his eyes, and Johnny cocks a brow as he waits.

“Oh, are you here to take over? Good, good, my shift’s already run long and Shepherd’s been a bitch recently about overtime.” The man’s already straightened and several steps away by the time what he’s said clicks in Johnny’s brain.

“I’m not here to take over your shift, mate, I’m just here to give the inmate his…” he trails off as the man doesn’t turn around, fully disappearing around the corner before Johnny can finish his sentence. “...food.”

With a sigh, Johnny turns toward the cells. The doors are all nearly identical, the only thing differentiating them being their signs of wear and the light above their frame - one green, nine red.

Not fully sure what he’s meant to do, Johnny bends to slide the long and thin slot near the ground open, nudging the tray through and wincing when it clatters to the floor. After a moment of silence he stands back up, lingering unsurely.

When the silence stretches a full two minutes, he pulls open the small window at his eye-level, squinting to see into the dark room.

It’s empty.

For a moment, Johnny can do nothing but stare. But no matter how many times he runs his eyes over the same details of the room, they don’t change. Nothing moves, not even a shadow against the wall, and the room appears entirely empty.

“Anybody in there?” He calls, wincing internally at the choice in wording. He sounds like he’s asking if a bathrooms empty, not making sure a likely violent criminal hasn’t fucking escaped.

Unsurprisingly, there’s no response from the empty room.

He doesn’t know what to do.

Had something like this happened in the military, had someone else fucked up so massively that every person even tangentially involved was at risk for punishment, he’d have helped the idiot cover it up and then told everything to Price and let him worry about whether or not it needed to be taken any further.

But here, Johnny can’t put himself at risk. He doesn’t have Price’s reputation to fall back on, doesn’t have tenure or medals or broken records to cushion his fall. If he’s caught in any sort of crossfire here, he’ll lose everything.

He worries his tongue between his teeth, shifting to ease weight off his bad knee. He can’t make any decisions without knowing all the information, so he cautiously unhooks his keyring from his pants and finds the right key, unlocking the cell door.

The hinges are loud as the door eases open, and Johnny only just barely manages to keep from jumping at the broken silence. His palms are beginning to sweat just a bit, but his hands are steady as he just barely cracks the door and steps inside.

He’s hardly a full step into the cell when a hand grabs him by the collar, tugging him into a fist to his eye. Before he can do more than grunt at the burst of pain, he’s shoved face first into the rough cinder block wall, his arms yanked behind him and twisted painfully.

“Fuck!” Johnny hisses, tension lining his every muscle.

The man behind him is silent, but Johnny can feel the long line of him pressed against his spine. He’s a big fucker, not a bit of Johnny’s back isn’t being touched, and he can feel breath ghosting over his mohawk.

“You’re new,” the prisoner says after a long few beats of silence. Johnny bares his teeth against the wall, jerking in the man’s hold. “Ah, ah,” he scolds, tugging Johnny’s wrists back and pushing his shoulders forward with his free hand, tugging his arms uncomfortably in their sockets. “Stay still.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Johnny sneers, dropping his head a bit and allowing his face to twist in discomfort since he knows the prisoner can’t see him. “You’re gonna stay in this hellhole twice as long once Shepherd hears about this, I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again, ye bastard.”

“You a snitch?” There’s an amused tinge to the man’s voice, one that has Johnny growling and jerking in his hold again, damp forehead pressed to the wall. “You gonna go tattle on me, Officer? Tell them the big bad prisoner roughed you up a bit?”

“Get the fuck off of me,” Johnny hisses, kicking his good leg back to the prisoner’s knee. He doesn’t manage to hit him, but the man has to spread his legs a little further to dodge the blow. Before he can force Johnny into an even harsher hold, he kicks his leg back again with even more force. The prisoner makes a rough sound low in his throat when the heel of Johnny’s combat boot digs into his balls, his hold on Johnny’s wrists slackening immediately.

Had Johnny had any less experience in hand-to-hand combat, he wouldn’t have been able to jerk free before the prisoner got his bearings back. He can feel the man’s hold tightening just before her jerks away, turning quickly and landing a solid blow to the center of his chest.

The prisoner stumbles back just half a step, more out of surprise than anything he’d guess, but it creates more than enough space for Johnny to slide away from him and quickly throw himself out of the cell. Just before the door can slam closed, pale fingers lock around the corner.

It’s only Johnny’s momentum and his adrenaline that gives him enough strength to force the door closed anyway - were he not throwing his entire body weight backwards, he knows the prisoner would’ve been able to keep it open.

There’s a barely muffled curse as the man’s fingers are crushed in the door frame, and only Johnny pounding them with a closed fist gets him to fully let go. It only occurs to him a moment later that he has a baton on his hip for this exact moment, but he’s too busy trying to breathe through the adrenaline rush to care about his idiotic mistake. 

He swallows thickly, working saliva back into his mouth, and takes another step further away from the door. He takes a long breath to make sure his voice is steady, then speaks loud enough for the prisoner to hear him. 

“You know the routine. Eat your fuckin’ food, then slide the tray back out.” He tacks on a “Bastard,” his head already starting to pound. He’s not actually sure if that’s what the routine is, but he can’t imagine it’s anything else. 

When the prisoner doesn’t respond, he takes another few steps away and leans where the other guard had been. He presses his fingers around his throbbing eye socket, hissing at the dull but growing pain. He’ll have a nice shiner, for sure, but as best he can tell there’s no further damage.

It only takes a few minutes for the prisoner to toss the tray back out, the plastic clattering loudly in the silent hall. It’s completely clean, just crumbs and a residual grease left smeared on the plate.

He crouches down to grab the tray and nearly jumps out of his skin when he glances up and sees the top half of a face glaring at him from the small opening.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he hisses, jerking back and away before he can really manage a good look at the man. He sees pale skin and shadowed, deep-set eye sockets, but not much else.

Johnny curses as he slides the little door shut, scolding himself for having such a visceral reaction to a man. A man who can’t possibly be the worst thing he’s ever faced, a man who’s literally locked in a cage. It’s a blow to the ego to have gotten so worked up over an unarmed prisoner when Johnny has multiple weapons on him, easily within reach.

It’s pathetic, is what it is. Pathetic, and a sharp reminder that he’s not the same man as he was even a year ago. Sergeant Soap MacTavish and Officer John MacTavish aren’t the same, no matter how much he tries to tell himself nothing’s changed since he was before being discharged. Everything’s changed, and this is just salt rubbed in the wound of it all.

He’s just turning around to head back to the cafeteria when he hears a new voice call out. “Hey, what’re you doing here? Smith is supposed to be on duty right now.”

The man heading towards Johnny is around his height, with brown skin and dark hair. He wears a uniform identical to Johnny’s, except the nametag over his heart says PARRA instead of MACTAVISH.

“Brought breakfast for ‘im,” Johnny explains, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and unable to keep a scowl from twisting his lips. “The other officer - Smith, I guess - left before I could tell that to him.”

Parra rolls his eyes, stepping fully forward and glancing over at the locked cell door, checking for something Johnny can’t think to look for. “Sounds like him. He’s always trying to get off early, doesn’t care who he dumps his shift onto.” He gives Johnny a considering look and a small smile. “Thanks for waiting for someone else to show up. A lot of new guys would just leave the job to someone else.”

Johnny doesn’t bother to correct him, figuring it can’t hurt for Parra not to know he’d been about to leave. 

“I’m Officer Parra,” the other man says, offering a hand. “But you can call me Rudy.”

“Officer MacTavish,” Johnny returns, shaking the man’s hand. “Johnny.”

“It’s good to meet you,” Rudy smiles. “You can head off now. Graves’ll want you assigned to something else soon, best not to keep him waiting on your first day.”

There’s something odd in Rudy’s tone that makes Johnny unsure of the man, something almost judgmental. He gives the other guard a stiff smile, and turns to leave with a, “Thanks, mate. I’ll be seeing you,” sent over his shoulder.

He only gets turned around once on his way back to the cafeteria, and it’s only because he can’t quite shake the feeling that someone’s watching him. There’s something keeping his arms covered in goosebumps despite the warm air, some instinct making him fight the urge to glance over his shoulder no less than five times.

It’s through sheer force of will that he doesn’t. He knows with absolute certainty that no one’s following him, because the hallway is dead silent besides his quick footsteps. But that feeling still doesn’t dissipate, and that puts Johnny on edge.

The cafeteria is packed full of prisoners when he finally arrives, but none of them pay him any attention as he skirts around the edges of the room to drop the empty tray on top of a pile of other dishes. The busboy doesn’t give him any attention, so Johnny turns to scan the room for Graves.

He’s standing near the main entrance to the cafeteria, not the side door Johnny had come through, and leans against the wall just a foot or two away from a group of guards. They’re laughing just loudly enough to be obnoxious and Graves taps his baton against his palm, somehow making a show of the simple motion.

Johnny tries not to feel too irritated before even speaking to the man again, but it’s difficult.

“Graves,” he calls as he steps to the man’s side. “Got the prisoner in solitary fed, what’d you-”

“It’s Officer Graves, MacTavish,” Graves corrects, his tone snappish but lips quirked in a grin. “I’m your boss, not your equal.”

Johnny expects him to barrel on and say something else, but Graves only raises a brow and waits for a response.

“Right,” he forces out, trying not to grind his teeth. “Officer Graves. I fed the bloke in solitary, where do you want me now?”

Graves gives him a long look, something sharpening in his gaze. “You can shadow Garrick for the rest of the day, learn the ropes a bit more.”

Johnny’s nodding and already turning away when Graves says, “Hey, what happened there?”

“What?”

Graves uses his baton to point to his own right eye, head tilting. “Got some swelling going on there, MacTavish. Anything we should know about?”

Johnny turns back, considering for a moment before deciding he’s got nothing to lose since the prisoner didn’t actually manage to escape.

“The cell looked empty when I shoved the tray through. Thought the prisoner must’ve escaped somehow, but I double checked before reporting anything. The bastard must’ve been hiding somewhere, he got a good blow in before I got him off me and locked him in.” 

Graves laughs at that, a sharp and loud sound that makes Johnny’s shoulders inch towards his ears.

“Yeah, that’s Ghost for you. Seems like he hazed you for us, rook.”

Johnny cocks his head. “Ghost?”

Graves hums, nodding. “Sure. His real name is Simon Riley, but everyone here just calls him Ghost. Big bastard, mean too. He’s in solitary more often than not these days, but that’s perfectly fine with me. The men get real testy when he’s in genpop with the rest of ‘em, always trying to take his place.”

“Why’d they call him Ghost?”

Graves scoffs, and one of the men next to him snickers. “You joking? You met the man this morning - they call him Ghost because of the way he disappears. Then fools like you go looking, and he takes you out before you even realize he’s there.”

A part of Johnny wants to bite out something about how he wasn’t taken out, and he actually got the best of this Ghost, but he locks the words behind his teeth and lets Graves’ dig roll off his shoulders. He nods, and takes another step away. “Well, he won’t be gettin’ the drop on me like that again, I know that.”

Graves laughs again, like Johnny’s a fool, and it takes everything in him to turn and walk away instead of knocking him out.

———————————————————————

The rest of the day goes as he had expected. He and Gaz follow the prisoners from room to room like shepherds, watching them try to find anything to fill the time.

Gaz talks while they watch. He tells Johnny about certain inmates’ personalities, tells him who’s someone else’s bitch, tells him how to spot a conflict they actually need to step in and de-escelate. Johnny listens intently, even if his mind wanders during some of the more boring explanations.

Eventually, when Gaz’s voice has gone flat and Johnny has stopped asking clarifying questions, the conversation moves into stories about their military days.

Johnny learns that he and Gaz had just barely missed each other several times. He learns that the other man knows Price too - and that they’re closer than Soap had been to his captain - and that Gaz had left instead of being discharged, that he has a sick mother at home to take care of.

When Garrick asks why Johnny left, he hesitates. It would be nothing to explain that his knee has been blown to smithereens, that he’d been discharged because he could hardly walk for weeks, let alone be of any use in combat. Gaz has surely seen worse injuries, just like Johnny has, but there’s still something that makes him pause before explaining.

When he fumbles around an explanation involving his elderly Nan and deadbeat cousins, Gaz only tuts and gives him a sympathetic look, and the conversation moves on. But Johnny’s lie lingers at the back of his mind, like an itch he can’t quite reach between his shoulders.

The day passes… well, not quickly, but not necessarily slowly either, with Gaz by his side. Six-thirty rolls around, and Johnny feels satisfied with his first day. 

He’s walking towards the staff room with Garrick and another officer, Keller, when Graves stops him.

“MacTavish, c’mere for a second.”

Johnny glances at Gaz to see if the man has any idea what their CO could want from him and receives an entirely useless shrug in return. With only a small amount of trepidation, Johnny turns towards Graves and steps into the adjoining hall the other man gestures him towards.

“I need you to stay a bit late,” Graves starts, his expression far from mocking like it had been this morning. “I’ve got an assignment for you. You’ll be paid overtime.”

“Alright,” Johnny says slowly, shifting his weight onto his good foot. He’s more than willing to stay for a little bit of extra money, but there’s something in Graves’ expression that makes him feel like he’s missing something. “What’s the assignment then?”

Graves runs his tongue over his top teeth, then sighs. “Ghost showers on his own - some deal he made with the warden, don’t ask. He can’t be in there with other prisoners, but someone has to watch him to make sure he’s not sharpening another knife from his toothbrush. He’s requested it be you.”

Johnny’s still stuck on toothbrush knife when Graves’ look goes from reluctant to expectant. Then, what he’s said clicks.

“He… requested me?”

“That’s what I said.”

Johnny can’t help but let the skepticism bleed into his expression. “So he gets to request whatever he wants? And he gets it?”

Graves sighs impatiently, like Johnny’s asked him the stupidest question possible. “Ghost makes requests like this for the same reason he showers alone. He’s got some sort of deal with Shepherd that gets whatever he wants, and today what he wants is you. God only knows why, but quite frankly, I have no interest in questioning the man. If you’re so curious, ask him yourself.”

Johnny scowls, not bothering to disguise his expression at all. Graves only manages to get more irritating everytime they speak, and Johnny’s got no patience for dealing with him. “Fine. Where are the showers, then?”

Graves gives him quick directions. “Oh, and you’ll have to stand in the showers with him. You stand just outside, he’ll get the best of you. We’ve lost enough guards that way, and I don’t want to deal with training another newbie.”

“Wait,” Johnny says, stopping Graves before he can walk away. “Did you say in the shower with him?”

Graves scowls at Johnny like he’s something rotten. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of the man already, rook?”

“You just said he’s taken out multiple guards!” Johnny defends.

Graves rolls his eyes. “You’ll be fine. Keep your baton and your taser on you, and don’t drop the soap. Simple.” He smirks, giving Johnny a patronizing look. “Don’t work yourself up about it.”

Graves walks away before Johnny can say something insulting back, which - as annoying as it is to not have the last word - is probably for the best. Johnny’s hands are already clenched into fists at his side, and even with his very limited job experience he knows punching your boss on your first day would be a mistake.

Still, the sight of Graves swaggering away before Johnny can say something equally rude to him is bitter, the implication that Johnny is a coward is even more so. He can’t wipe the scowl from his face as he heads to solitary confinement, the tension in his spine only growing. 

Rudy is still on duty when he arrives, not looking any different than he had that morning, and not moved an inch from where Johnny had last seen him.

“Hey, what’re you doin’ back in this wing?” Parra asks, his lips lifting in a smile as he stands from the wall to greet Johnny. 

“Graves sent me to take Riley to the shower,” Johnny explains, rolling his eyes in what he hopes comes off as more I-hate-extra-work than I-hate-our-boss. 

“He’s got you on that now?” Rudy lifts his brows, glancing over at the cell door like he’s looking at Ghost. “Well, better you than me - truth be told, he always creeped me out a bit. You got your cuffs?”

Johnny dangles them from his pointer finger and Rudy nods, moving forward to unlock the cell door.

“Alright, you know the deal, Ghost. Back of the cell, facing the wall,” Rudy calls out, his tone not changed at all from the way he had spoken to Johnny. He watches through the eye-level window for a few long moments, then grunts, satisfied, and swings open the door. 

Part of Johnny is still expecting to see an empty cell, even knowing that Parra had just watched Riley. But sure enough, there Simon Riley stands at the back, facing the wall.

The cell is smaller with him in it. Ghost is all filthy jumpsuit and broad back, nothing but a pale neck and buzzed blond hair from what Johnny can see. There’s hardly a foot between the top of his head and the ceiling, and if he were to lift both his arms he’d be able to touch each wall with the palms of his hands.

He holds perfectly still, hands tucked behind his back, and he’s still one of the most threatening people Johnny’s ever seen. The air around him feels rotted, like the very atoms of oxygen are saying stay away, this one’s dangerous.

Unfortunately, Johnny doesn’t have the luxury of listening to his instincts. He steps forward with feigned confidence and snaps the suddenly pathetic looking cuffs around wide wrists with as little hesitation as he can manage. When Johnny steps back, Ghost turns with him and takes a step forward.

If he was intimidating from the back, he’s terrifying from the front.

He’s got a wide jaw and a heavy brow, with a crooked nose and thin lips. He’s got stripes of nearly white skin across his cheeks and neck, little scars that are at all different stages of fading. His eyes are brown, and the dark lighting in the room combined with his deep-set eye sockets make him almost look like he doesn’t have any at all. 

His face is flat, still, and unexpresive. Something about the complete lack of expression is more intimidating than the half a foot and hundred extra pounds of muscle he’s got compared to Johnny. 

But Johnny’s far from inexperienced in putting on a brave front when facing something dangerous, and he doesn’t let Ghost see how shaken he is. He fixes a scowl on his face and steps out of the cell, unclipping his baton and using it to point down the hall. “You know the way.”

Riley’s head tilts, like he’s considering whether or not he should listen, and he gives Johnny’s body a long, invasive look. It takes every ounce of training he’s had not to flinch or try to adjust his stance.

A long, silent moment later, Ghost steps out of the cell and begins the walk to the showers. Johnny is close behind him, baton in his palm and muscles locked, ready for anything the prisoner might try.

Once he’s sure they’re far enough away that Parra won’t hear, Johnny says, “You pull some shit like you did this morning ever again and I’ll break your fuckin’ knees.”

Ghost is silent, his steps unfaltering. Johnny scowls behind his back, frustration quickly building. “Ye hear me? It won’t be your buddy Shepherd you deal with next time, it’ll be me. Whatever deal you’ve cut with him won’t matter then.”

Again, silence. Johnny scoffs when he realizes he’s not getting a response, poking the butt of his baton into the small of Ghost’s back to urge him on a little faster.

Johnny’s lip curls as he swings the door open, turning his body enough to allow Riley plenty of room through. The man still brushes his arm along Johnny’s chest, and it’s a conscious effort to keep his breath from hitching.

When Johnny follows Ghost into the showers, letting the door slam shut behind him, Ghost looks back at him and raises a brow. The look is distinctly unamused, and Johnny glares as he leans against the wall, trying to make himself seem confident and assured.

“I’m here to make sure you don’t kill yourself or plan to kill someone else. That means I’m not leavin’ this room while you’re in it,” he gripes, undoing Ghost’s cuffs with just a bit more roughness than strictly necessary. When Ghost’s look doesn’t change from that who the fuck do you think you are expression, Johnny smiles rudely up at him. “Get over it. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Ghost blows a sharp breath through his nose, maintaining his silence as he takes a step further into the room and begins to undress.

Somehow, Riley almost seems bigger without clothes. Every pale bit of skin exposed only serves to reassure the voice in the back of Johnny’s head screaming danger!. He’s muscular, but his entire body is covered in a layer of fat that only serves to make him seem bigger, stronger. 

When he turns towards Johnny, every single part of the officer’s mind is screaming at him to run .

Ghost sets off Johnny’s flight reaction like nothing in life ever has before. He’d never once thought to run from a terrorist, or a bomb, or any sort of combat situation. Now, standing with a baton in hand in front of an unarmed man, he feels the distinct urge to fucking flee .

It only makes him more determined to plant his feet and stand strong. If he can face down crazed terrorists, he can sure as hell face one convict. 

Johnny’s careful to avoid looking between his legs when he kicks his pants off. He very intentionally keeps his eyes locked on Ghost’s chest, unwilling to look away but equally unwilling to examine the larger man any more intently than he already has. 

Ghost stands completely still, naked as the day he was born, for a few long seconds. Then he smirks, blows another sharp breath through his nose, and turns away. 

Johnny doesn’t move from his spot by the entrance. He’s still firmly in the showers like Graves told him to be, but across the room from Ghost as he chooses the shower head furthest away from him. He faces the wall and because he’s so far away, Johnny gets a full view of his body. His back is as scarred as his face had been, but instead of clean and thin scars there are burns and gnarled marks he recognizes as gunshot wounds.

To Johnny’s relief, Ghost doesn’t take his time. He’s quick to cover his body in soap and rinse it off, hardly taking any time to scrub himself clean at all. Somehow it doesn’t surprise Johnny that this man doesn’t care much about his own hygiene.

He’s turning the old faucet off hardly five minutes after turning it on. When he turns around, Johnny quite can’t look away before he sees that his cock is half-hard, thick between his legs and almost curving upwards, but it’s almost like he’s too heavy for it to fully lift.

Ghost’s face is still set in that flat, deadpan expression as he begins to stride towards Johnny, completely ignoring his pile of clothes. Johnny scowls, standing up from the wall and straightening. “What do you think you’re-?”

Ghost’s hand is around his throat before he can finish, slamming him back into the tile wall. Johnny’s head cracks against it and his scalp presses into the grout..

“Why do you talk so fucking much?” Riley hisses, nose to nose. His body presses against Johnny’s, soaking the front of his uniform. “Didn’t anybody ever shut you up?”

Johnny can’t help but be offended as he raises the baton and slams it into Riley’s side - he hasn’t rambled nearly as much as he had on missions, here he’s downright quiet - but the bigger man just eats the blow. Johnny feels like he’s hit a punching bag, like Ghost won't be hurt no matter how hard he hits.

When Johnny slams the baton into his side again, Ghost’s free hand rips the taser from his belt. He can’t help but make an aborted growl, but one flex of Riley’s hand silences him completely.

Ghost holds the taser between them, letting it hover just a few inches from Johnny’s neck, and presses the trigger to let the electricity dance. Johnny doesn’t flinch, only struggles and glares. When Riley smiles, Johnny swings for his head.

It’s nothing short of humiliating, how quickly Riley has him fully trapped. It seems to take the same amount of effort for the prisoner to throw Johnny’s taser to the side and rip his baton from his hand as it had for him to shower - almost none. 

“You gonna be good, or am I gonna have to get mean?” The larger man growls, tapping the baton against Johnny’s hip and bearing down on him. Like this, with the way Ghost towers over him, Johnny feels completely covered by the man. The overhead lights are blocked out by his body, and Johnny is completely in his shadow.

He strains back towards the wall, manages to get just enough pressure off of his throat to gasp, “Fuhck- yew-”.

Riley’s answering smile is sharp, cruel. “Beg me properly and you might just get what you want.”

Johnny’s face twists in rage, but before he can do anything in retaliation, Ghost slams the baton into his right knee and releases his throat.

Johnny’s vision whites out as he falls to the floor, the tile unforgiving against his knees. His ears are ringing when he can see again, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s from the echo of his own shout in the room. 

He only manages to get one foot beneath him when Riley locks a hand in his mohawk, tightening his fingers and twisting until Johnny’s pulling away with a wince. He forces the smaller man’s head to the wall then steps closer, so his feet bracket either one of his knees. His neck is wrenched at an uncomfortable angle, Ghost pushing him down so he’s bent backwards with a sharp arch in his spine.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Johnny hisses, face still screwed up in pain as Ghost presses his hips forward, his damp and quickly hardening cock sliding against Johnny’s cheek.

There’s a low chuckle from above him, and Johnny twists his head to the side, baring his teeth to bite-

The baton presses against his throat, just below his Adam's apple. 

“Keep your teeth covered or I’ll knock ‘em out,” Ghost growls, pressing hard enough for Johnny to choke on his next breath of air. He closes his mouth tight, grimacing as he feels a few strands of hair pulled out of his scalp. “Good.”

The praise chafes against his skin and Johnny opens his eyes just enough to glare up at Ghost, hands pressed against his thighs.

Ghost grins down at him, all sharp teeth and malice. “You gonna put up a little fight? I got no problem knocking you out and using you when you’re all limp and quiet. That how you want your friends to find you? Want them to see you fuckin’ ruined?”

Johnny’s fingers flex around the muscle of Ghost’s thigh, but he doesn’t push him away. There’s no doubt which one of them is stronger, especially with Johnny’s knee screaming in pain beneath him. 

If the military taught him anything, it taught him to endure. As much as it frustrates him to lean into the wall behind him, to not rip Riley’s balls right off his body and bite his dick off, Johnny knows that isn’t the right choice here. 

“Good,” Ghost rumbles, the hand in Johnny’s hair loosening fractionally. Not enough to really relieve any pain, but enough to be noticeable. “Might keep you around. Fuck this pretty mouth whenever I want.”

“Just get it over with,” Johnny hisses, swallowing and wincing when the baton presses against his throat more harshly for a moment.

“Eager,” Ghost hums. 

Luckily he doesn’t say anything else, just tugs Johnny’s head back a little more and presses the tip of his cock against his lips. Johnny can’t help the way he winces when Ghost pushes into his face. He can’t bring himself to let his lips part, can’t give even another inch when it already feels like Ghost has taken a mile.

There’s an annoyed huff from above him, and Ghost’s hand leaves his hair to pinch Johnny’s nose shut harshly. His eyes fly wide open, staring up at the man in shock, and his shoulders curve in an effort to let him pull away from the unexpected pain. 

“Open up, c’mon.” Ghost’s hips move leisurely back and forth, sliding the ruddy head of his cock along Johnny’s lips and over his cheeks, covering him in sticky pre-cum. No matter how much he thrashes and tries to pull away, Ghost’s fingers only squeeze tighter and follow him.

Johnny holds out for as long as he can, but eventually the burning in his lungs gets to be too much and his lips part - hardly an inch - to let him breathe deeply. As soon as he hears the inhale, Ghost’s hand flies from Johnny’s nose back to his head, shoving his face forward until his mouth is stuffed.

He chokes immediately, eyes flying wide open. It’s not that Johnny’s unfamiliar with something in his mouth, it’s that Riley’s cock is so large he can barely open his jaw wide enough to let him in. He feels like a snake, except instead of swallowing his prey, his jaw is forced to unhinge for another man’s pleasure.

“That’s it,” Riley hisses, ignoring the sick gluck-gluck sounds as he pulls back and pushes his way in farther. “Fuckin’ take it.”

Johnny nearly chokes on bile, lungs heaving as he tries to breathe around the intrusion inside his throat. Ghost has no sympathy for his struggle, doesn’t give him any time to adjust as he lodges himself firmly inside the channel of Johnny’s throat.

Tears stream from Johnny’s eyes, from both humiliation and the strain of being face-fucked. Every time he tries to close his eyes, to let himself drift away even a bit, the hand in his hair tightens far past the point of pain. Ghost doesn’t speak to him again, but the heat in his eyes and the angry snarl of his lips tells Johnny exactly what he wants - eye contact and Johnny’s pain. 

The only mercy is that Ghost doesn’t last long. Johnny isn’t fully cognizant enough to try and keep track of how long the violation lasts, but it can’t be more than a few minutes. Johnny can see the way Riley’s chest heaves as he gets closer, the way his shoulders hunch and the way his hips work in faster, shorter thrusts to get himself off.

He comes in long, thick spurts straight down Johnny’s throat. Another mercy - he doesn’t have to taste it, doesn’t have to do anything more than let his throat work in instinctive swallows to keep the foreign liquid from choking him.

Ghost isn’t quite panting when he finishes, but it’s a close thing. He’s leaning over Johnnt enough that every time he breathes in, the curve of his stomach covers the bottom part of his face from Johnny’s view.

Once he’s drained himself dry, he pulls his cock back enough that just the head of it rests behind Johnny’s teeth, the whole length of him softening.

Just as Johnny begins to wonder what the fuck he’s doing, why this nightmare hasn’t ended, Ghost sighs and rolls his head back on his neck, looking up at the ceiling. Another breath later, a sour taste begins to flood Johnny’s mouth.

He’s tearing away and sputtering as soon as he realizes what’s happening, throwing his head back against the tile so the warm stream of piss hits his neck instead, pouring down his chest instead of his mouth. He can’t throw himself to the side, only succeeding in hurting his neck when he tries because of the iron grip Ghost has on his mohawk.

“What-” he gasps, teary eyes wide as he stares up at Ghost. “What the fu- what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Riley scowls down at him like he’s done something completely unreasonable, jerking his soft cock slowly as he continues to piss. The hand on Johnny’s head tries to force him down again, but he fights back this time and manages to only catch a few drops on his chin instead of having his mouth forced back onto the man’s dick.

“Fuckin’ brat,” Ghost scowls, pointing himself straight at the bit of chest exposed by Johnny’s shirt as he finishes. The rancid stench is heavy in the warm air, choking Johnny. “Figured you’d need a reminder of your place. Clearly I was right.”

Johnny’s seething, every muscle made tense from his anger as he flushes dark. “You evil fuckin’ bastard,” he hisses.

There’s a single, sharp laugh above him as Ghost finally - finally - steps away, beginning to pull his jumpsuit back on as if absolutely nothing is amiss. Johnny doesn’t shift from his spot on the floor but to move as much weight as possible off his right knee, wincing at the horrible pain of it.

Before he can work himself up to standing, Ghost is stepping closer to him and turning the faucet above his head. Immediately, a shower of cold water pours onto Johnny’s form.

His gasp is loud as he rockets up, stumbling back into the wall when his bad leg won’t take his weight. The water is freezing cold as it drenches him, and his fingertips go numb in seconds. His mohawk goes limp from the water, the gel he usually uses to keep it neat melting away and leaving his hair to fall in front of his eyes.

He’s panting when he finally lifts his head, body adjusting to the cold. He pushes his hair back and away from his face, cringing at the wet thud of it against the shaved sides of his head as he slams his other hand into the wall, desperately looking for the faucet.

When he finally finds it, he jerks it to off, nearly heaving as he shivers against the tile.

“What the hell,” he whispers, staring wide-eyed across the room. He can’t tell what’s real and not anymore, can’t tell if this is just one of his bad nightmares, or if an inmate really skull-fucked him, pissed in his mouth, then dumped water on his head.

He blinks slowly, dumbly, before he drags his eyes over to where Ghost stands a few steps away, arms crossed and handcuffs held loosely in one hand. When Johnny only stares at him silently, Ghost lifts an eyebrow. “Well?”

Johnny’s jaw drops, leaving him gaping like a fish. “What?”

“You want to see Parra still stinkin’ of piss? You’re fuckin’ welcome.”

Johnny can’t do anything but stare.

———————————————————————

The walk to the bus stop is long and miserable. Even though it’s not raining, Johnny is soaked to the bone just like the day before, and he limps down the cracked sidewalk at nearly a snail’s pace. 

His leg hasn’t hurt this badly since he first got out of the hospital, and although his eyes won’t focus and he still feels off-kilter, he can’t help but be glad he’s late enough for all the prisoners to have left the rec yard. There’s no one to see his walk of shame.

His mind wanders from thought to thought, willing to land on anything that doesn’t make him think of what happened less than an hour ago. He flinches physically every time his thoughts shift in that direction, the reality of it too raw to examine.

His knee burns and feels like it must have tripled in size, his pant leg tight from the swelling. The sound of his shoe scraping on the concrete is like nails against a chalkboard.

He can still taste the piss in his mouth.

On the bus, the driver seems to go out of his way to hit every pothole and speed bump as roughly as he can. Every jerk of Johnny’s knee against the wall brings him a little closer to tears.

He hasn’t felt so out of control in a long time. He can’t control his pain, can’t control his body (his hands shake, his breath shakes, it feels like his goddamn heart shakes), and he can’t stop remembering how Ghost had blocked out all the light in the room, how he’d forced Johnny down and taken the reins, how he’d-

He’s not sure he’ll make it home without losing his lunch.

In the end, he only barely manages it. He stumbles near his trailer, nearly loses his balance and only keeps it because the idea of falling to his knees sounds worse than death, and retches into the overgrown grass.

He brushes his teeth more times than he can count. The last time he vomits, there’s nothing left to come up but stomach acid and spit.

——————————————————————— 

Gaz does a double take when he sees Johnny the next morning, eyes widening in what would be comical shock if Johnny felt any less like a dead man walking.

“Shit, what happened to you, mate?” Gaz attempts a smile as he stands at his cubby, but can’t quite keep the concern off his face. “Rough night out?”

Johnny’s cheek is almost bloody from how hard he’s biting it. “Something like that,” he manages to mutter, his voice gravelly and hoarse. 

Gaz gives him a look, like he wants to push for more, but luckily he drops it. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re with me today. We’ll keep you in some quieter areas until that hangover goes, yeah?”

Johnny just grunts and follows Gaz out of the staff room, not bothering to correct his assumption.

———————————————————————

“MacTavish!” Graves calls, stepping between Gaz and Johnny while they’re both locking up their weapons for the night. “You’re on overtime again tonight,” he says, slapping Johnny’s shoulder with a forced familiarity before turning away, already moving on.

“No,” Johnny spits, the word flying from his mouth before he can even fully register what Graves has just told him. His lip curls at just the thought, and he feels the saliva in his mouth thickening.

Graves stops in his tracks, throwing a look of confusion and annoyance over his shoulder. “No? C’mon, Officer, I know you want to go home, but just suck up the extra hour-”

“No,” Johnny repeats, his voice a little too loud and a little too harsh in the otherwise silent room. “I’m clocking out. Find someone else.”

Graves turns fully towards them now, eyes narrowing when he sees Johnny’s resolve. He picks up on Gaz’s confusion beside him, but the other man shifts closer and Johnny knows he’s on his side.

“You don’t get to say no to something like this, MacTavish.” Graves’ voice has taken on a harsher edge, and it’s the most authoritative Johnny’s heard the man since he got the job. Still, it’s not anywhere near intimidating enough to convince him.

Johnny hikes his chin in the air a bit, glaring down his nose at his CO. “Overtime is optional, right? I’m not taking it. My shift ended ten minutes ago. I’m going home.”

Graves shakes his head before turning and stepping away. “I’ll have to tell the warden. Not a good impression to make in your first week, rook. You hated looking at Ghost’s ugly ass that much, huh?” He scoffs like Johnny’s a fool, and lets the door slam shut behind him.

Johnny ducks away from Gaz before they can walk out to the parking lot together and hugs the grimey toilet bowl in the staff bathroom, losing what little lunch he’d been able to stomach. The sky is dark with rain clouds when he steps outside.

———————————————————————

The next day, Johnny is stopped by the warden himself before he can even clock in. 

“MacTavish,” Shepherd grunts, barely leaning out of his office. “Come see me.”

“I need to clock in, sir,” Johnny says, gesturing to the nearly broken machine set on an old folding table.

“See me first,” Shepherd says, ducking into his office without any other explanation.

Johnny’s knee is miles better than it had been the day before, but it’s still more difficult than it should be to cover his limp as he heads to Shepherd’s office. The brace he’s worn the last few days helps somewhat, but really only helps keep him from getting stiff or overextending.

“Close the door behind you, son,” Shepherd says when Johnny joins him, already settled behind his desk. He mimics the same position he had when Johnny had first sat in front of him - leaned back, hands folded over his stomach, chin tilted towards his chest.

“Am I in trouble, sir?” Johnny asks after shutting the door, lowering himself slowly into the uncomfortable chair. He can’t help but wonder if it would’ve been smarter to stay standing, if this is a we won’t need you here again sort of meeting that he’ll want to get out quickly.

“Not yet,” Shepherd says after a heavy silence, tilting his head to the side. “Graves tells me you refused overtime last night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why is that?”

He manages not to flinch, but just barely. “I was tired, sir. Just wanted to get home and get some rest.”

Shepherd’s expression stays flat, but there’s an unimpressed spark in his eye. “And it’s got absolutely nothing to do with what your overtime task was, then?”

Johnny wants to bristle, wants to bite back, but he keeps himself under control. “I find inmate Riley… unpleasant to be around. To put it lightly. Sir.”

Shepherd scoffs, rolling his eyes and leaning forward. “Every damn person in this prison is unpleasant to be around, boy. That doesn’t mean you blow off orders and come and go whenever you please.”

Now Johnny does sit a little straighter in his chair, insulted. “I’ve stayed for my entire shift every day I’ve worked for you.”

“That’s not much to brag about, MacTavish, you haven’t even been here half a week.”

Johnny takes a deep breath, reminding himself just how badly he needs this job. “I’m not required to take overtime, sir, and I believe my job performance has been satisfactory otherwise. Is that all?”

Shepherd’s eyes narrow, and Johnny knows they’re both thinking the same thing - were they still in the military, that kind of talk from a subordinate wouldn’t fly. But despite their shared past, they’re not in that environment any more - Johnny’s behavior isn’t insuboridnate here, and they both know it.

Shepherd takes a long moment to respond, setting his still-linked hands on his desk and leaning his weight onto them.  “No. You’re right in saying that overtime isn’t required. But I’m looking for employees who show dedication to their job and an ambition to grow in this career. So far, I’m not getting either of those things from you. I need guards who are willing to go the extra mile, not guards who can’t stay an hour after their shift to watch one goddamn man shower.”

Johnny takes a deep, stabilizing breath. Shepherd's tone is harsh, mean, and damn near identical to every CO Johnny had in the service. Before he can argue his case, the warden speaks again.

“Listen, I understand that you’re still adjusting to civilian life. I’m not cruel.” He spreads his hads in front of him, open and inviting. “I’ll give you grace. But I need men who are willing to listen when I give them an order. If that’s not you, then I think it’s best you start looking for another job.”

Johnny’s eyes shut for a moment against his will, and the breath that’s punched out of him has a distinctly defeated air to it. “Alright. Alright, I understand what you’re saying, sir.” He swallows thickly, working the words past his throat. “It won’t happen again.”

Shepherd nods, something vaguely understanding in his expression. “Good. Overtime is time and a half pay, so you’ll be well-compensated.”

Well-compensated. The words sound vile in Johnny’s mind, and he wants to kick and scream and say nothing could compensate for what that man did to me .

“Is that all, sir?”

“Yes. Dismissed, Officer.”

Johnny nods, standing and taking quick steps to the door.

“MacTavish?” Shepherd calls out, just before his hand lands on the doorknob.

Johnny doesn’t turn before responding. “Yes, sir?”

“It’ll get easier, son.”

Now Johnny turns, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Shepherd is leaning back in his chair again, but now there’s something almost pitying in his expression. Something vaguely sympathetic.

Johnny leaves the office without responding. He worries if he opens his mouth, he’ll just start screaming.

———————————————————————

Overtime doesn’t get any easier. In fact, every day Johnny’s forced to watch Ghost shower it gets more and more difficult to ignore the voice inside his head screaming to run, regardless of all the arguments he’s made that tell him he has to stay.

The first day back, he’d tried to tase Ghost when the other man came toward him. He’d had his baton in one hand, the taser in the other, but he’d quickly learned that Ghost’s sheer size made him an almost impossible opponent to fight - the taser was knocked out of his hand before he could’ve even reached Ghost with it, and the baton went just as quickly. 

Johnny had thrown a sloppy punch towards Ghost’s face and had only gotten a mean laugh in return. 

“Got a little more fight in you today, huh?” Riley had hissed, their faces pressed so close together that Johnny could feel his breath. “You can kick and scream all you want, boy, but this still ends the same way.”

The second day, he’d thought about not going into the shower and instead standing in the hallway and getting the drop on Ghost. But he’d glanced up and seen a little blinking red light, a camera, in the corner between the wall and the ceiling and knew that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself were he to lose, and Ghost assaulted him on camera. So he followed the priosner into the showers, feeling like a man sent to the gallows.

He’d tried to bite Riley’s dick before he could choke on it that day. At the first scrape of teeth, Ghost had shoved his thumbs into Johnny’s mouth and hooked them between his molars, holding his head still like that instead of by the hair. Johnny had nearly choked on his own vomit, and his lips were numb for what felt like hours after.

The third day, Johnny kneels before Riley can knock him down. He’s already worried something is seriously wrong with his bad knee, and Ghost hadn’t spared it at all. Gaz had asked if he was alright that morning after seeing him limp, and had offered to bring a knee brace he kept at home - Johnny hadn’t bothered to tell him he was already weaing one. He can’t afford to take a day off because he can’t walk, so he kneels and pretends the small submission doesn’t choke him.

Defeat is bitter on his tongue as Johnny watches surprise mingle with satisfaction when Ghost watches him lower himself. He only stays on one knee, unwilling to put any weight whatsoever on his right knee, and Ghost - miraculously - allows it. 

When he stands in front of Johnny and strokes himself to full hardness, he mutters quietly, “Knew you were a fuckin’ faggot.”

Johnny’s flinch is hidden by his reaction to Ghost’s cock being unceremoniously stuffed into his mouth. This time once he’s finished himself off and made sure to let every drop of his come drip down Johnny’s throat, he steps to the side to relieve himself instead of using him as a urinal. Johnny’s almost ashamed of how grateful he finds himself feeling.

On Sunday, his first day off, Johnny leaves his bed exactly once. He gets up, pisses, and lays right back down with a pillow elevating his leg. He sleeps fitfully for nearly 12 hours and wakes up nauseous, only just choking back bile before ruining his floors. His Nan calls twice and leaves two voicemails when he doesn’t answer.

On Monday, Ghost is let out of solitary confinement.

———————————————————————

A full day of rest has done Johnny’s knee a world full of good.

While still not fully recovered, he doesn’t feel sick when he tries to walk without a limp anymore. The brace helps him with that, and with Riley coming out of solitary Johnny can’t help but hope that he’ll have a chance to truly recover a bit.

He tells himself that he can put his hellish first week in the past now. Ghost is out of solitary, which means Johnny will have a better shot at avoiding him and sticking with the other guards.

Monday morning, Graves reassigns him from genpop to protective custody. It’s the first time he’ll be separated from Gaz for any length of time, but Johnny’s too high on his sudden distance from Ghost to care too much. If anything, this gives him a better chance to bond with other guards.

His hopes don’t quite come true - all the guards working in protective custody are quiet, with no interest in talking to each other, let alone a new guy. The silence isn’t unbearable for the first few hours, but Johnny already knows that multiple days spent with people so unwilling to respond to anything he says would drive him crazy.

It’s after lunch, when he leads ten prisoners from the cafeteria back to their cells with another guard tailing them, that everything goes wrong.

While Johnny almost has the layout for the prison memorized, there are still moments he gets turned around or confused. And having only been to the section of the prison with PC cells once - that same morning - Johnny’s not the most confident on how to get them back. He takes a left turn instead of a right, and for some godforsaken reason, the other guard doesn’t correct him.

Instead of turning into the large protective custody dayroom where prisoners spend their time when they’re not locked in their cells, Johnny turns into the general population dayroom.

He hardly has time to realize what a monumental mistake he’s made before he and every person following behind him is swarmed by prisoners. 

Johnny’s knocked to the ground by one of the largest men as he dives for someone behind him, and his wrist is nearly crushed beneath a filthy white shoe when he reaches for his taser. The prisoners all but stampede him in an effort to swarm the men from protective custody, and Johnny can hardly see through the sea of legs.

Someone trips over his good knee and falls to the ground beside him. On instinct, Johnny lunges for him, trying to push himself up off the floor in the space the other man has created. But before he can get more than one foot under him, that same prisoner tackles him back to the ground and wraps a hand around his throat.

This time, when Johnny swings his baton at the man’s side full force, he falls to the ground and curls into a ball. The commotion around him is nearly deafening, and only growing louder and louder as guards get involved to try and pull the prisoners off of one another. He can see several men fall to the ground, shouting from the pain of being tased.

Johnny’s just barely managed to get to his feet when the prisoner in front of him throws himself to the side, and he only has a split second to register that the black blur swinging towards his head is a baton before everything goes black.

———————————————————————

Johnny wakes, hours later, to a dull pain in his head and a parched throat. 

He groans as he rolls his head, tongue darting out to try and wet his lips as he squeezes his eyes tight against the pain. His mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and his tongue feels swollen. While his head feels like there’s a person trying to crack him open down the middle, there’s something soft around the edges of his consciousness, something that makes him feel like he’s floating on a cloud instead of laying on a thin mattress.

As more of his senses start coming back, he realizes where he recognizes the soft feeling from - his last stay in the hospital. The fuzzy feeling in his head, the total lack of any emotion that isn’t contentedness, the steady beeping to his side, and the way his bad knee feels completely normal all tell Johnny that he’s higher than a kite on pain meds.

His nose scrunches when he tries to open his eyes for the first time, some uncomfortable crust making them itchy and heavy. He lifts one hand to clumsily paw at his face, only making him itch more as he rubs the crust into his own skin.

Somewhere in the room, he hears a door open and close quietly. He blinks quickly to try and clear his vision, but can only recognize the man when he steps right to Johnny’s bedside.

“Ghost…?” He murmurs, his voice cracking. 

The man above him hums quietly. He sets one hand on the railing of Johnny’s bed and leans in close, bringing his face into full focus as he hovers less than a foot above Johnny’s face. One of his big hands comes up to Johnny’s face, swiping roughly over his eyes and clearing the gunk from them.

“Well, look’it you,” he says, voice low and quiet. “High as a kite. Got yourself in some trouble, huh Officer?”

Johnny scowls - or well, he means too, but he can’t quite feel his face move into the expression - and clumsily bats Ghost away. The older man stands back up with a quiet laugh, reaching to the side and above Johnny for something.

“Not m’fault,” he slurs, trying to twist and follow Ghost’s arm. “Should’a… shouldn’ta… mmph.” His voice trails off, whatever defense he’d been about to use floating away from him. “‘S not m’fault.”

“Yeah, you said that already,” Ghost says. Johnny can see now that he’s holding a clipboard, scanning over the information and flipping between the top page and the one beneath it. “John MacTavish, hm? Johnny. Fits you.”

“Tha’s me,” Johnny says, and now he can really feel the way his lips tug up. “Only Nan calls me tha’ though.”

“What, Johnny?”

“Hmm.” 

Ghost is silent for a long moment, and Johnny’s eyes begin to droop again. He feels obscenely comfortable, more comfortable than he even does in his own home these days. Even with Riley looming over him, he can’t bring himself to feel much more than tired .

He can hear Ghost rummaging around beside him, but doesn’t bother to look and see what’s going on. His eyelids flutter when a moment later the bed sinks with Ghost’s weight, but even that is hardly enough for Johnny to bother moving. 

“Hey,” Ghost says, his voice a tad louder than it had been before. Johnny moans low in his throat, tossing his head on the pillow in a distinctly whiney way. 

“Hey,” Ghost repeats again, and a moment later there’s a sharp tapping at the side of his face, a calloused palm clearly trying to get his attention.

“Whaaat?” Johnny groans, tilting his head away from the hand and only opening his eyes enough to glare at Ghost. He bats at the hand and manages to grip it loosely, tugging it away from his face. He hardly notices when it shifts to rest over his pec, fingertips resting high on his side.

“Don't pass out on me, now,” Ghost commands. “I think this’ll be more fun if you’re awake.”

“What’re ya…” Johnny slurs, trailing off when Ghost turns closer towards him and sets both hands on his hips. “What’re you… doin’?”

“Quiet.”

Johnny makes a pouty sound, but he doesn’t move to stop Riley as he hooks his hands in Johnny’s pants, tugging harshly a few times until they rest around his knees. He leaves his boxers on, takes a second to snap the elastic band against Johnny’s sensitive stomach and huff a laugh when Johnny squirms.

Ghost makes a small sound that Johnny doesn’t put any effort into identifying, and then suddenly cups his cunt with a large hand. The way Johnny squeaks would be embarrassing, if he still had the capacity to be embarrassed. Instead he only squirms in place, trying to wriggle up and getting nowhere.

“Don’t tell me…” Ghost trails off, his fingers burrowing between Johnny’s lips and feeling him up thoroughly. “No kiddin’. You’re not even a real faggot, Johnny?”

The sound that slips from Johnny’s lips is pathetic, and he shoots Ghost the best glare he can manage while the machine beside them slowly beeps more and more quickly. “D’nt call me tha’...”

Ghost raises an eyebrow, shifting up and to the side so he’s between Johnny’s legs. “You’re not a fag then? Got a nice fat cunt here, MacTavish, you tellin’ me you’re a woman?”

“Nooooo,” he moans, trying to shut his knees but only squeezing Ghost closer. “‘M not… ‘m not either….”

The sound that comes from Ghost is distinctly mocking, and Johnny’s chest tightens. “Really? I can feel you gettin’ all wet even through the boxers, you’re one of them.”

Johnny hums a negative, digging his head back into the pillow. Ghost ignores him completely, and tugs his hand away for only a second before stuffing it fully down the front of his boxers. “C’mon then, Johnny, you answer me - you a faggot, or a woman?”

Johnny’s breath grows heavier as Ghost grinds his palm against his t-cock, hips working in small motions as his body takes over. He moans a little, one hand lifting to grip Ghost’s forearm.

There’s another, sharper sensation in his face, the other cheek this time. It hardly registers as painful - more as rude - but it’s enough for Johnny to blink up at Ghost. 

“Don’t keep me waiting,” he growls, flipping his hand to pinch Johnny’s cock between two of his knuckles, squeezing until Johnny wheezes.

“F-fag! A fag,” He gasps, just barely remembering what Ghost had asked. “Not-not a woman, y’can’t… can’t call me tha’...”

Ghost coos, lessening the pressure between his two fingers. “Cute, Johnny, but I’ll call you whatever I please.”

Before Johnny can gather enough focus to reply, Ghost twists his hand again and stuffs two of his thick fingers inside of Johnny’s leaking hole with no warning.

Johnny keens, just barely louder than the suddenly racing beep-beep-beep echoing in the room. When he tries to close his legs again, tries to hide from Ghost’s assault, the older man tugs one of his knees higher on his side, leaning forward and forcing Johnny to stay spread.

There’s no real discomfort or pain - either because he’s slick with his body’s betrayal or because of the painkillers, Johnny’s not sure - and when Ghost angles his palm the right way, fingers stroking just so inside of him, Johnny melts into the pillows with a whorish moan.

“Oh, is that it? That the spot?”

Johnny feels like there’s something he should be upset about, something in Ghost’s tone that scrapes at his mind, but he can’t think past the warmth slowly spreading through his abdomen. The best he manages is a quiet sound of agreement, hips working in lazy thrusts to try and get more more more. He hardly notices when Ghost slips a third finger inside him.

“Open your eyes, Johnny, c’mon.”

It’s only the sudden fourth finger, the slight hint of a burn at his center, that has Johnny blearily blinking up at Ghost. His fingers tighten only painfully in the sheets as he tries desperately to grind himself to orgasm. Riley hooks Johnny’s leg a little higher on his hip, pressing his hips to the back of his thighs.

“There y’are,” he grunts, leaning close so his face is all Johnny can see. “Fuck, you’re gone, aren’t ya? Bet you can’t even tell I’m stretchin’ you. Waste of my fuckin’ time then, huh?”

“N-” Johnny hiccups, his back arching as Ghost’s fingers slip from his hole, moving instead to undo his own belt. “No, please, y’can’t…”

“Can’t what?” Ghost asks sharply, snapping his belt off and pulling his fat cock out. “Y’don’t even know what you’re beggin’ for, little cock dumb slut. Not good for much else than bein’ my hole, huh?”

“Stop,” Johnny gasps, trying to coordinate his limbs enough to at least try and shove Ghost off, only really succeeding in resting his hands on the larger man’s biceps. “Tha’s… tha’s fuckin’ mean, y’can’t say that…”

Ghost laughs as he shoves himself inside of Johnny, no mercy and no sympathy. Johnny’s back arches high off the bed, his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut as Ghost’s hips press flush with Johnny’s thighs in just seconds.

He can’t feel anything but warmth and pressure. He’s reduced into nothing more than a writhing body and his fucked full cunt. His breaths shudder out of him in sharp bursts as his body reckons with something he can’t fully feel.

“Fuck,” Ghost hisses from above him. “Tight little bitch.”

Johnny keens high in his throat, tears springing to his eyes at the terrible mix of degradation pleasure. He feels like he’s drowning in sensation, like he’s desperately trying to keep his head above the water during a hurricane.

He fully stops breathing when Ghost pulls out the first time, struggles to get any air into his lungs when he’s slowly filled again. The tears drip down his temples, mixing with the sweat already dampening his skin.

“Bet you hate this, huh?” Riley pants, hips beginning to truly work against him now, the slap of it loud in the dark room. “You love your little fights, love hissin’ and spittin’ and tellin’ me how much you don’t want it.”

Johnny tries to lick his own lips and wet them, but doesn't manage to tuck his tongue back into his mouth. He’s left panting like a dog, drool dripping down his chin. Ghost nearly growl when he sees, his thumb landing solidly on Johnny’s tongue and holding it down.

“Almost had me convinced,” he says quietly, like a secret shared between just them. “Never saw you get hard. Thought you really might not be a fag, thought a little fuckin’ brat like you havin’ lips like this was just another cruel joke.”

He huffs, somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “But that wasn’t it, huh? Nah, whatever bastard made you just knew a whore like you would need three holes. Two wouldn’t have been enough, huh? No, whiney little sluts can’t have any less than three.”

Ghost’s words float in and out of Johnny’s head, dripping into his ears and his mouth and immediately melting away. He’s consumed with the burning pleasure in his center, able to think of nothing but reaching the crest of sensation he can practically see.

“Pleathe-!”

“Please what?” Ghost growls, shifting forward. His elbows rest on either side of Johnny’s neck, the smaller man’s knees hiked high on his side, and he starts to really drill into Johnny. “Need it harder, huh Johnny? Want me to get you off, when you’re all pretty and drugged and can’t do shit to stop me?

Johnny whines, trying to draw his tongue out from under Ghost’s thumb. The bigger man only grunts, leaning forward and spitting a wad of saliva onto his tongue. Then he lets Johnny close his mouth, letting him swallow.

“Yeah, there you go,” he breathes, staring between Johnny’s lips and the column of his throat with an intentness Johnny can’t even begin to understand, not with the way his pace doesn’t stutter at all. “Gonna fill you up from both ends, make sure you fuckin’ feel this tomorrow. Might fuck your mouth when you pass out, make sure you’ll fuckin’ breathe me.”

Johnny’s got no idea what’s being said to him, too lost in the way Ghost’s stomach rubs against his cock, the way his body is covered completely, the way his thighs clench around Ghost as tightly as possible and yet the man doesn’t slow at all. Even with his mouth closed, he still drools, can’t stop moaning and panting as Riley forces a space for himself.

“Yeah, just like that, tighten up for me. C’mon, c’mon-”

Johnny’s wail nearly drowns out the way Ghost eggs him on, his body bursting into flames as he’s finally shoved off that edge. He feels everything and nothing, raw and numb, comfortable and wound so tight he’s sure he’s about to snap in half. His throat aches from his volume, but he can do nothing but grab on tight to Ghost’s shoulders and try to ride out his orgasm.

He can’t even tell when Ghost finally comes, only really registers a loud grunt in his ear and the way his hips slow to a stop inside of him. 

Johnny’s already fading when Riley pulls out, would hardly have noticed if he hadn’t seen Ghost standing fully from the bed. He can’t move from where Ghost has left him, his knees splayed wide and leaving his cunt bared to the room. 

He’s too tired to open his eyes, too high on painkillers and ecstasy to care that he can’t. Before long, he’s falling asleep to the obnoxious sound of his heart rate monitor slowing. 

———————————————————————

When Johnny wakes up the next morning, he’s sore and confused.

“Wha’...” he breathes, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position and rubbing a hand over his face. His head throbs, but that’s far from his biggest concern as he takes stock of his body.

“Oh good, you’re up,” a familiar voice says, and once he clears the sleep dust from his eyes Johnny can see Gaz lounging casually in a chair next to his bed. “Good timing, too, Graves just left.

“Graves?” Johnny asks, clearing his throat when he hears how raspy he sounds. “What the hell happened?”

Gaz raises an eyebrow, leaning forward to grab a watter bottle from the small table beside the hospital bed and offer it to Johnny. There’s a terrible taste in his mouth, and Johnny gratefully takes the bottle and sips from it. “You really don’t remember?”

Johnny’s eyebrows furrow, and he thinks back to the day before.

It all comes back to him quickly once he can work past the pain in his head - his new assignment, the unfriendly other guards, his stupid mistake, and the ensuing brawl. What’s harder to remember is what happened after, what happened when he woke up to a dark room and a guest who’s face he can’t quite see.

There are vague impressions of a man - a large man, a heavy man, he can remember what he felt like on top of Johnny - and the dull ache between Johnny’s legs gives him a good idea of what the man did to him.

It’s hard to keep his breathing even.

Gaz doesn’t seem to notice, rambling on. “Graves is sayin’ you did it intentionally, said some real dumb shit about you, mate. You’re damn lucky you’ve somehow got the warden’s favor - I’ve been here a few years now, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone make a mistake like this and keep their job.”

Johnny groans, throwing himself back onto the mattress. “Thanks, Gaz. Very comforting, you are.”

Gaz laughs, patting Johnny heavily on the shoulder. “Yeah, well, they don’t pay me for my bedside manner. C’mon, they’re kicking you out.”

Johnny lifts his head enough to look at the other man. “Kickin’ me out? Really?”

Gaz gives him a don’t start look, standing and gathering a bag Johnny hadn’t noticed before. “They already let you stay overnight, mate. You’re lucky they gave you a bed at all. Plus, warden gave you the rest of the week off for recovery. You’ve got no room to complain, my friend”

It takes a bit for Johnny to feel steady enough to leave, longer for he and Gaz to make it outside of the prison. He gets nasty looks from several of their coworkers, but he lets their clear irritation slide off his back. As long as he’s got a job, he couldn’t care less what the others think of him.

It’s difficult to get Gaz to let Johnny go home on his own, but once he promises to take it easy for the next few days - and overplays his own exhaustion just a bit - the other officer lets him go after exchanging numbers and making him promise to text if anything changed.

Johnny can’t quite work up the nerve to check between his thighs until he’s in the privacy of his tiny shower. 

He probes at his sore hole with tentative fingers, wincing at the slight sting of pain and resting his forehead against the tile. He only opens his eyes for long enough to recognize the liquid coating his fingers before he lurches out of the shower and kneels above his toilet.

He’s not sure what it says about him that he doesn’t actually vomit - is he just getting used to the constant violation, or is there too much else wrong with him to feel overwhelmed by this?

He doesn’t think about it for long, just lets his stomach settle, quickly cleans himself in the shower, and then buries himself beneath his thin blanket and throws himself into the oblivion of sleep.

———————————————————————

The first day Johnny goes back to work, he decides he has nothing left to do but resign.

It’s a choice he agonizes over every single day he spends cooper up in his small mobile home. This job had come as a blessing, and had only come in the first place because he’d been owed a favor by John Price who’d called in a favor of his own. For all intents and purposes, he should’ve never been lucky enough to get here.

And he’s about to throw it all away.

It’s hard not to feel disappointed in himself, to not say suck it up and get over it . But Johnny’s nightmares have shifted from explosions and gunfire to a weight over his chest and a cock down his throat. He wakes up soaked in sweat and panting, slick between the thighs but shaking with fear. He gets flashes of that night in the med wing sometimes, images of Ghost hovering above him, the feeling of something on his tongue and something else in his cunt.

He can’t handle another violation. 

So walking to the bus stop, the whole ride over, and the walk in, Johnny is thinking about how he’ll manage to quit without offering to serve his two weeks. If worse comes to worst, he figures there’s nothing anybody can do if he just stops showing up.

When he stops by Shepherd’s office and asks for a meeting, he’s confident he won’t even spend an hour in the building. That confidence is crushed the moment Shepherd looks at him with pity instead of frustration.

“MacTavish…” he sighs. “I know what you’re trying to get out of.”

Johnny’s eyebrows furrow. “Sir?”

Shepherd sighs, and leans forward to bring something up on his computer. “The only places without cameras are the shower and the cells. Everything else in this building, I see.”

There’s a pit forming in Johnny’s chest, but he can’t do anything but say, “I’m not sure what you’re implying, sir.”

The look Shepherd sends him says yes you are, and the man turns the screen of his computer around to face Johnny.

It’s… it’s him, in a hospital bed, with Ghost over him. Johnny’s jaw drops open as he watches his legs get hiked up higher on the other man’s chest, the bulk of him covering Johnny’s cunt, but the spread of his legs doing nothing to hide the slick dripping from him.

The video is silent but horrifying. Here’s what Johnny has forgotten, what’s slowly been coming back to him in his dreams, and it’s being played for him by his boss. 

“Sir…” he says, unsure of what he’ll say but knowing it has to be something. “I don’t…”

“You can’t quit,” Shepherd says, straightforward and with no bend.

Johnny can’t tear his eyes away from the screen. “I have to.”

Shepherd lays his hand flat on the desk, making just enough noise to startle Johnny. “No, son. You’ll be staying here. If you don’t, I’ll take that video right to the police myself and have them charge you with assault.

Johnny’s eyes fly to Shepherd’s, his brows arched high on his head. “Assault? Me? But- look at the video! I was injured and high off my ass!”

“You’re also an officer, with power over the prisoners.”

“Power? Look at what the bastard did to me!” He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, wants to break the computer screen so no one ever sees that clip again instead of bringing more attention back to it. 

Shepherd winces, very intentionally not looking at the screen. “An argument could be made that you… encouraged him. You’re in the position of power, and that makes you at fault.” 

Johnny grits his teeth, glaring. “I was drugged and-and… well, if anyone was assaulted it certainly wasn’t him.”

Shepherd leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “You can’t have it both ways, MacTavish.”

“I- What?”

“Either you’re a man or not. Look at the size of you, son. You think anyone will believe that you couldn’t have fought him off?”

Johnny’s speechless, unable to do anything but stare at Shepherd, mouth gaping.

“Or you’re a woman, and no one would be shocked to hear a tragic story about a female officer being overtaken and assaulted by her male prisoner. Is that you? That the story you want to tell?”

“I’m not a fuckin’ woman.”

Shepherd’s eyes narrow. “Watch your language with me. Those are the only two stories you could sell in court.”

“They’re not -”

“Yes, they are,” Shepherd hisses, suddenly more incensed as he leans forward and lowers his voice. “You don’t have a goddamn choice here, MacTavish. You keep this job, nobody else needs to know you fucked Riley. You leave, I’ll make sure every person you’ve ever looked at sees the goddamn video of it.”

Johnny reels back in his seat, hands shaking and mouth bone dry. He can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, can’t believe that this is the point his life has brought him to. “Why? ”

Shepherd sinks back in his seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose and suddenly looking ten years older. “Because he doesn’t want you to quit. Riley and I have a deal, and it’s a damn fragile one. He’s fixated on you for whatever reason - I let you walk, all my hardwork with him goes down the drain.”

Johnny’s teeth grind in the back of his mouth. “Sounds more like your problem than mine.”

Shepherd glares. “It became your problem when you let him fuck you.”

“I didn’t let -”

“Video, MacTavish. I can see exactly what happened.”

Johnny’s face flames, and he squirms in his seat. “It wasn’t… I didn’t want to…”

Shepherd’s voice is almost mean when he says, “Didn’t seem to fight that hard.”

Johnny nearly flinches, and doesn’t say another word. 

“Listen,” Shepherd sighs, turning the computer around and finally running off that horrible video while seemingly doing his best to look at as little of it as possible. “The job pays well. You’re good at it - well… you could be good at it, if you tried a little harder.”

There’s a part of Johnny that’s offended, but the rest of him is too baffled by this entire meeting to do anything but listen.

“If Riley wants to…” Shepherd winces, the tiniest flush coloring his cheeks. “If he wants to be in a relationship with you, let him.”

“Relationship,” Johnny hisses, lip curled in disgust at the word. “Is that what you think-?”

“I don’t give a damn what he wants from you, MacTavish,” Shepherd cuts him off, glaring. “You’ll put up with it, and if necessary, you’ll do it with a smile. Either that, or I make your life much, much more difficult going forward. Do we have an understanding?”

Shepherd’s tone makes Johnny want to leap forward and claw the skin from his face. Not quite mocking, not quite pitying, not quite frustrated, but all authoritative and pissy. Again, Johnny is reminded of how much he hated men like this in the military.

After a long moment of silence, Shepherd sighs and holds out a hand. “C’mon, son. We both know you’re staying. This can be as easy or as hard as you make it.” He pushes his hand a little further out, like he’s expecting a handshake.

Johnny ignores him completely, storms from the office, and slams the door on his way out.

———————————————————————

The next weeks pass in a blur.

Whatever hope Johnny had of having a normal life post-military, of getting closer to Gaz and maybe even other officers, is well and truly crushed after Graves informs him he’ll be permanently assigned to Ghost from then on. 

Johnny refuses to look at Gaz long enough to see the man’s expression of sympathy, but he hears it in the quick gasp and the little rumble of sound.

Ghost doesn’t quite smirk or smile when Johnny walks up to him on that first day back, but there’s a smugness radiating off him that makes Johnny scowl.

It’s lunch when Riley calls him over for the first time. He doesn’t make a show of it, only flicks his gaze over to Johnny long enough to make eye contact and raises a hand to beckon him.

Johnny pretends he doesn’t see at first, shifts and stares at a wall. Ghost doesn’t let it go, and shouts, “MacTavish!” across the room after a moment of silence. 

Graves glares at him and jerks his head over with a sort of what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you look.

He can’t help but feel a little like a kid when he storms toward Ghost, unable to keep the frustration hidden when he feels like he’s drowning in it. “What?”

Ghost gives him an unimpressed look. “Watch it. You’ll come when I call you.”

Johnny grits his teeth. “Course, sir,” he bites sarcastically.

Riley’s lip twitch, at that only pisses him off more. Ghost shifts back in his seat, the tray in front of him already wiped clean - the food looks disgusting to Johnny, but Ghost had eaten so quickly you’d think it was the best thing he’d ever had. 

“You think that’s as embarrassing as I can make things for you?” He asks quietly, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward. “I could do anything I wanted to you right now, and not a man in this room would stop me.”

Johnny’s lip curls. “What do you want?”

“I want you to mind your manners when you speak to me,” Ghost snaps, his voice rising just a bit. Johnny’s sure he’s not loud enough for anyone else to have heard, but he shifts uneasily anyway. 

“Fine,” he hisses. “Now what do you want?”

Riley doesn’t quite look satisfied, but he drops it. “I’m doin’ you a favor here, Johnny. You rather I not tell you the rules, let you stumble all blind into a punishment in front of anyone lucky enough to be nearby?”

Johnny’s head jerks down a bit in instinctual frustration. “Okay. Alright, fine. Just get it over with.”

Ghost hums low in his throat. “You’ll look at me when I’m speaking to you. Start now.”

Johnny bites his tongue as he raises his eyes, glaring into Ghost’s with all the anger he can muster. The man only smirks, murmuring a “Good boy,” in that tone that Johnny still hears in his dreams sometimes.

“I want you by my side unless I’m in my cell - then, you’ll stand outside when you’re still on duty. If you need to be somewhere else for some reason, you’ll come immediately when I call.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ dog,” Johnny can’t help but argue.

“You’re whatever I tell you to be. I ask you to crawl behind me on fours, and you’ll do it - happily . Or are you so eager for that little video to make it’s way to good ol’ Graves’ pocket?”

Johnny’s face flushes, and he inches closer, ducking down as if they haven’t already been speaking quietly enough for no one else to hear. “You can’t- you can’t show that to anyone. I don’t know what you have on the warden, but-”

“Exactly,” Ghost cuts him off, glaring. “You don’t know. And you won’t, because it’s not information for you. All you need to do is fuckin’ listen, and you aren’t doing a good job of it so far.”

Johnny grits his teeth, straightening. “What’s your next rule, then?”

Riley considers him for a second, then leans back on the metal bench. “Next rule is you’ll speak to me with respect. I outranked you in the military, and I outrank you here. You’ll watch your-”

“Wait,” Johnny interrupts, brow furrowed. “You were in the military?”

“Don’t interrupt,” Ghost scolds, glaring. “But yes. Not with you, but I was. Made it up to Lieutenant before I got out.”

It shouldn’t change anything for Johnny, the revelation that he and Ghost have a common background. And it doesn’t - not really - but there’s something in his mind that just… shifts, a bit, after learning that he and Ghost have similar roots, that they were maybe even in the same place at different times. Somehow the idea doesn’t quite fit with everything else he knows about Ghost. 

“But regardless, I won’t tolerate a brat. You’ll behave and watch your mouth when you’re with me. Understood?”

“Fine.”

“Fine…?”

Johnny’s lip curls and his hands tighten into fists at his side. “Fine, sir.”

“Good boy,” Ghost rumbles with a smirk. “You won’t touch yourself without permission. That’s your third rule.”

Johnny can feel his face flaming, and he ducks his chin close to his chest, shoulders hunching in an attempt to hide himself. “What? ”

Ghost’s smile is ugly on his face, wide and showing off crooked teeth behind thin lips. “That pretty pussy belongs to me now, and I don’t want your grubby hands on my property.”

“I’m not- my hands aren’t-” Johnny huffs, shaking his head a bit until a strand of loose hair falls into his eyeline, then pushing it away with a small sound of frustration. “I’m not your property.”

“Oh, yes you are. But there’s no point in arguin’ with you, you’ll understand soon enough. That’s it for now - we’ll start you off with the simple stuff so you don’t fuck up too soon.”

“Oh, thank you,” Johnny rolls his eyes sarcastically, back to glaring at the table.

Ghost grunts, smacking a hand beside his tray with just enough force for Johnny to jump. “What the hell did I just say about the attitude?”

Johnny stares at him wide-eyed for a second, but quickly relaxes into his frustration. He swallows his pride and says, “Sorry.”

Ghost narrows his eyes, glaring up at Johnny. “You’ll make it up to me later,” he decides. He stands from his seat with little warning, nudging the tray closer to Johnny. “Drop the tray off, then follow me to the rec room.”

He can feel every single pair of eyes on him as he walks to the busboy, and Johnny can’t help but think that he’s never once in his life felt this much scrutiny before. But he ignores every one of them, his eyes carefully forward and just slightly unfocused so he doesn’t have to see the way their heads turn.

He follows Ghost to the rec room, his pride in tatters. 

And that’s where it begins. The indignities only get worse.

Ghost informs him slowly of more rules. Johnny’s never to sit near Ghost, only to stand (sitting is a reward, and one he finds quickly is very rare). He’s only to look Ghost in the eye when responding to him, and never to look anyone else in the eye when he’s shadowing Ghost (“You’re on my time, you won’t give a spec of your attention to anyone that’s not me.”). 

And the sexual favors… Johnny is just glad they’re kept private. Ghost only ever touches him when they’re alone, and they’re only truly alone during Ghost’s solo showers and when he tugs Johnny into his cell for the last hour of his shift.

The taste of Ghost’s cum becomes unfortunately very familiar, and the bruises on Johnny’s knees never quite get enough time to fade before new ones appear. The only small blessing he can see is that Ghost never pisses on him anymore. 

He still fucks Johnny’s mouth in the shower, but he’ll take any amount of skull-fucking over the humiliation of being treated as nothing more than a urinal. Even after weeks of nothing but blowjobs being forced on him, he still tenses for that sour stench after every once.

Johnny also learns that Ghost is - predictably - as mean in bed as he is out of it. Half the time, the bastard isn’t even decent enough to give Johnny a pity orgasm when he assaults him.

He’s also incredibly creative with his dirty talk, and infuriatingly that’s usually what gets Johnny off - when he’s allowed to get off, that is.

Pretty fuckin’ cunt, made to take my cock, huh?

Should keep you tied to the bed, use you as my own goddamn mattress so I can fuck you whenever I want

You’re awful loud today, baby, you want the others to hear you? Hm? Want them to come knockin’ and ask for a turn riding this tight ass?

Nothin’ else in the world compares to a hot hole like this, shit, I’d kill a man to have fucked you when you were a virgin.”

Sometimes Johnny thinks about rubbing himself to completion at home, on the nights when Ghost edged and denied him time and time again and his boxers were sticky with his slick when he took them off. He never quite works up the nerve, though, sure that Ghost would somehow know what he had done and unwilling to face any more severe of a punishment from the prisoner. 

His service to Ghost extends outside of the purely sexual, though. That comes as more of a surprise than it probably should, and there’s something about it that’s more difficult for Johnny to bear.

When Ghost fucks him, it’s a fight. Ghost likes it like that, and Johnny gets to tell himself he tried the best he could to keep the other man’s hands off of him. It’s as close to a win as he can get in this situation, and he forces himself to be okay with that.

But all the little things Ghost expects him to do - serve his food, clean his cell, bring him any book he asks for, give him a damn massage once - they feel more… willing. Like Johnny is choosing to do these things for Ghost. And he knows that he is, technically, but only because he’s terrified of what would happen were he to disobey.

And still, that’s not enough of an excuse to calm his psyche. He goes home to his trailer and feels filthy, showers for so long every night that his water bill has become egregiously high. He picks at his nails constantly now, never quite feels like he gets them fully clean. The thought that his service to Ghost is willing, is consensual, haunts him.

He thinks that’s what Riley enjoys the most - the inner turmoil. Sometimes when he asks Johnny to do something particularly embarrassing, he’ll watch the way his face twists with an expression that can’t be described as anything but gleeful greed. He comes fastest when he threatens to fuck Johnny in front of his coworkers, or when they can hear other voices. Nothing seems to get him off quite like Johnny’s anger and humiliation.

So it should come as no shock that one of his favorite things to make Johnny do is work out with him.

Ghost works out while all the prisoners are in the rec yard, usually monopolizing one machine and scaring off anyone else who comes too close. But because of his deal with the warden (and Johnny curses that man more and more every day), he gets an extra hour outside that no one else does.

Outside of the context of their dynamic, Riley is one of the best trainers Johnny’s ever had. He certainly pushes him harder than anyone else has, and he makes sure they’re both working out all parts of their body.

Unfortunately, he’s more than a little unfair to Johnny. 

He always uses whatever maching he’s picked for that day first, and he never lets Johnny adjust the weight down to his own level. Johnny’s big, stronger undoubtedly than most of his coworkers, and damn proud of it. But he’s not Ghost big, not able to do many reps with the shitton of weight Riley uses.

But that doesn’t matter - Riley tells him to do it, so he does. He’s usually little more than a noodle when he’s done, but he can usually force himself to do at least half of the workout that Riley did.

He always spots Ghost - and does it correctly, no matter how much he wants to strangle the man. It’s probably his favorite act of service Ghost forces onto him, because he sees prisoners helping out other prisoners across the yard every day. Granted no guard is stepping in to spot them, but it’s better than being the only person waiting at the beck and call of another.

So he spots Ghost without complaint, even though the older man never once needs his help. It’s unfortunate, too, because Johnny’s pretty sure he could just pretend to not be strong enough to help the other man if he were to get stuck, but unfortunately he’s not that lucky.

While he spots Ghost, he finds that the favor is almost never returned - not unless Johnny is so weak from the previous day's workout that he can barely do a full rep. 

When they’re doing bench presses, Ghost stands above Johnny’s head, damn near blocking out the sun, and smirks when all he can do is try his absolute hardest to keep the bar from choking him. 

On most days he can manage a pathetic few reps, but there was one day where he really, truly couldn’t do it. He’d been lucky and nobody else had been in the rec yard, but he still remembers it in his dreams sometimes.

Ghost had known before Johnny even sat down that he wouldn’t manage, he could see it in the prisoner’s face. The last few days - their first days working out together - had been hell on his body, and he could barely raise his hand enough to wave, let alone bench press several hundred pounds.

“Ghost…” he had muttered, laying on his back and looking uneasily at the bar above him. “I really don’t think I can-”

“Quiet,” Ghost said, stepping so close that Johnny could see his bulge right above his head. “You’ll be fine. I’m spotting you.”

Johnny can’t help but scowl. “That is not spotting.”

“Well, it’s all your gettin’. Hurry up, the more time you waste here, the longer I’ll keep you after your shift.”

“Shit, okay, okay, I get it,” he said, wrapping his hands around the bar and taking a deep breath. “You swear you’ll-?”

“Johnny.”

“Fine, fine.”

He’d managed a single rep - which was impressive enough for him, quite honestly. But it wasn’t enough for Riley, who grunted a negative and a “Keep going.” when Johnny tried to put the bar back in its place.

“Ghost,” he had panted, on the verge of whining.

“Johnny,” he’d mimicked, voice pitched insultingly high. 

He doesn’t get a full second rep in, only just barely manages to hold the bar above his throat with shaking limbs. His whole body is shaking, and he’s drenched in sweat.

“Riley…” he gasps, teeth clenched so tight he’d be worried about cracking one if he wasn’t so focused on not dying.

“Need some help, Johnny?”

He can’t do much more than grunt an affirmative sound, but for once Ghost doesn’t make him beg. Instead he wraps both hands around the metal bar, and sort of pushes it forward a bit.

“Wha-?” Johnny manages, before he realizes what Ghost has done. He’s trapped him securely beneath the weight - Johnny’s not strong enough to push it away from his chest, and if he moves too much he risks rolling it forward and onto his neck. It’s an incredibly dangerous position to be in, and the fear only makes Johnny shake more.

“There we go,” Ghost says quietly, patting Johnny on the head once before stepping away.

“Ghost?” He gasps, rolling his head to the side as he desperately tracks the other man. “C-c’mon, ye can’t-”

“Don’t waste your breath, Johnny, you’re already panting like a dog,” Ghost scolds, tapping him lightly on the stomach as he passes. He tugs the weight a little further down, and to Johnny’s relief it allows the slightest bit of strain to fade.

Ghost grips him roughly by the knees, forcing them to spread wide on either side of the bench. 

“We’re gonna play a little game, Johnny,” he rumbles, yanking down Johnny’s pants and boxers in two quick tugs. “You finish that rep before Graves calls us in, I’ll let you come. You don’t, I fuck you in front of him.”

“N-no!” Johnny gasps, one leg jerking up as he squirms. His pants are tugged off one ankle, left loose around the other, and he feels sweat dripping from his navel down to his center already. “Y-you can’t.”

Ghost hums, and a thumb parts Johnny’s folds. “Then you better get that bar up, boy.”

Johnny’s sobbing before he even registers Ghost’s mouth on him.

The experience is the very definition of overwhelming. He can hardly breathe with hundreds of pounds resting on his chest, and Ghost’s tongue feels like magic on his cunt. He licks Johnny’s engorged clit, knows just when to wrap his lips around the bundle of nerves and suck. When Johnny gets too close to the edge, when his whimpers turn to whines and his moans pitch up, Ghost ducks to Johnny’s hole and spends time drinking all of his slick.

He has absolutely no idea how long it will be until Graves shows up, and the thought drives Johnny insane. At any moment the other man could walk out and see them, see Johnny pinned and Ghost eating his cunt like he’s starving.

With a gasp at a particularly rough edge, Johnny gets the bar a few inches off his chest. He feels like he’s suffocating when it drops back down.

“Good,” Ghost purrs, one hand lifting from where he’d been holding Johnny’s lips open to stroke his stomach beneath his shirt. “Almost there. Go on, try again f’r me." He sounds drunk on Johnny, his words slurred and muffled. Johnny doesn’t sound any better, sobbing and moaning in equal turns as he’s driven to the edge again and again.

In the end, he only barely manages it. He’s just able to time his breathing, erratic as it is, with his effort in pushing the bar away. His muscles scream at him as he gets it higher and higher in the air, and every single part of him goes completely limp the moment he stops gripping the bar.

“There ya go,” Ghost growls, and Johnny groans as the vibrations sink into him. “Tha’s my fuckin’ boy.”

Johnny whines, manages to muster up just enough energy to lift one hand and drop it onto Ghost’s buzzed head. He can’t do anything but keep it there, but it helps him feel less lost in the pleasure. He doesn’t even have enough strength to grind against Ghost’s hand, but the other man doesn’t need the help in getting him off. 

By the time he’d gotten re-dressed (by the time Ghost had re-dressed him), Graves had been walking in the door. He’d only given the two of them a nasty look, and Johnny’s face had burned bright at the realization that they’d been caught.

“Inside, you two. Now.” Was all Graves had said, but Johnny had trouble even glancing at the man for days. 

Ghost had never been that hard on him during a workout again, but the threat of it was always there, and it was more than enough to keep Johnny from complaining again.

That’s how most of their dynamic worked - the second Johnny pushed back against Ghost’s control even minutely, he was met with swift and firm punishment. Unwilling to experience whatever degradation Ghost chose again, he’d be sure not to repeat the same mistakes.

And Johnny finds that when he listens, when he doesn’t question Ghost and doesn’t let the humiliation get to him, the man verges on kind. In his own sick and twisted way.

(At night, alone under his sheets, Johnny wonders if Riley is really soft, or if he’s too used to the man’s cruelty and simply thinks anything less than that is kind.)

———————————————————————

Two months into their “deal”, Johnny’s world is brought to a sudden stop again. 

He’s in the staffroom - an hour early, because Ghost expects him to be there when he takes his showers, which happen to be first thing in the morning - when Gaz walks in, a small paper bag in his hand.

“Hey, mate,” he beams, quickly walking towards Johnny. “Glad I got here early enough to catch you, feel like we’ve hardly talked in ages.”

Johnny gives his best sympathetic smile, checking the bullets in his gun. “Sorry, mate. Job’s been wearin’ on me more than I thought it would.”

Gaz quickly looks away, nodding rapidly. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course.” There’s an almost-awkward moment of silence before Gaz holds out the bag he’d brought. “Oh, I brought donuts. Y’know, to celebrate the good news.” He shakes the bag enticingly. “Want one?”

Johnny grins, quickly snagging the bag and tugging out a maple log. “Thanks, I love these. What’s the good news?”

He’s taking his first bite of the treat, savoring the taste of it on his tongue, when Gaz makes a shocked noise “You don’t know?”

He’s still chewing, so the only response Johnny can give is a shake of the head and a raised brow.

“Huh, I’d figured he’d have…” Gaz trails off a bit, his own brows furrowing as he takes the bag back. “Well, I guess I get the pleasure then - Ghost was up for bail, and he got approved.”

Johnny chokes on his next bite of donut instantly, bending in half and coughing desperately.

“Shit, mate!” Gaz exclaims, whacking him hard enough on the back to dislodge the little bite of food and allow him to suck in gasps of air. 

“He’s-” Johnny gasps again, then straightens. “He’s what?”

Gaz looks completely surprised, leaving his hand on Johnny’s back just long enough to make sure he’s stable before letting it drop. “I can’t believe you didn’t know. I figured with your… relationship, he would’ve been the one to tell you.”

Johnny nearly chokes again, spluttering in shock and leaning his entire weight against the counter. “Relationship? We’re not in a-a relationship!”

The look Gaz gives him is a mix between pitying and disbelieving. “Come on, mate, you don’t have to lie to me. Everyone knows already.”

Johnny gapes and can feel the blood draining from his face. “Everyone?”

“Well you weren’t exactly subtle,” Gaz counters, his own brows furrowing now. “You really didn’t know? About either thing?”

“No!” Johnny exclaims, turning so he can lean his back on the counter and bury his face in his hands. “I don’t even-” he huffs, shaking his head. “You’ve given me too much to deal with here, mate.”

“Well to be fair, I didn’t think I’d be revealing anything to you this morning.”

Johnny spreads his fingers just enough that he can see through them, shaking his head at the linoleum floor. He can’t bring himself to look over at Gaz, not knowing… not knowing that the other man has known, and known this whole time. 

“Nobody judges you for it, by the way,” Gaz says quietly, a few moments later. 

Johnny raises his head, glances at the other officer once before looking away again. “What?”

“For your relationship,” he explains. “Love is love, and all that. Most of these men are in here for life, you’re not the first one to start a relationship with one of them, and I’m sure you won’t be the last.”

Johnny only groans again, throwing his head back and staring blankly at the ceiling.

As humiliating as it is to know that all of the guards have known about his thing with Ghost, he can’t help but think back to the first thing Gaz had mentioned. 

His brows furrow as he turns to fully look at Gaz again, trying to ignore his blush. “Did you say he’s out on parole?”

Now Gaz smiles again. “Yeah, I can’t believe you hadn’t heard! I mean granted, I only saw it in the paper this morning, but still. Can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”

Johnny can only stare at the other man with his mouth agape. “Do you still have the paper?”

Gaz frowns a minute, then swings his bag off his shoulders and digs through it for a moment before pulling out a rolled up newspaper. He flips it open, turning past the first few pages and then pointing to a smaller box in the bottom left hand corner.

“Here it is,” he says, then begins to read it out loud. “Infamous illegal weapons seller Simon “Ghost” Riley released on parole today - mistake or mercy? Not their best work, admittedly, but I suppose no one usually reads this far- hey!”

“Gimme that,” Johnny mutters, snatching the paper and ducking close to read it more closely.

There isn’t much more information - the small article only lists the day Ghost was arrested, all his charges, and the accomplices arrested with him but sent to a smaller prison.

“Holy shit,” Johnny breathes, dropping the paper and leaning back. “Holy shit.”

Gaz snatches the paper back, looking at Johnny like he’s lost his mind. “Is that a good holy shit, or a bad one? Because I figured you’d be happy about this, honestly-”

“I have to go,” Johnny interrupts, quickly tearing all of the gear he’d already put on off and striding out of the room. 

“You’re welcome!” Gaz calls, just as the door closes behind him. 

The warden’s office is only a few doors down, and Johnny’s just barely restraining a smile as he throws the door open without knocking.

“I quit.”

Shepherd looks up from his computer, blinking dumbly at Johnny. “Excuse me?”

“I quit,” he repeats, stepping into the officer and glaring at the warden, still unable to fully control his smile. “Your buddy Ghost is out of here, so you’ve got no reason to keep me either. I’m quitting.”

It seems to take a moment for Shepherd to process the words, but once he has he sits back with a sigh, tugging open one of the drawers.

“I supposed I should’ve expected this,” he says, pulling something out and then shutting the drawer. “You know, you’re welcome to stay on if you’d-”

“No,” Johnny says quickly, fully glaring at the man now. “You and I both know there’s no reason for me to be here anymore with him gone.”

Shepherd thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “Fair enough. You’ll want these, then.”

He holds his hand out palm up, with two small flashdrives resting there 

Johnny grabs them before the ex-general can take them away, then frowns in confusion. “What’s on them?”

“Every time you and Ghost were… intimate where a camera could see you. I figured you’d want to have them.”

Johnny’s face flames again, but he nods jerkily and stuffs the drives into his pocket. He’ll burn them the second he’s home. 

“Well,” Shepherd sighs, heaving himself out of his chair and holding out a hand. ”You did me a favor keeping that brute in line. I have to thank you for that.”

Johnny can only stare incredulously at the man. A thousand angry tirades run through his mind, righteous words he could spit at the man, accusations to lay at his feet and hopefully dig at whatever conscious he’s got left.

But Johnny doesn’t have room for any of them right now. All he can think about is how he’ll never have to see Simon “Ghost” Riley again.

“You’re a piece of shit,” he says with a slowly growing smile. “And I have no respect for you. Goodbye.”

And with that, Johnny turns and leaves the office. He’s all but whistling his whole walk home, hardly even noticing the twinge in his knee.

———————————————————————

Johnny’s place isn’t anything close to nice, but Ghost doesn’t mind. 

He stands on the gross outside the trailer, smoking a cigarette and appreciating the cool air. Even though he’d had any privilege he could’ve asked for while locked up, he can still feel the difference in the air knowing that he’s free now.

It hadn’t been difficult to find Johnny’s address. He’d demanded the man’s full file from Shepherd before leaving, and the old bastard had been more than willing to hand it over.

Simon will go back and kill him someday. No one who allowed Johnny to be hurt like that should live. 

He hadn’t thought much about where the officer lived, but he’d thought plenty about how he behaved in that home. He’s far less interested in the fact that Johnny lives in a trailer with peeling paint and old tires, and far more interested in what’s inside the tin can that can tell him all about who Johnny is when he’s alone.

And he’s… messy. Very, very messy.

A part of Ghost likes to think it’s because of him, that Johnny is too exhausted after a long day meeting his standards and taking his cock that he comes home and doesn’t do anything but collapse into bed. Another part of him is disgusted by all the fast food containers and already plans how he’ll whip the boy into shape so he can actually see his countertops. No wonder he's struggled so much with their workouts.

The trailer is small, certainly meant for a bachelor or someone travelling with just a partner. The bed in the back is messy and unmaid, and it’s only two or three feet away from the small kitchen area. Between those, the couch, where a laptop is charging on one of the cushions.

Simon digs around while he waits for Johnny to come home. He figures it won’t be long - the second he learns that Ghost is out, he’ll realize that Shepherd has no reason to blackmail him anymore and run as fast as he can.

Ghost smirks at the thought of how surprised he’ll be when he gets home. He’s damn near giddy to see his boy, to see his face drop when he recognizes the man in his home. He wonders if the anger or despair will take over first - he desperately hopes it’s anger, though he wouldn’t mind seeing Johnny cry at the sight of him.

For now, he snoops. 

Johnny doesn’t have much of anything. He’s got a full sleeve of condoms next to his bed that Ghost snorts at before tossing in the trash, along with a few bottles of lube and a couple simple dildos. His clothes are all similair, and he’s only got a few pairs of jeans. 

The most interesting thing is the small gun kept in a cabinet over the sink - it’s an almost pathetcially small thing, but Ghost grabs it and tucks it into the back of his pants regardless. He’s well aware of Johnny’s skill with a gun - he’d been a sniper for a bit, according to his file - and has no intentions of dying before he can properly tame the little brat.

It takes about an hour for his boy to come home. Longer than Simon had expected, but he won’t hold it against him. 

He can’t help the spark of sadistic excitement in his chest when he sits himself on the edge of Johnny’s bed, forcing himself into a more casual position so Johnny doesn’t think he’s too eager.

His boy’s reaction is everything he’d hoped for.

Johnny’s face is lit up in excitement when he first opens the door, lips spread in a wide grin and shoulders rolled back. When he lays eyes on Ghost, it takes a second for that expression to drop.

(The sight of Johnny staring at him, beaming, makes something old and dead shift in Ghost’s chest. He’s not sure he or Johnny will like the things that feeling drives him to do.)

Ghost can see the exact moment Johnny realizes he’s not dreaming, realizes that Ghost has followed him home. It’s the way his smile drops slowly, the way his eyebrows pinch together and he blinks rapidly. His shoulders fall forward, like he’s trying to curl in on himself.

He doesn’t even close the door behind himself.

Simon cocks his head to the side, leaning back on his hands and spreading his legs wide - he’s nearly the width of the damn trailer.

“Welcome home, Johnny.”

Just like he’d suspected, it’s his voice that shifts the ex-officer from shock to anger. In a heartbeat Johnny goes from gaping and blinking to snarling and tightening his hands into fists.

He takes a single step forward, then seems to realize how close just that small movement brings him. He points an angry finger at Ghost, nearly spitting angry. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“Language,” he corrects automatically, barely resisting the urge to smirk at the angry sound that bursts from Johnny’s chest. “You didn’t think we were finished, did you?”

Johnny’s face is going red from anger. Briefly, Ghost wonders if he’s going to pop a blood vessel.

“Get out!” He shouts, hands shaking in anger. “You’re not- you’re not supposed to be here! I’ll call the police, get you arrested for breaking and entering!”

Now Ghost really can’t help the way his lips curl. “No, you won’t.”

Johnny’s lip curls into a nasty snarl at the challenge. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

Ghost lets his head tilt leisurely to the side. “Because you want to be a good boy for me too badly.” He lets on hand shift to his pocket, lips twitching further up when Johnny flinches at the movement, and pulls out two small hardrives. “And because I have these, and I’ll spread them as far as I need to to keep you well-behaved.”

He knows Johnny’s got a pair of his own, knows that Shepherd just wanted to get rid of them, but that doesn’t dampen his reaction to the small drives. Johnny’s staring at his hand like he’s holding a nuclear weapon, like his world ends with those harddrives.

When Ghost closes his fist over them again, Johnny lurches forward before stopping himself. Ghost tuts, then sits forward. “Now, I think we’ll go over the new rules. Since we’ll live together now.”

That’s what finally makes Johnny snap. A sound of pure rage tears from his throat as he dives for the cabinet above the sink. In the second that he’s not facing Ghost head on, Simon quickly follows and presses himself along Johnny’s back.

He cocks the gun, holding the barrel of it to Johnny’s temple. It’s not loaded, of course, but the boy in front of him has no way of knowing that.

“Looking for this?” Ghost says in his unblocked ear, nose running along the shell of it. “Tsk, very naughty, Johnny,” he teases.

Johnny’s shivery in front of him, his system no doubt overloaded with all sorts of feelings. Ghost pushes his nose just behind Johnny’s ear, inhaling deeply and sighing at the pure scent of him. He can’t wait until he knows each and every thought passing through that brain, can’t wait until he can predict Johnny better than Johnny can predict himself. He’s already halfway there.

“Are you gonna be good, or am I gonna have to shoot you?” He asks quietly.

“Don’t-” Johnny gasps when Ghost presses the gun a little harder, trying his best to move away from the pressure but pinned too tightly. “Don’t. Please.”

It’s the crack in his voice that makes Ghost soften, just the tiniest bit. 

“On your stomach, on the bed.”

He moves back just enough for Johnny to pull away, watching intently as he starts to pull away from the cabinet. 

Johnny’s moving slowly, one step only half the length it was before, but Ghost doesn’t rush him. He relishes in the sight of Johnny curled in on himself, afraid and obediant.

Then, without warning, Johnny whirls around and punches him square in the chest.

It’s the same damn move that got him the first time they met, and he’s just as unprepared for it this time. He only stumbles back a step or two, but for a man as highly trained as Johnny that’s more than enough room to do damage.

Before he can regain his balance, Johnny’s burying his shoulder into his chest and shoving him to the side. Ghost falls flat on his ass, stumbling out of the open door and the few rickety old steps into the dirt below. 

Johnny flies down after him, landing with his knees on either side of Ghost’s ribs and wrapping his hands around the larger man’s throat.

Ghost chokes when he squeezes, reaching up to try and yank Johnny’s hands off of him. But the younger man has adrenaline and fear on his side, and he hangs on like his life depends on it.

A moment later he leans back, still firmly choking Ghost but letting his eyes run over the man and the ground beside him. It takes a moment for Simon to realize what he’s looking for.

“Dropped… it…” he chokes out, his lips tilting up into the slightest of smirks despite his delicate situation. The gun had flown from his hand as soon as Johnny knocked him off his feet, but he can’t see around the other man to know if it had landed outside.

Johnny’s hands flex against his throat, strangling him with just enough strength that black spots begin to dance across his vision. Still, he’s hardly weakened, and he throws a rough punch at Johnny’s face with his quickly fading strength.

The boy dodges it, but just barely since Simon’s reach is longer than his. He can see that the other man is considering something, and his hands squeeze harder again as he leans closer to Ghost’s face.

Oh, he thinks a moment later. I see. Smart boy.

Ghost lets his hands smack at Johnny’s face and arms a few more times, then slowly pretends they’ve gone limp in the dirt next to him. A few seconds later, his eyes flutter shut.

For a long moment Johnny doesn’t remove his hands, and Ghost worries he’s miscalculated. But then there’s a relieved sigh above him, and the hands disappear. Had he any background other than his own, Ghost would have sucked in heaving breaths and given himself away.

As it is, he doesn’t move until he feels Johnny’s knees leave his ribs.

He’s up and behind the smaller man almost immediately. It takes a second to catch his balance, his brain still deprived of oxygen and only half-awake, but he’s got enough coordination to grab Johnny by the ankle before he can get fully inside the trailer.

Ghost laughs at the way Johnny shrieks in rage, free hand clawing at the dirt as he pulls himself forward and Johnny back. When he raises his eyes, he finds himself staring down the barrel of the gun.

His breathing is still harsh and uneven, and his grip on Johnny’s ankle is secure. He glares at the boy, not the gun, and growls, “Go ahead. Do it.”

Johnny’s hands are both on the gun, both shaking, and his eyes are wide with adrenlinea and fear. With only a moment’s hesitation, he pulls the trigger.

It clicks, empty.

Ghost gives himself just enough time to appreciate the shock in Johnny’s eyes before launching himself forward, forcing them both up a step and grabbing Johnny roughly by the jaw. With one hand on his ankle and the other on his face, Johnny’s tucked into a small ball beneath him.

“You want me dead, Johnny, is that it?” He growls, heaving hot breaths across the boy’s face. “Gonna shoot me then bury my body in this dump?”

Johnny’s expression of shock quickly twists to one of anger, and he spits into Ghost’s face. “Go to hell, ye bastard.”

Ghost bares his teeth, forcing himself even closer into the smaller man’s space. “You’ll pay for that.”

It’s all too easy to force Johnny up, to shift his hold from jaw to neck and to throw him inside the trailer. This time he makes sure the door is closed and locked, then turns back to his unruly pet.

He easily swipes the laptop away when Johnny tries to bash it over his head, storming towards the smaller man and grinning when the other man stumbles backward.

“Wait- don’t-” Johnny tries as he falls back on the bed, Ghost quickly following him. He drops the empty gun beside them, locking his hand back around the front of Johnny’s throat and holding him down on the bed.

“Wait, don’t,” he mocks, spitting on Johnny’s face. He laughs loudly at the way the younger man winces, eyes scrunching up at the action. “You know your beggin’ only makes me harder, baby, it’s like you want this.”

Johnny’s sneer is ugly, but his anger is beautiful as he glares up at Ghost. “I don’t want anything from you except your pain, bastard. I’ll fuckin’ kill you, first chance I get.”

“Which is why you’ll never get a chance,” Ghost taunts, leaning close enough that he can press their noses together. “You’re too fun for me to let go of you any time soon, Johnny, so fight all you want - it only makes your submission sweeter.”

He forces his lips to Johnny’s in a rough, but passionate kiss. The smaller man doesn’t reciprocate, but Ghost is perfectly content to nip and lick at his lips anyway. He’ll have the boy slobbering for it soon enough.

“On your stomach,” he says against Johnny’s mouth, moving his hand to the man’s shoulder to urge him over. 

“Riley,” Johnny gasps, trying to stay on his back. “Don’t.”

Ghost shoves him over anyway, pressing his face to the side of Johnny’s once he’s flipped and wrapping his arms around the man, relishing in their size difference. Even with Ghost’s workout regiment, he’s still so much smaller.

“Simon,” he says lowly. “You call me Simon. Or Ghost.”

It takes almost no effort to tug Johnny’s pants and boxers down. He kicks them both to the side, then pushes Johnny’s chest up and shirt off while he considers what the first color of panties he’ll put the man in will be.

He forces Johnny’s feet wide with his own, smirking when he whines at the stretch. Then he grabs both of Johnny’s hands where they’re clawing at his sheets and folds his arms behind his back, locking one hand around both forearms so he can hold the boy down.

“Let’s see you now,” he mutters, leaning back and using his free hand to spread Johnny’s ass cheeks. “Oh baby, you’re so soaked for me.” He makes his voice intentionally mocking, feels himself twitch in his pants when Johnny shivers at the sound of it.

He quickly yanks down his own pants and boxers, letting them fall to his ankles carelessly. He indulges in a few strokes to get himself to full hardness, then passes his thumb over Johnny’s cocklet a few times.

The younger man jolts at the sensation, head thrashing against the sheets as his back arches further into the touch. Ghost can’t quite make out what he’s trying to say, but he gives him a rewarding rub anyway.

“Did well gettin’ yourself read for me,” he praises, dragging his hand up to prod at the tight hole dripping slick. He carelessly tucks two fingers inside Johnny, only using them to pull out more slick and watch the way it coats his clit. “Too bad none of it’s gonna matter. Tsk, such a waste.”

Johnny raises his head enough to turn to the side and look at Ghost, confusion marring his pretty face. His eyes are glassy with tears, but none have fallen yet. Ghost knows that’ll change soon.

“What?” Johnny asks quietly, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

Ghost smiles, moving his two soaked fingers up a little further and tapping a few times at the tight hole he’s yet to use. “You were very bad, Johnny. Only good boys get their cunts used. Bad boys need to learn a lesson.”

Johnny whimpers, burying his face in the pillows again. When Ghost sticks the tip of one finger into the tight furl of his ass, he rockets up like he’s been shocked.

“L-lube!” He gasps, already writhing in place with just the smallest amount of penetration. “In-in the table.”

Ghost sighs, wiggling the tip of his finger inside of Johnny and smiling at the wince he gets in return. “No lube for you today, Johnny. Since you liked spit so much earlier, I figured we’d use that.”

He watches Johnny’s eyes go wide as he spits a large glob directly where his finger is, laughs when Johnny’s “Wait-” is choked off as he shoves his finger the rest of the way in.

He quickly begins thrusting the digit in and out, using his hold on Johnny’s arms to keep him pinned. He stretches the boy as much as he can with one finger, but quickly adds a second with just a bit more spit.

Johnny whines high and loud, like he’s in all sorts of pain, and Ghost moans, grinding himself against the boy’s thigh.

“That hurt, Johnny?” He asks, his cock throbbing. “Your little asshole sting?”

Johnny hisses through his teeth when Ghost folds his finger and tugs. “You know it does!”

Ghost laughs, pulling out just long enough to slap his cunt playfully. “Course. That’s the whole point.”

He drags his fingers through the slick, doing his boy the kindness of bringing some of it back up to his ass to give him a little more lubricant.

Three fingers, it turns out, makes Johnny squeal like he’s being shot. His feet stamp against the ground angrily, and he throws his head back and forth like he’s looking for something to bite. Ghost can’t help but chuckle at how stupid he looks, only encouraging him by spreading his fingers.

“You feeling a little dry, Johnny?” He asks, pulling out to stroke over the hole and see how it’s stretching so far. He’s moving faster than he should, so it only just barely winks at him, but there’s little resistance when he slips all three fingers back in.

“Yes,” Johnny hisses through visibly gritted teeth, cheek laid flat on the bed so he can glare balefully at Ghost.

“Hmm. Want some more of my spit?”

Johnny splutters, trying to rear up again before Ghost muscles him back down. “You fuckin’- I need lube, Riley!”

Ghost frowns down at Johnny’s sex, fucking him roughly a few times in retalliation. “That’s not what you call me, stupid boy.”

Johnny hisses angrily, stomping once. “I’m not fuckin’ stupid!”

Ghost rumbles a disagreeing noise, tugging Johnny’s arms a little tighter. “Then how come you’re so bad with simple instructions? Can’t mind your manners, can’t call me the right name… can’t even ask for what you need from me properly.”

“I don’t need you to spit on me!”

Ghost sighs, like he’s dealing with a misbehaving puppy instead of an enraged man. “I won’t give you what you don’t ask for,” he warns, pulling his fingers out. “But if you’ve got all the lube you think you need…”

He lines the tip of his uncut cock up with the small, understretched hole. Johnny’s complaints rocket in volume when he realizes what Ghost’s doing, and the larger man slips his cock a little lower and rocks his hips back and forth to soak himself in Johnny’s slick while he listens to the younger man beg.

“Wait, wait-! No, no, no, nonono, please, please, don’t! Ghost!” He cries, head thrown back and thrashing as wildly as he can. Ghost’s cock only drips more precum as he’s forced to wrestle Johnny down, leaning most of his body weight onto the man beneath him. “Ghost, Ghost, Simon, please, please don’t fuck me there! Not- not without-!”

He breaks off into only pants, so Ghost grinds a little harder and leans close to spit, “Without what?”

“Spit! Without spit, please, please spit on me again Ghost!” Johnny cries, face streaked with tears and eyes screwed shut. 

Ghost hums as he shifts a bit, making sure that his cockhead drags from asshole to clit to fully soak himself and Johnny. “That what you want? Want me to spit on you, sweet boy?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Johnny sobs, blinking slowly up at him.

Ghost smiles, leans close, and spits directly onto the apple of Johnny’s cheek. The flabbergasted expression on his boy’s face is more than worth any fighting he needed to get here.

“There you go,” he purrs, grinding himself a little more slowly and making sure the head of his cock rubs against Johnny’s clit. “What do we say?”

“You- you said you’d… on-on my…”

Ghost tilts his head, his smile sharp. “I said I’d give you my spit, baby, nobody said anything about where. Why don’t you stick your pretty tongue out and taste it for me.”

Johnny doesn’t listen, but Ghost lets it slide because his little confused expression is making him ache.

“But I’m too dry,” he says quietly, staring up at Ghost. “I’m gonna- I’ll tear.”

Ghost coos, pulling back just enough to line his cockhead up properly with Johnny’s ass. “Not if you relax for me.”

Then, he pushes himself in. 

He knows he’s risking Johnny injury, so he dips his free hand down to rub his clit so he stays as relaxed as possible. As much as Ghost loves seeing Johnny cry, he knows he’ll be able to fuck him more if the boy isn’t torn.

He cries big, fat tears as Ghost pushes himself into the hilt. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give Johnny time to panic and tighten up, only forces himself in and keeps his fingers moving quickly on the clit beneath him.

“There we go,” he breathes once his hips are flush with Johnny’s ass. His eyes flutter shut, rolling his head back on his neck and luxuriating the tight heat of his boy beneath him. “Feel so good for me, Johnny.”

The man beneath him is only animal noises and sniffles. Ghost can tell that he wants to tense, that he wants to fight, but the mix of Simon’s hand on his cock and his instincts keep him loose enough that he doesn’t tear.

“Look’it that,” Ghost whispers, dragging his finger from clit to hole and tracing around the stretched rim of it. “And you thought you couldn’t take it. Like I said - stupid thing.”

Johnny’s keen is high-pitched and wounded as Ghost slowly pulls out, watching the place where they meet intently.

When he slams back inside, Johnny screams.

His pace doesn’t let up from there. Once he’s assured Johnny won’t tear, he fucks him with all the strength and roughness he always does. He pays almost no mind to Johnny’s pleasure, using him only as a fleshlight for him to get off in.

“So fucking tight,” he hisses, using his hold on Johnny’s arms to balance himself and really start to fuck him. “Made for my goddamn cock, shaped to my will exactly, I’m never fucking letting you go.”

He’s panting over Johnny, back hunched as he works himself up. “Never felt anything like this. No man, no woman, just you, Johnny. My perfect, tight boy, huh? Cunt or ass, you squeeze me like you never want me to fuckin’ go. Proper fuckin’ cocksleeve.”

Johnny’s sounds are caught between pleasure and pain as Ghost slowly wears him down, tears streaming down his face but hips twisting back for more. 

“Too bad you were bad, huh?” Ghost pants, putting his mouth right beside Johnny’s ear. “Coulda been fucking you in that pretty cunt. Could’ve stuffed you full of my cum, given you a nice little creampie. You want that? You want me stuffed deep in your guts?”

Johnny’s nowhere near coherent enough to speak, but Ghost is more than capable of talking for the both of them. “Coulda bred you, baby. Coulda given you a pretty little thing in your tummy, coulda filled you up and made you mine. Might still, if you can learn to be good.”

Ghost’s hips begin to work erratically as he reaches the edge, uncaring for any sort of rhythm or consistent pace as he focuses purely on getting himself off.

When he finally does reach his climax, he swears he sees stars.

It takes a long time for his cock to soften fully, for Johnny’s ass to stop milking more and more come out of him. He doesn’t mind, of course, only half-heartedly humps Johnny to finish himself off.

As he begins to relax on top of Johnny, the younger man only tenses.

“Ghost,” he whines, wriggly desperately. “Ghost, c’mon, it’s my turn.”

Simon huffs a laugh against Johnny’s nape, free hand coming up to run through his mohawk. “Your turn? For what?”

Johnny whines liked a kicked dog. “To come. C’mon, I’m so close, just need a little-”

Ghost quickly pulls out and angles his hips away, so Johnny’s cunt is left with only the cold air. The little brat cries like he’s been shot, hips working fruitlessly against the bed.

“Told you you’ve been bad,” Ghost mutters, quickly crashing from his high but keeping Johnny firmly stuck beneath him. “You don’t get to come tonight.”

Johnny wails, and Ghost can’t help but laugh as he finally stands.

Johnny’s all squirming and begging beneath him as he digs through his pants pockets.

“No, no, Ghost, please, I need to come! I can’t- I can’t do this, c’mon, I’m so close, you got me so close, you have to-! Please, Simon, come on!”

“Settle,” Ghost rumbles, giving his forearms a tight squeeze as he pulls the handcuffs out of his pocket. It had been all too easy to take them from the staff room before leaving, and he sets them on the bed as he finally lets go of Johnny’s wrists.

Like he suspected, he’s too desperate to do much but beg. The most he manages is flipping onto his back, but Ghost is lifting him by the hips and forcing him further up the bed before he can try anything.

“I can’t settle, Ghost, you’re fuckin’ blue ballin’ me!”

Ghost gives him a sardonic look as he knee-walks further up the bed, grabbing Johnny’s left wrist in one hand and using the other to quickly handcuff him to the small curtain rod above his bed. “What balls? All you’ve got is a cunt.”

Johnny’s too distracted by his new predicament to care about Ghost’s comment, staring at his hand with wide eyes. Simon steps back just long enough to fully strip, throw the gun to the ground, and toss a blanket onto the bed.

“What-? Where the hell did you get these?!” Johnny spits, yanking his wrist on instinct and curling away from Simon.

“Where the hell do you think?” Simon grouses, throwing himself to the bed next to Johnny and tugging the other man down. “Get down here. We’re sleeping now.”

“We’re-?” Johnny jerks in Simon’s hold, but he can’t do more than squirm. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Uncuff me! Now!”

“No,” Ghost grunts, pulling Johnny even tighter to him and squeezing to quiet him down. “You’re not runnin’ away from me. Sleep.”

“How the hell can you expect me to sleep with one goddamn hand in the air?!”

Ghost groans, quickly covering Johnny’s mouth with one hand. “Quiet. Sleep.”

He doesn’t even flinch when he feels Johnny bite his hand. He does consider investing in some smaller ball gags for Johnny to wear to bed, if he’s going to kick up such a fuss every night.

After a few minutes of stillness and silence, Johnny relaxes in Ghost’s arms. He knows it’s purely instinctual, knows that he’ll probably wake up to Johnny’s best murder attempt in the morning, but for now he feels content.

He’s confident he’ll be able to break Johnny down into the perfect little pet. He’ll never get rid of all the boy’s fire - that’s half his fun - but he’ll make sure Johnny understands the proper power hierarchy, understands when to fight and when to listen.

For now, he falls asleep with his boy safe and secure in his arms.

[draculasfavoritewife]

Idle Hands

Summary: Whenever Tony forgets to go to bed, it's always been up to you to bring him back to your side.

Pairing: Tony Stark x fem!Reader

Warnings: Heavy on the softness compared to most of my other stuff; I was in a very sentimental (read: sad and touch-starved) mood back when I wrote this lol. Tony Stark is a TEASE both in word and deed -- I have said it is canon therefore it is now. The feral way he makes me feel should be illegal. Also you can read the...implications of my vague wordings towards the end as tame or as smutty as you wish ;)

I feel the need to mention here that Tony Stark has been my most favorite comic book character since I was but a mere 11 years old. He holds the distinction of being my longest-running fictional crush/object of my obsessions and I love him so deeply and for so many little reasons that I could write a PhD dissertation on him. So please enjoy my little love letter to the man that has held my heart for nearly a decade and a half <3

It's that point of the night where you really can't decide if it should be counted as ungodly late or ungodly early. 4:00 am does tend to scramble the thoughts.

You've been drifting in and out of an uneasy sleep for what feels like forever, and as you roll away from the digital clock display on the wall with an annoyed sigh, you suddenly see why.

The other side of the bed is utterly untouched.

He hasn't been here with you at all.

You sit up, trying to remember if he had plans tonight. The calendar app on your phone has no record of a gala, awards ceremony, board meeting, or anything else that might have taken up his time.

Which means he's probably down in the lab again.

Briefly, you contemplate trying to call him, but you know from experience that he probably isn't taking calls right now, even if FRIDAY tried to put one through for you. He's in that zone that only designing and building can put him in, the one mindset where his too-busy brain is crystal clear and the world at last makes sense to him.

So you pull yourself out of bed, throw one of his old sweatshirts on over your cami and pajama shorts (he keeps the AC cranked all the way whenever it's warm outside) and pad out of the bedroom and on your way downstairs.

His lab is awe-inspiring as always, no matter how many times you see it. The purring thrum of the generators and the comforting pulse of dimmed lights, the heavy, electric feeling of the air itself -- he's described his workspace to you as having a life of its own before, and you can understand so well why time escapes him down here.

You just hope he's not using it to escape from other things as well.

He's deeply absorbed in his work on something at a station opposite the door, and your heart skips a beat even as you smile fondly at the familiar sight. Clad in sweatpants and a black tank through which you can just barely see the blue glow of his arc reactor, he looks all at once more human than usual and like some being from another world entirely.

It's the Stark curse, he told you once, and you recall the wry slant of his lips as he said so. To know you're a god trapped in a mortal body, an infinite mind with a finite number of years to use it. It's the reason behind all his greatest triumphs -- and all his harshest falls from grace.

And somehow, you were lucky enough to be the one he fell in love with.

It still feels like a dream sometimes.

Realizing he isn't going to look up on his own anytime soon, you stifle a yawn and knock sharply on the doorframe.

"Tony?"

He stiffens as if he's been shocked (always a possibility, when he's rewiring) and shoves the safety glasses high up on his forehead. "That would be yours truly. Everything alright?"

With a laugh, you cross the room, warmth rising in your chest as he immediately sets down his tools and steps out from behind the table to meet you. And damn, he always looks good -- he is Tony Stark, after all -- but there's always something about him when his hair gets all unruly and he has THAT look of intense concentration on his face that really drives home to you all over again just how gorgeous he is.

You cuddle up to him, and he kisses the top of your head.

"Asked you a question, Honey."

"Do you know what time it is, Tony?"

There's a prolonged moment of answering silence as he glances up at one of his nearby monitors. "Crap. Well, why are you up?"

Pulling back slightly so you can tease the protective eyewear off his head, you give him a look. "Can't sleep."

An eyebrow tilts; he's playing dumb.

"And that's my problem why?"

"Jerk." You take your time playing with his glossy dark hair, neatening it back up before raking your fingers through it to mess it up again. "Maybe because you love me...?"

"Oh, so you're down here looking for sympathy, got it." He smirks at you, a well-practiced and infuriatingly handsome look. "In that case, sorry about your insomnia, Beautiful. There's melatonin in the drug cabinet upstairs." He snares the safety glasses from your fingers once more and makes as if to return to his work. "Sympathetic enough for you?"

You wrap your arms around his waist from behind, stopping him from going any further, though the smug son of a bitch starts tinkering with his new designs again even through your persistent clinging. It mesmerizes you for a couple seconds, always has, the way his hands work with such delicate precision and dexterity, and you can't help selfishly wishing he would turn them towards other, less...mechanical endeavors at this moment.

He probably would, in all honesty, but Tony Stark is the king of making you work for it. Philanthropic he may be, but some things even you have to earn from him when he's feeling particularly devilish.

"I don't want your pity," you hum, pressing a sleepy kiss to his shoulder. "I was lonely without you."

"Perfectly understandable. I've been told by many that I'm scintillating company. You can, by all means, stay and watch me work, you know. Feeds my humble ego."

You roll your eyes and impatiently reach up under his shirt, feeling his muscles tense at the unexpected coldness of your hands.

That finally gets his attention and makes him turn around. Before you can even fully comprehend it, he's swept his work out of the way and lifted you up onto the worktable instead, restless fingers drawing intricate patterns on your inner thighs, though his eyes never leave yours, crystalline blue pinning your attention to his amused face instead of his very distracting hands.

"That," he grins, "was adorable. Sleepy version of you is so much more demanding. Maybe I should stay down here too long more often."

You try to frown at him, though his sparkling gaze and mischievous touch make that impossible. "How dare you."

"I do a lot of dumb things to see where they get me. You know that." He nods at the thick gray sweatshirt still keeping you warm. "Why don't you take that off for me, Sweetness. You make me cold, I get to return the favor."

Unable to come up with something snarky to say in return with the way his hands are making you shiver now, you do as he suggests with little resistance, the exposed skin of your arms and chest prickling at the much cooler air.

He leans in to tenderly kiss your neck, and your breath leaves in a sigh at the way his facial hair scratches at your throat. He's always been a helluva kisser and the meticulously maintained goatee is just the icing on the cake. Making out on his worktable was not the original plan when you first came down here, but even by his own admission Tony's best plans are usually improvised.

And you're certainly not complaining.

"What did you want from me again?" he murmurs, close to your ear.

The absolute audacity of him.

"Mmmmmmm," seems to be about all you can manage at the moment, and you know very well what's coming next.

He pulls you closer to him, the movements of his fingers turning agonizingly slow and prompting a slight gasp from you.

The smile that gradually spreads its way across his mouth is absolutely wicked.

"What was that, Sweetheart? I didn't quite catch it."

You try to reclaim some semblance of coherence, but his firm hold on you prevents you from escaping his delightfully systematic torture, so instead you grab on to his well-defined shoulders, your forehead resting against his chest. The mechanically-stabilized beat of his heart echoing beneath his skin a brief reminder that he's alive, despite everything he's been through, and he is yours. There's no one else on his mind, no one else he's let this far into his messy and often painful world.

The world may know him as Iron Man, the one who has saved them more times than they could ever count, but how many people really know the Tony that you know?

That same Tony who now raises one hand to tip your head back, whose sharp eyes soften with affection for the slightest of seconds before the anticipated words fall from his tongue, the words he knows will always unravel you.

"You just have to tell me what you want. Come on, Princess. Use your words."

You shudder and lean in to beg for another kiss.

"You, Tony. Always you. Please."

He kisses you back with renewed intensity, leaving you completely breathless.

"There we go...was that so hard?"

[mononijikayu]

demonyo — ryomen sukuna.

For the first time in a long time, you see beyond Sukuna’s stoic exterior, glimpsing the depth of his emotions beneath the surface. It's a revelation that leaves you reeling, realizing just how much he has come to rely on your presence in his life, whether he admits it or not.

GENRE: Heian Era to Shibuya Arc, 2018;

WARNING/s: Alternate Universe ─ Canon Divergence, Romance, Emotional Hurt, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Heavy Pining, Domesticity, Friends to Lovers, Character Death, Grief, Miscarriage, Mention of Depression, Mention of Mourning, Depiction of Physical Touch, Depiction of Mental Anguish, Depiction of Violence, Depiction of Harm, Depiction of Blood and Wounds, Depiction of Miscarriage, Depiction of Death, Depiction of Harm, Pseudo-Incest, Adoptive Cousins, Portrayal of Misogynist And Degrading Acts and Language, Smut, Detailed Depiction of Sex, Depiction of Sexual Foreplay, Sexual Penetration, Consensual Sex;

masterlist

ashes of love

song: demonyo by juan karlos

ko-fi

note: i already pre-planned the writing for this for a while now, but i think the story is about to get worse now that its near its end. three more chapters before my favorite chapter in the series and probably the shortest??? we shall see. anyway, i love you!!! enjoy the story as always~

MUCH HAD CHANGED FOR YOU. But you doubt that you would dare change anything about it. As you released the sigh you held for what seemed like years, your purple eyes seemed to shake as you tried to make sense of your reality. It had been more than ten years since you last saw Sukuna. Ten years since he had left you and your world. Ten years more as mother, wife, clan leader, consort — all the things you had not expected all those years ago. All these things you still were, all these things you suffer to be. 

You looked to your side and felt your eyes narrow in a somber manner. You hadn’t left the lord’s chambers in days now. You just could not bear to do it. Not when Suzaku needed you. You sit in your husband’s chambers for days on end, tending to him as he lay there in painful agony. These days, you think your husband is waiting for fall. He stares from his futon with those weary eyes, hoping for that day where the leaves would be dying, just like himself. 

You look at him worriedly as you squeezed the water out of the cloth. You turned to him and started to gently press the wet cloth to his body and slowly clean his body, for he is now unable to move. He had good days, where he could sit up well enough to read or eat. But most times, you read reports to him. And your son’s progress in training. 

It was hard to see how constrained Suzaku was by the pain and anguish. Most days, it was easier not to look at him. Most days, you wished you could take a moment to process everything. But you knew you couldn’t. You could not leave him to the whims of his pain. Even when he asks you to, you could not. He had been nothing but good to you. He had given you peace, with everything he had done in nearly twenty years of marriage. And even this you were was not enough to repay all he had done for you and your children.

These past ten years have been relatively peaceful for all of you. The war weighed down to skirmishes and occasional battles. The Zenin were not to end their wanting and the Kamo were not one to forget a slight. The Fujiwara had moved from both the Ryomen lands and their own, having been incinerated as a clan by Sukuna. 

As you continue to tend to him, memories of Sukuna flood your mind. The last time you saw him, his presence had been a dark shadow over your life. Yet, in the decade that followed, you had found moments of light amidst the darkness. You had rebuilt, you had nurtured, and you had loved fiercely. Hida is back in Ryomen control and over this decade, your leadership has grown the Ryomen back to its power.  

But you were not a fool to forget that you now share it in a quiet agreement with Sukuna. These ten years, he had built a shrine on the opposite side of Hida, and people had flocked to him by the hundreds. He had the name after all and that gives him legitimacy across Hida. You knew very well that his Jujutsu….does not compare to anyone. And more than ever, growing powerful every single day. 

The agreement with Sukuna, though uneasy, had held. You did not seek him out, and neither did he. You knew better than that as much as he did. He had killed more sorcerers than you could count. And your world of sorcerers would not take to that kindly. They never have. Deviants are shunned. They are nothing but the fallen ones and these days, they whisper about him being the ‘disgraced one’. The remaining Ryomen elders had been glad to get rid of him, yapping about how this saves the clan from ruin. You did not agree with them. Even after all this time. But you knew that you can never take back what was lost. You were no fool. And neither was he.

When you were not in Hida, you were in Gojo lands. Ghosts haunted you, but at the very least you could distract yourself from them. With your husband’s efforts, there could only be peace. And with that peace, your children have grown up well and happy, surrounded by a bubble that keeps them from the worldly affairs that they need not worry over. 

Your eldest, Seiryuu, was now four and ten, nearly a man to all that were around him. He had grown taller than ever before. You were certain that he would grow and tower over those around him. His powers had grown over the years, more than ever this past year — obsessively.  Masako had grown finely, with her dark hair echoing like shining charcoal. In only ten summers, she had grown to be quite a beautiful tender young girl. You kept her away from Jujutsu a little while longer, but her cursed technique had started to manifest little by little.

You gently wipe your husband’s brow with a damp cloth, feeling the heat of his fever through the fabric.This was a regular occurrence, one that had only increased his pain and discomfort. At first, you were concerned and you still were — but even with your efforts, his fevers would not leave him. This had become a new part of his life.  

Suzaku’s once-strong hands now lie limply at his sides, the strength that had carried you through so many battles now drained away. The same hands that had held yours in your hardest times, the hands that had held yours at each birth, the hands that had carried your children. His warm eyes, though clouded with pain, still hold a flicker of the determination that once defined him. You could see his will to live. He does not want to leave yet, you knew. Not until Seiryuu was old enough. 

You could only sigh as you returned the damp cloth back into the basin. From the outside, life continues. The sounds of children playing in the distance, the chatter of villagers going about their day, and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze all seem to mock the stillness within these walls. Your husband had lived for those echoes of life when he himself could not get up. He says that it reminds him of when your children were younger. It reminds him to live, to know life. 

"Rest some more, husband." you whisper, your voice cracking with emotion. "You must gather your strength. The children miss you.”

You could feel his eyes, though dimming, reflect a deep sense of peace in your words. It has been hard to keep the children away from your husband. You did not want them to see him in pain and he knows that too well too. But the mention of them makes him want to live. It always does. You know he worries about leaving you and the children behind, but you have always been strong. Stronger than you ever thought possible.

As your husband’s breathing grows more labored, you feel the weight of all you have endured together. The battles fought, the tears shed, and the laughter shared. The peace you had enjoyed with your children together. You take a hold of his sullen hands and squeeze it, your tears mingling with the sweat on his skin. You want him to know that you will be here.

"We will be alright, Suzaku." you say, more to reassure yourself than him. "We will be alright."

In the silence that follows, you exchange looks. His ever tender, as it always was.The world outside may continue to change, but within these chambers, time stands still, suspended in what time remains for the two of you. You find solace in this moment. Or at least you can try. The worries of the wily world keep knocking you down to only worry.

But you could not help but worry. You were a mother more than anything else. Your husband’s condition loomed over all of you. And the possibility that he could die any time soon, when your son was still but a boy and without the expertise of his father worried you. And your husband knew that. Much of the consequences of his death would be a blow to you and your children.

A year ago, your perfectly healthy husband had brought your son with him to quell a cursed spirit that was plaguing the region. Your son was excited to be able to put his skills to the test, to make his father proud. Seiryuu was proficient in using his powers enough that he was able to fight against the cursed spirit’s lackeys. However, being overtaken by a flood of other curses, he did not notice his father’s need for aid. And your husband took the curse's full impact. From that moment on, your husband started to decline. Seiryuu had felt nothing but guilt over the matter. 

The people of the clan started to whisper about his ability to be the heir. If Seiryuu could not protect his father, how can he protect the clan? The boy with the six-eyes and he could not do his duty, his most important filial duty. Those are their whispers. And it breaks your heart over and over. But your son was only a fourteen-year-old boy. He was still a boy—even if the world saw him as a grown man. And you feared for him.

Factions have started to appear in the Gojo clan, including that of Suzaku’s own cousin. If the time came to fight for your son’s rights, you knew that you could be overwhelmed. The voice in your head started to tempt you to use your powers, whispering that you could defeat all the clans by yourself, with destruction. But you vowed to never do that. You didn’t seek the destruction of all, but peace. The voice laughs at you, telling you that this train of thought will get you killed. You do not reply.

As you tend to your husband, you glance at Seiryuu, standing at the doorway, his shoulders slumped. You could see the boy in him so clearly. He felt that heavy weight of guilt and worry. He looks so much older than his years, burdened by the weight of expectations and the whispers of the clan. 

He lowers the tight cloak of those bandages around his eyes. His cerulean eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see the frightened child he truly is, hidden behind the mask of forced maturity. Your husband looks at you and nods at you. You narrow your eyes at him, as though telling him that you could not leave you. But he squeezes your hand. You purse your lips and nod at him. You turned to a servant and smiled at them. 

Closing the door behind you, you take your son in your arms to embrace him. He slowly succumbs to your touch. He felt so small in your arms, as though he was not the one who had shaken the world with his birth. He was just a boy, a boy who had so much of his youth ahead of him. And he is robbed of it by the world which does not understand. You kiss the top of his head with tender abandon. 

"Mother….I…." he says softly, his voice trembling. "Is Father... will he...?"

You place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Your father is strong, my son. He fights for us, for you. We must be strong for him too.”

Seiryuu nods, but you can see the doubt in his cerulean blue eyes. He blames himself for his father's condition, and the clan's murmurs only deepen his self-reproach. He does not feel confident in himself, to truly be worthy of his father’s seat. To be worthy of even being his son. You could see it in his eyes. And you hate it. You wish you could shield him from their harsh judgments, but you know that he must face this trial as you have faced your own.

"Remember, my dearest boy," you say, your voice firm but gentle, "you are not alone. We stand together, as a family, as a clan. You will grow stronger, and you will prove them wrong. You are already worthy. Your father has told you that.”

“But mother, I….”

You shake your head at him, looking him in his eyes. You smile. “You are our pride, my son. Always remember that.”

He nods again, more resolute this time, but the worry does not leave his eyes. “I will remember.”

“You must go and get some rest.” You whisper, squeezing his shoulder. “I heard you were up all night trying to master your reversal technique.”

“I am fine, mother.” He insists as he tries to wipe your worry with his smile. “Not entirely exhausted as of yet. I plan to go and continue—”

“I don’t want you to cause yourself hurt.” You interject to him. “I want my son well. Please rest for a while at least. Soothe your mother.”

He purses his lips, almost like a child. He slowly nods. “Alright, mother.”

When he left, you return to your husband’s chambers. You turn back to your husband, sitting down beside him and wiping his brow once more. The voice in your head grows louder, taunting you with promises of power and control. It tells you that with your abilities, you could crush all opposition, and ensure Seiryuu's place as heir beyond any doubt.

But you push the voice away, focusing on your husband and your son. You have vowed to seek peace, not destruction. Even if it means facing overwhelming odds, even if it means standing against the very whispers that threaten your family, you will not falter. You will not give in.

The voice laughs again, mocking your resolve. "This train of thought will get you killed, little fool." it hisses.

You do not reply. Instead, you draw strength from the loyalty you have for your husband and the love you have for your children, from the hope that despite the challenges, you can still find a path to peace. You will stand firm, for them, for the future you believe in. And no matter what the voice says, you will not be swayed.

Suzaku has fallen asleep again.

You place the wet towel away.

You sit patiently, as you always do.

And you pray to the gods for your relief.

IT WAS A NICE DAY OUT. It was one of his good days, and he had been cheerful. Suzaku had enough strength to sit up and talk. When he sat up, he looked at you and smiled. He pointed towards the outside. You worried about the strain on his body. But you could not deny him such pleasure, to explore your home. You hooked his arm around your own as you helped him up. When servants passed you, you refused their help. You could help your husband there. Little by little, you helped him take a walk towards the vast expanse of the koi gardens. 

As the two of you strolled among the greenery around the serene waters and the swimming koi, the sun was shining. The sun was beaming like never before. It was a good day, you think. It was not too cold, just warm enough. And your husband was in good spirits. For the first time in a while, you could see life in his eyes once again. The smile on your lips tethered tenderly. 

Gojo Suzaku sits down on one of the edges of the benches. You gently hold him as you too lower your body and sit beside him. You sighed as you let the wind kiss your face with great abandon. When you turn to your side, your husband smiles at you too. But the look in his eyes  tells you that he can feel it—that he would soon die. You want to tell him not to leave you. You want to tell him that he would live a long life. But you know that he would only laugh.

Your husband then coughs, the sound harsh and grating. You look at him with concern, and he smiles at you, a weary but warm expression. He waves you off as your eyes dilate in panic. He squeezes your hand and tries to settle you back into a calm. 

“You worry too much.” His first words echoed in your head. It had been so long since you had heard his words be this clear. 

“I can’t help it.” You admitted to him as you let out a sigh. “I am your wife. And a wife worries about her husband.”

"Don't worry, my love," he says softly, his voice still tinged with humor despite the gravity of his words. “I’m not feeling too bad.”

“Your coughing is still painful to you.”

“Not too bad.” He says, downplaying it with a smile. “It’s not bad.”

You glare at him. “You are a pathetic liar.”

He laughs in reply. “It is not a lie. It’s not bad, because you’re here.”

You couldn’t help but shrug at him. “Nearly twenty years of marriage and you have not changed.”

He smiles. "Has it been that long?”

You hummed to him as the wind brushed against you. “Hm, it has been.”

“It feels only like yesterday when we got married.”

You smiled at him. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Silence enveloped the two of you, a heavy shroud that settled between you like an unspoken barrier. Suzaku's gaze lingered on the horizon, his eyes following the graceful flight of a heron as it soared effortlessly through the sky. The sight seemed to capture his attention, drawing him into a moment of quiet contemplation amidst the turmoil of emotions swirling around you both. The heron wanted to be free. 

In the stillness of the night, the sound of the heron's wings slicing through the air echoed softly, a soothing melody that provided a brief respite from the weight of the world pressing down upon your shoulders. It was as if time itself had paused, allowing you to simply be, to exist in this moment of serene tranquility.

“I've had a good life, thanks to you."

You shake your head, refusing to accept his resignation. "Husband, please. You mustn't talk like that. You'll be with us for many more years."

He gently squeezes your hand, his touch as familiar and comforting as ever. "We both know that's not true. But it's alright. I’ve come to terms with it."

A lump forms in your throat as you watch him, the man who has been your rock and your partner through so much. "I can't lose you, not yet." you whisper, your voice trembling.

"I know you have worries about the growing divide in the Gojo clan," he says, his voice softer now, "and I worry that, unlike all these years before, I cannot be as strong as before to protect the three of you from it.”

"You have done more than enough, Suzaku." you reply, your voice firm with conviction. "You always have."

He pauses, looking out over the garden, his eyes distant with memories. "Do you remember, years ago, when I told you that Sukuna and I spoke?”

You nod, the memory bringing a bittersweet smile to your lips. “You never told me what you talked about.”

“Sukuna told me to be more honest about my feelings for you.” He reveals, watching your face contort into a puddle of emotions. “And all this time, I should have been more honest with you.”

Suzaku reaches out, brushing your loose hair back behind your ear. "I love you, wife." he says, his voice trembling with emotion. "More than the world knows, more than you do."

"I love you too. I hope you know." you respond, your voice breaking.

He smiles, shaking his head gently. "I know you will never love me as much as you do Sukuna. But I’m more than satisfied with the wonderful life we have had together. Nearly twenty years of a happy marriage—I am thankful for all of it. Because you took care of me, accepted me for what I was. You loved a man whole, made more of his life than anything else.”

You lean into his touch, feeling the warmth of his hand against your cheek. Your eyes narrow, their color deepening to an even more intense shade of purple. "You’ve given me a life I never thought possible, Suzaku. I’ve cherished every moment."

He closes his eyes, savoring the closeness, the tranquility of the garden surrounding you. "Promise me you'll continue to be strong, for Seiryuu, for our family."

"I promise," you whisper, your voice thick with unshed tears.

Suzaku opens his eyes, looking at you with a depth of love and understanding that transcends words. "Thank you," he murmurs. "For everything."

You stay like that for a while, leaning into each other, drawing strength from the bond you share. The koi swim lazily in the pond, their movements a gentle reminder of the cycles of life and the beauty that can be found even in moments of sadness. You sighed as you leaned against him. He smiles as he lays a kiss upon your cheek.

As the sun begins to set, casting a golden glow over the garden, you and Suzaku stay that way for as long as you could. The two of you just enjoy the silence that remains in the veil of the golden light. You were certain that the weight of the future looms large, but in this moment, you find solace seeing him like this. You banish the world from everything else. You just sit there with him. You take in what remains before it’s too late. And with that, you fell asleep beside him.

The next day, it was quite a surprise to you. Gojo Suzaku was still as he was yesterday, his frailty more pronounced in the morning light. You sit up beside him, holding his hand as he gathers the strength to speak. You wanted to say something, but you could see it, how he wanted to say something to you. And so you sat there, silent and let him gather his strength to say it all out loud.

“You must leave for Hida tomorrow.”

Your face scrunches into confusion. “Why must we leave for Hida–”

“Live on after me, wife.” Suzaku says softly, his voice filled with a quiet determination. “Take care of the children, and most of all, find happiness when I am gone.”

Tears well up in your eyes, but you manage to keep your voice steady. “Don’t talk like that, Suzaku. You'll still be with us for a long time yet.”

He shakes his head gently, a sad smile on his lips. “I’ve made plans to ensure that Seiryuu will be my successor. No one will challenge him.”

“It’s not as easy as you say, husband.” you reply, your concern evident. “The clan is divided. There are factions, and Seiryuu is still so young.”

“It will be easy.” Suzaku insists, squeezing your hand with the little strength he has left. “Leave it all to me. I’ve arranged everything.”

“Suzaku, please—”

"You don’t have to worry," he says with a reassuring smile. "I’ve taken care of everything."

"But whatever you’re planning, I cannot accept it." you reply, your voice firm. "We have to do it together. As we always have.”

Suzaku sighs and places a gentle kiss upon your head. "This is my last wish, you know." he says softly. "Please, let me do as I please."

Your lips fall into a line, wanting to argue, but the earnestness in his eyes stops you. You nod reluctantly, tears threatening to spill. "If that is what you wish." you whisper. "I’ll let you."

He smiles, relief washing over his features. "Thank you. I will miss you, but it’s time for you to return to Hida with the children. I don’t want you to see me die."

The finality of his words stabs at your heart, but you know he’s trying to spare you pain. "You will not die, I refuse to believe it….I…”

"Please, wife. Do as I instruct." he interrupts gently. "Do it for the peace of my soul.”

You nod again, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. He pulls you into a tender embrace, holding you close as if to memorize the feel of you one last time. You stayed like that until you could not anymore. The rest of the day, you had ordered quietly for your son and daughter to be informed and your entire household to be readied for the journey. 

You were not ready to lose your husband, not like this. You watched him laugh all night, telling little quips and singing little tunes despite his coughing fits. He wrote many things that night, but he refused to let you see them. Yet you were certain that he was preparing himself for what may come. You bit your lower lip, as you struggled to put away those tears from pouring through your eyes. You stilled yourself as you retired to your chambers. You cry and cry until there is nothing left to let out from your purple eyes.

When you emerged in the morning, your servants had tried to not let their faces notice your devastation. You dressed in your finest junnihitoe for him. You put all of your most beautiful suberakashi rested upon the foundation of your long dark hair. Your hiōgi was the most elegant of cypress wood, painted in beautiful herons flying over the river. Your husband had made it for you all those years ago, and it was your favorite. You wanted to look good for him. You wanted to make sure that he knows that he is leaving you well. That you would be fine, even if you would not truly be. You wanted him to know.

He was assisted by his servant in standing as he met you and the children out in the courtyard. Seiryuu stood tall and proud before his father. He was dressed in his finest kariginu bearing the Gojo clan symbols against the heron of the Ryomen. His little sister stood beside him, diligently in her silk kimono covered with herons standing above the Gojo family crest. 

The two of them lowered their heads as you passed them by. They seemed somber, but confident. But you had expected that. They loved their father the most in the world. And to leave him in such a state, they did not like it. But they adore you just as much and they will not let you go on your own. Not when you needed them too. You let go of your servant’s hand as you smiled at your husband.

The children and you say your goodbyes to Suzaku as you all prepare to return to Hida. You watch your husband bid farewell to your son and daughter for what you know will be the last time. He embraces them gently, whispering words of love and encouragement, his eyes filled with a deep, unspoken sorrow. Seiryuu tries to be strong, but you can see the tears he struggles to hold back. Your daughter clings to Suzaku, her small frame shaking with sobs.

When it is your turn, you take his hands in yours and press a kiss to them, feeling the warmth and strength that has always comforted you. Your eyes start to water, and you look up at him, seeing your own pain reflected in his eyes. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that escapes.

“You must take care to be well on your travels.” Your husband says to you tenderly, more than he had ever before. You smiled at him. “And make sure you will wear the furs I have arranged for you.”

“I will not forget them.” You promised him. You took his hand on your own. “You must take care of yourself. I won’t be able to do it for you.”

He laughs as he lifts your hand into his and places a kiss upon its palm. “I will always strive to please my wife. I shall.”

Your heart broke at those words. Because you knew that he would not. Not when his plan was in full motion. “I shall see you when I return.”

Gojo Suzaku sends a tight smile at you, one that was all too knowing. “I shall see you too.”

You look towards his hand, eyeing the matching rings upon both your fingers. You lifted your eyes, feeling them water. He squeezes your hand even tighter, as though to tell you to not spill your tears here. Not at this moment. Not in your farewell. You took a deep breath, as though to gather yourself fully.

"I love you, wife. Truly." he whispers, his voice breaking. "More than words can say."

“I love you, with everything in me." you manage to choke out, your tears flowing freely now.

"Be safe," he whispers, his voice breaking. 

He leans in and kisses your cheek one last time, a tender and lingering farewell. You can feel the finality of his touch, the weight of all the unspoken words between you. "I wish you a good journey," he says softly, "and that you will be happy."

You slowly nodded at him, your lip pursing into a tight line. “I will.”

He steps back, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and determination.  "I shall see you next, wife. One day.”

With a heavy heart, you turn to leave, guiding Masako towards her own litter. Suzaku got atop his horse and turned to look at his father and bowed his head. Masako sat upon her litter and glanced towards her father and waved. As you step inside your own litter, you glance back at Suzaku one last time. He stands there, a faint smile on his lips, his eyes following you with a mixture of love and resignation.

The door of the litter closes, and as it starts to move, the reality of the situation crashes down upon you. The tears you had held back now flow freely, and you start to sob, your shoulders shaking with the force of your grief. The children, sensing your pain, huddle close to you, their own tears mingling with yours.

This was the last time you would see your husband. The man who had been your rock, your partner, your love. As the litter carries you away from him, you clutch at the memories of your time together, vowing to honor his last wishes. The journey ahead seems daunting, but you draw strength from the love you shared, knowing that it will guide you through the days to come.

Suzaku’s smile was his last gift to you.

It will always linger in your mind for years.

When you step into Hida, you fall to your knees. 

The years of peace had disappeared in an instant.

YOU WERE EXHAUSTED. You have not slept day after day. You could not, when there is so much more to be done. Your rest can wait. It had been more than two months now since the Gojo clan was plunged into civil war. You have been raising forces in Hida, ones that you promised to lead personally. For now, your trusted Mikoto Masaomi leads the vanguard that thrusts against possible attacks. 

It still has not hit you that you are now a widow. The news reaches you swiftly upon your arrival in Hida: The departed lord of the Gojo, Gojo Suzaku had used all his remaining strength to kill his cousins, their entire bloodline, and all those who conspired against him. The rest of those bloody traitors had gone and ran amok, but soon enough, your husband had died alone. You were certain that his body had been exhausted from all of it. And in the aftermath, Those treacherous letchers had usurped everything. Those loyal to your son had begun gathering in Hida, planning an offense to reclaim what rightfully belonged to Seiryuu.

The young rightful lord of the Gojo. young Gojo Seiryuu had been most inconsolable about his father's death. He refused to see anyone, even you. Guilt and grief gnawed at the young Gojo lordling, and he withdrew further into himself with each passing day. Masako, your daughter, continued to ask for her father, crying bitter tears when you had no answer for her. 

You grieved your husband as much as you could, but there was no time to rest. There was no space for you to show your grief too clearly. Not when there is a need to move. If you do not move further, you could lose everything. And even more, your children could lose their lives. You would not let that happen. Not over your dead body. 

As you sit in your chambers, the weight of your responsibilities pressing heavily on your shoulders. You write over and over to all your allies, trying to gather their support. The Inumaki as always were loyal to the Gojo and the Ryomen. You were seeking out the Azuma, another vassal of the Gojo, but there has yet to be a response. You could feel your head hurt. The voices in your head whispering the thoughts of a devil. But you would not succumb. You cannot. But then, a knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts. You turn your head, seeing long dark hair peer through the doors.

“Mother?” Masako’s small voice trembles from the other side.

“Daughter, it is late.” You whisper at her.

“I…I cannot sleep.” Her little voice admits to you tenderly.

You sighed and smiled at her. “Come in, little one.”

The door opens, and Masako enters, her eyes red and swollen from crying. She clutches a worn, little doll to her chest, her small frame trembling. You brush away the stray hairs that mar her eyes. She sniffs as she looks at you and you could not help but let out a small smile at her. She’s been having nightmares, you remembered. It hasn’t been easy on her lately, more so with those nightmares come in reminders of her own late father.

“Mother, where is father?” she asks again, her voice breaking. “Why won’t he come back?”

You swallow hard, forcing back your own tears as you hold her closer to you. “Masako, my darling girl, your father has gone to a place where we cannot follow. But he is watching over us, always.”

“But I miss him, mother.” she sobs, burying her face in your shoulder.

“I miss him too,” you whisper, holding her close. “But we must be strong. For him, and for Seiryuu.”

As you comfort Masako, a servant appears at the door, bowing respectfully. “My lady, the loyalists have gathered in the main hall. They await your instructions.”

You nod, rising to your feet and taking Masako’s hand. “Thank you. I will be there shortly.”

The servant leaves, and you turn to Masako, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “Stay here, my love. I must attend to something important.”

Masako nods reluctantly, her grip tightening on her toy. “Please come back soon, Mother.”

“I will,” you promise, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

In the main hall, the loyalists look to you with a mixture of hope and desperation. They need guidance, a plan, a way to reclaim their home and secure Seiryuu’s rightful place as the head of the Gojo clan.

“Thank you all for gathering here,” you begin, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. “We face a grave threat, but we are not without hope. My husband, lord Gojo Suzaku, sacrificed everything to protect this clan. Now, it is our duty to honor his legacy and fight for Seiryuu.”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the room, the tension palpable. The loyalists, a mix of seasoned warriors and young recruits, shift uneasily on their feet. Their faces are a tapestry of determination, fear, and hope. Some exchange glances, silently communicating their resolve and apprehensions. The flickering torchlight casts dancing shadows on the walls, adding to the somber atmosphere.

As you scan the room, you see familiar faces—men and women who have stood by your side through countless battles and hardships. Their loyalty is unwavering, but the uncertainty of the future weighs heavily on everyone. The silence that follows is thick, filled with unspoken fears and the gravity of the situation.

An older warrior, his hair streaked with silver, steps forward. His eyes are steely with conviction, but there is a softness in his gaze as he looks at you. "My lady, we have followed Suzaku through many trials. We will follow you and Seiryuu now. We are ready to fight for what is rightfully ours."

His words act as a catalyst, breaking the tension. Others nod, some murmuring agreements more audibly now. The room seems to draw in a collective breath, preparing for the arduous journey ahead.

“We must be strategic,” you continue. “We will reclaim what is ours, but we must do so wisely. Seiryuu will need our strength, our unity. Together, we can overcome this.”

One of the loyalists steps forward, his expression resolute. “We are ready to follow you, my lady. What are your orders?”

You take a deep breath, drawing on the strength Suzaku always saw in you. “Prepare our defenses and gather intelligence on the usurpers’ movements. We will strike when the time is right. For now, we must fortify Hida and protect Seiryuu.”

As plans are set into motion, you feel a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. You must be hopeful. You felt your age echo throughout your bones. It is as if you had aged a thousand years. As you walked towards the outer halls, you crossed your arms. You should have brought a padded haori. But you wanted to have this moment. You wanted to enjoy your lonesomeness. You wanted to have a moment to accept the reality you now faced.

You could feel the chilly air stab through your skin like sharp needles. There is no time to rest, but in the quiet moments, you allow yourself to grieve. In this moment, you let yourself take a deep breath and still yourself to your reality.  to remember the love and strength that Suzaku gave you. And with each passing day, you steel yourself for the battles ahead, determined to see Seiryuu restored to his rightful place. Looking at the far away moon, you pray that you could be successful. That you will succeed in honoring Suzaku’s memory and fight for your family’s future.

You blink as you still yourself. You were wondering if you were seeing an illusion. You stayed as you were as he observed you with those dark red irises. You purse your lips as your arms crossed against your chest, as though to shield yourself. You knew he would never hurt you. But you wanted to protect yourself. You were the most vulnerable you ever were. Before you could catch yourself, you found him standing before you. You lift your head to observe him. He has not changed. He still looked as he did years ago. He has not aged. 

He does not say a word to you as he sheds his haori off his prodigious body. Slowly, his four arms placed it around your shoulders. It was too big on you, you think. It covered almost all of you as a whole. But it was warm, as he always was. Sukuna watched as your hands dragged it closer to you, as though to secure it in place. 

“You’re foolish to not bring a cover for yourself.” Those were the first words he had for you in these many years. 

"Why have you come?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Even a runaway scum can come home when he misses home." he replies, his tone carrying a hint of melancholy. “Is that wrong?”

"You were never a runaway scum." you say softly, looking into his eyes. "Just a lost soul."

A pregnant silence passes between you, filled with unspoken emotions and shared history. The air is thick with memories, both bitter and sweet, that hang heavily in the space between you. The faint sound of the night—a distant owl hooting, the rustle of leaves in the wind—provides a stark contrast to the silent conversation unfolding in your hearts.

Your eyes meet, and in that moment, so much is conveyed without a single word. The pain of separation, the lingering affection, the regrets of things left unsaid. Sukuna's gaze is intense, yet there's a softness there that you've rarely seen. It's as if he's laying bare his soul, exposing the vulnerability he keeps so well hidden.

You remember the first time you met, the awkward yet exhilarating beginnings of your friendship. The battles fought side by side, the nights spent in quiet companionship, the stolen glances and fleeting touches that spoke of something deeper. All these memories swirl around you, forming an invisible bond that time and distance have never truly severed.

Sukuna shifts slightly, his posture stiff yet somehow more open than before. You can almost hear the words he's not saying, the apologies, the admissions of guilt and longing. Your own heart aches with the weight of unexpressed feelings. You want to tell him everything—how you missed him, how his absence left a void that nothing else could fill, how despite everything, you never stopped caring.

But the silence holds you captive, a barrier of fear and uncertainty. What if these words break the fragile peace between you? What if they open old wounds that have barely begun to heal?

Sukuna breaks the silence, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "I'm sorry for your loss."

You turn to face him fully, searching his face. "Do you mean it?"

He sighs, his gaze unwavering. "I did not like your husband, but he took care of you. And for me, that was the most important thing."

Your eyes fill with fresh tears at his words, the sincerity in them undeniable. "Thank you." you say, your voice trembling. "It means a lot to hear you say that."

Silence passes between the two of you. Tears pass through your eyes in an outburst, almost like the heightening tides of the seas in a storm. 

Sukuna reaches out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on your shoulder. "You've been through so much. More than anyone should have to endure."

"You've been gone for so long," you say, your voice cracking. "And now everything is falling apart. The clan is in chaos, Seiryuu is lost in his grief, and Masako cries every night for her father."

You sigh wearily, taking a good look at Sukuna for the first time in a long time. He stands there, the same as you remember, unchanged by time. Despite everything, you manage a small smile. "You haven’t aged a day since I last saw you."

He tilts his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Jujutsu does have quite a lot of mysteries."

"You look as you did years ago," he says, his voice softer than usual.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Come up with a better lie, Sukuna. I continue to age, but you do not. You’ll outlive me soon enough."

For the first time, you see a flicker of emotion in Sukuna’s eyes. His usual mask of indifference slips, revealing a vulnerability you had never witnessed before. The realization that perhaps he does not think you could ever truly die and leave his life completely lingers in the air, unspoken but palpable.

It hurts him to see you like this. But he cannot let you know that. You would carry that weight with you and he does not want that. As he looked at you, he could see the life that he lives for. The moonlight shone all around you with a beautiful gleam. Nearly twenty years had passed and in all those years that grew within your human flesh, there will always be the soul he had fallen in love with. You were easily recognizable. And he would always choose you over the world.

There were times where Sukuna thought that you were just a pure creature who fell from the heavens and was lost in hell with him. Even after all this time, even as you had grown older, you still wanted to meet him. You would never shun him. Even if he chooses to stay away, you would let him return here, in this paradise. 

Even if he tried to lead you out of it, you would never leave. The demon he is, he could never escape his love for you either. as much as you would never escape your love for him. Over and over, he believes it as much as you probably do. He will always fall in love with you over and over again.

He looks away for a moment, composing himself. "You are stronger than you think, you know." he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reach out and place a hand on his arm, a small smile on your lips. "And you, Sukuna, are not as invincible as you believe."

He meets your gaze again, the intensity in his eyes softened by a hint of something deeper—regret, perhaps, or a fear of losing the one connection he has left.

"I’ve missed you." he admits, the words heavy with unspoken emotions.

"And I’ve missed you." you reply, your voice tender.

You smile at him like you used to, a gesture both familiar and foreign after all this time. It's a smile tinged with a hint of nostalgia, a softening of the edges that have formed between you over the years of separation. In that moment, the weight of the past seems to lift, leaving only the echo of what once was.

Your smile is a silent invitation, a bridge across the chasm that has grown between you. It speaks of shared memories, of laughter and camaraderie, of moments that time has not yet erased. It's a reminder of the connection you once shared, a glimmer of hope that perhaps it's not too late to reclaim what was lost.

For Sukuna, your smile is like a balm to his wounded soul. It's been so long since he's seen that smile directed at him, so long since he's felt the warmth of your affection. It stirs something deep within him, a longing that he thought he had buried long ago. In that fleeting moment, he allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could go back to how they used to be.

As he returns your smile, there's a softness in his eyes, a vulnerability that he rarely lets show. It's a silent admission of the myriad emotions swirling within him—regret, longing, hope. In that shared moment, you both let go of the barriers that have kept you apart, if only for a moment.

The world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you standing there, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight. It's a moment frozen in time, a brief respite from the chaos of your lives. And in that moment, as you smile at each other like you used to, you both know that no matter what the future holds, this connection between you will endure.

"You’ll outlive me soon enough," you say, the words laced with a hint of jest, but the weight of their truth hangs heavily on your heart. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you offer him a gentle smile, a feeble attempt to alleviate the tension that simmers between you. “Time touches everything, but you, it would seem.”

"Don't say that," he whispers, his voice barely audible but laced with a hint of desperation.

You pause, taken aback by the raw emotion in his tone. It's a rare moment of vulnerability from Sukuna, a crack in the facade he wears so meticulously. You meet his gaze, seeing something akin to fear flicker in his eyes—fear of losing you, fear of facing a future without your presence.

The contrast between your aging form and his eternal youth is a constant reminder of the passage of time, of the inevitability of mortality. It's a bitter truth that you both silently acknowledge, yet neither dares to confront head-on.

For the first time in a long time, you see beyond Sukuna’s stoic exterior, glimpsing the depth of his emotions beneath the surface. It's a revelation that leaves you reeling, realizing just how much he has come to rely on your presence in his life, whether he admits it or not.

Perhaps he has never truly considered the possibility of you leaving him, of your life coming to an end while his continues on unchanged. The thought is both comforting and terrifying, a reminder of the fragility of your mortal existence in contrast to his immortal nature.

As the weight of unspoken words hangs heavy in the air, you reach out, tentatively placing a hand on his arm. It's a silent gesture of reassurance, a reminder that even as time marches on and lives change, your connection remains unbroken.

“You will live a long life, I am certain.”

He looks at you, something unreadable in his gaze. "I don’t care about that. I care that you are with me now.”

"For as long as I can be, do not be greedy." you reply softly, as though telling him off. "But someday, I won’t be."

His expression hardens slightly, a defense mechanism against the pain your words bring. "I won’t let that happen." he says, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it louder might make it true.

"You can’t stop time, Sukuna. Never." you say gently, turning to him with a small smile. 

"You were right," Sukuna finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper. But he wishes you weren’t. He wishes he could change the inevitable, alter the course of fate so that he could keep you with him always. In that moment, he longs to lock away the world, to shield you from the passage of time and the cruelty of mortality. Even after all this time, his desire to be with you burns as fiercely as ever. But deep down, he knows that you would never allow it.

Silence once more envelops your world, a heavy shroud that settles between you. It's a silence pregnant with unspoken truths and unfulfilled desires, a reminder of the chasm that separates your two worlds. Despite the ache in his heart, Sukuna knows that he cannot defy the laws of nature, cannot change the fundamental truths that govern your existence.

And so, he remains silent, his thoughts a tumultuous whirlwind of longing and resignation. He knows that even as he yearns to keep you by his side, to hold onto you with a desperation born of centuries of solitude, he must accept that some things are beyond his control. Your mortality is one such thing, a barrier that he cannot hope to overcome no matter how much he wishes otherwise.

In that moment, as you stand together beneath the moonlit sky in silence, Sukuna realizes that his love for you is both a blessing and a curse. He knows that one day, it will make him feel worse. More so when you are gone. It would fill him with a warmth and a joy that he has not known all his life, yet it also brings him anguish and a despair he had known all his life — threatening to consume him whole. 

Sukuna's gaze doesn't waver, his determination unwavering. "I may not be under your command anymore," he replies, his voice low and steady, "but that doesn't mean I can't help you."

You pause, considering his words carefully. Despite the years that have passed and the distance that now separates you, Sukuna's offer of assistance stirs something within you—a flicker of hope in the darkness of uncertainty. It was tempting. But you know you cannot. He does not belong to you anymore.

"I appreciate the offer, Sukuna," you say, your voice tinged with gratitude, "but this is something I must face on my own."

He steps closer, his expression unwavering. “Even if you say that, I can never change when it comes to you. I only ever think about you. And any threat to you—”

A sad smile touches your lips as you interject. “Sukuna, you must free yourself from me before it’s too late. I’m a lost cause, a mortal with fleeting time. Don’t saddle yourself with someone like me.”

Sukuna's expression softens, a hint of sadness flickering in his eyes. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the air for a moment before gently cupping your cheek. "You're not a lost cause," he murmurs, his voice tender yet tinged with resignation. "And I could never think of you as such."

Your heart aches at his words, knowing the truth behind them. Despite the depth of his affection, despite the bond that still ties you together, you cannot deny the vast differences between you—differences that cannot be bridged no matter how much you may wish otherwise.

Taking his hands in yours, you look at him earnestly. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

His grip tightens slightly, a rare show of vulnerability. “I’ll always be with you, on earth and in hell. Anywhere. I shall follow you.”

You turn to him as you blinked. You felt your lips tremble into a laugh. “You will truly be cursed to love me, Sukuna.”

“I know.” He responds nonchalantly, with a shrug. 

“And you do not care?”

“Not in the slightest.”

You squeeze his hands for a moment, as though conveying a message that words cannot express. His gaze meets yours, and you hold his four eyes with your gleaming purple haze. “In my next life, I pray that we never meet again, so that you are free of me.”

For a moment, he stands silent, the weight of your words sinking in. The air around you is heavy with the gravity of your parting, the unspoken farewell hanging between you like a veil of sorrow. Sukuna's expression is unreadable, a mixture of longing and resignation playing across his features.

As the silence stretches on, you can feel the weight of his unspoken response, a silent acknowledgment of your wishes. It's a bittersweet moment, filled with the pain of goodbye and the hope of new beginnings.

Finally, Sukuna breaks the silence, his voice barely a whisper. "That is a cruel wish."

Your heart aches at his response, knowing the truth behind his words. It's a cruel wish indeed, to ask for separation from someone you care for so deeply. Yet, it's a sacrifice you feel compelled to make, for his sake as much as your own.

Sukuna's voice, barely above a whisper, echoes through the quiet space between you. It's laced with a hint of sadness, a silent acknowledgment of the pain of your parting. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between honoring your wishes and the longing to remain by your side.

For a moment, you're lost in the weight of his gaze, the depth of emotion swirling within his four eyes. It's a silent plea, a desperate desire to defy fate and rewrite the script of destiny. But deep down, you know that some things are beyond your control, beyond even the power of a curse.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, your voice barely audible above the gentle rustle of the night breeze. "But it's the only way."

With those words hanging in the air like a lament, you turn away, the ache of goodbye settling heavy in your heart. As you walk away, the weight of Sukuna's unspoken response lingers in the air like a haunting melody, a reminder of the bond that will forever tie you together, no matter how far apart you may be.

Your heart aches at his response, knowing the truth behind his words. It's a cruel wish indeed, to ask for separation from someone you care for so deeply. Yet, it's a sacrifice you feel compelled to make, for his sake as much as your own.

Sukuna's voice, barely above a whisper, echoes through the quiet space between you. It's laced with a hint of sadness, a silent acknowledgment of the pain of your parting. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between honoring your wishes and the longing to remain by your side.

For a moment, you're lost in the weight of his gaze, the depth of emotion swirling within his four eyes. It's a silent plea, a desperate desire to defy fate and rewrite the script of destiny. But deep down, you know that some things are beyond your control, beyond even the power of a curse.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, your voice barely audible above the gentle rustle of the night breeze. "But it's the only way."

With those words hanging in the air like a lament, you removed his haori and returned it to him. He moves, as though to argue but you turn away without another word.The ache of goodbye settling heavy in your heart. As you walk away, the weight of Ryomen Sukuna's unspoken response lingers in the air like a haunting melody, a reminder of the bond that will forever tie you together, no matter how far apart you may be.

Soon enough the winter snows fall.

And you will be cold all over again.

You think of his warmth all over again.

And hope it keeps your sorrows away.

facts about the chapter

i always knew that gojo suzaku was going to die, i just didn't know when he would die. i only thought about killing him when i nded up building the story to this point.

hiromi (you)'s purple eyes continue to turn brighter because the closer you are to the gods, the more the power is there. the more they're brighter. it's why its lilac unlike genmei (also you)'s darker shades.

also, the more you're closer to the gods, the more you are less likely to be bullied by the voices in your head. hiromi only has brief moments where she gets bullied off by the gods because they actually like her unlike genmei.

hiromi is at this point 41 - 42 years old, sukuna is 39 - 40 years old. he stopped aging years ago because he uses his cursed technique to slow down his ageing.

at this point in heian era, seiryuu as a fourteen year old would be considered of age but hiromi (you) really don't think that he's old enough to know what to do and hiromi (you) wants to shield him from all of it.

seiryuu practiced a lot of the reversal techniques that satoru learned years ago. just like satoru, he thinks that the biggest pain in the ass is learn it. seiryuu figured out red and blue later in life and theorized that it's possible to merge them.

hiromi (you)'s current heir to the ryomen name is masako. masako has been under instruction to learn how to be the future ryomen clan leader but she's not interested in it.

the azuma clan is a oc clan under the gojo my friend has made and we sometimes talk about it in like roleplays and i wanted to give a nod to my friend cause their ocs are really cool

it's a common theme between the people who inherit hiromi (you)'s cursed technique to die young because of how much toll it takes on the body to exist. the one in between hiromi and genmei died when she was sixteen, trying to kill off a zenin clan head who tried to subjugate mahoraga.

the upcoming chapter happens in between one or two years, the next chapter is a hundred years later and the last happens in shibuya. its gonna spoil stuff for us and them, but well after this, i have to write us and them.

upcoming chapter also reveals hiromi (you) and genmei (you)'s domain expansion and why both hold back using it in the first place.

next chapter, the family tree of the ryomen will be revealed. this includes all of hiromi's children and other family members. i've kept it from people long enough, so im excited for that too.

[atropxs]

Spill your Guts; Eddie Munson

summary: eddie gets you high for the first time.

warnings: drugs (weed), vomiting but not described in detail, innocent!cheerleader!fem!reader, mutual pining, nonsexual nudity, no y/n.

word count: 5.2k

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Ten minutes had passed since the fifth period bell rang and you were starting to think Eddie Munson had stood you up. Maybe he just decided that the straight-laced cheerleader wasn't worth his weed or his time. Hell, if you were in his position you might have just done the same. He was probably hiding out somewhere, just to see how long you'd stand alone in the dank basement hallway waiting for him.

Just as you were about to tuck your tail and head into fourth period English, mind racing to come up with various excuses to explain your whereabouts, Eddie's tall frame turned the corner. He smiled as he saw you waiting then wordlessly called you over, nodding his head to a door at the end of the hall.

"You're late." You huffed under your breath as you walked his way.

He held up his lunch box, dangling it in front of you; taunting you with it. "Actually, I'm right on time."

"Hold still," He ordered as you stopped beside of him. You barely had time to process what he was asking before he was plucking the hair pin out of your ponytail.

"Hey," You reached your hand up to stop him but he swatted you away. You jutted your bottom lip out in frustration, the act of which caught Eddie's attention in his peripheral vision.

He looked down at you, tilting his head in a doglike manner as he tried to level with you. "The door's locked, do you have any better ideas?"

You shook your head, causing a stray piece of hair—the same one you were holding in place with the bobby pin—to fall onto your forehead.

"That's what I thought. Now, put the pout away." The words were almost rendered unintelligible thanks to the bobby pin being bent between his teeth.

"But my hair—"

"Looks fine. Always does." He paused between sentences, as if he were unsure if he should add the last part or not, but then decided to go for it anyway.

"You really think so?" You asked, looking up at him with wide eyes. He smiled at you cheekily, the bobby pin still dangling from between his front teeth.

If you weren't mistaken you saw a faint blush coat Eddie's cheeks before his got on his knees to pick the lock. You flinched at the clinging sound his rings made as they came into contact with the door knob, already he was being too heedless for your liking. However, much to your dismay, the noise was quickly dwarfed by Eddie's metal lunchbox hitting the ground and echoing down the hallway.

"Eddie," you hissed a warning, looking up and down the hallway for any signs of life, despite the hall going unused for nearly a decade. "You're being too loud, someone is going to hear you."

"They're going to hear us. We're in this together now, princess."

Before you could make any rebuttal Eddie had the door opened and was up from his knees with his hand on the small of your back, ushering you inside. You blew the stray piece of hair out of your face—and really wished you had your now mangled bobby pin back—before you walked in, Eddie on your heels.

The room was bigger than you thought it would be, however most of the space was taken up by what looked to be an old water heater. The robust smell of mildew and mothballs tickled your nose. Mops, brooms, buckets, and various cleaners were scattered on shelves. As Eddie closed the door behind you everything around you went dark, all for the sliver of florescent light under the door cast from the hall. You felt around for the cord hanging from the light on the ceiling.

Eddie put his hand on yours, halting your actions. "It doesn't work. Hasn't since the sixties." He said it like it was obvious information.

"Eddie," you almost whimpered, uneasy from the dark. "How are we supposed to see?"

"Aww, is the little cheerleader scared of the dark?" Eddie playfully nudged you in the ribs. "Or maybe she's scared of the things that could be hiding in the dark." He walked his fingers up your spine in a spiderlike manner.

"I am not." You scowled as squirmed away from his touch.

"Liar." You heard him chuckle, followed by the sound of his backpack unzipping. You watched his figure in the dark as he pulled a flashlight from his bag and set it in the middle of the floor. The light cast strange shadows around the walls of the room.

"I need your jacket," He spoke, taking off his own jean jacket and stuffing it in the crack between the door and the floor.

"But it's cold in here," You complained.

"We have to seal the door so the smoke doesn't get out, otherwise we're sure to get caught. So, unless you have any other clothes you want to take off, I need your jacket."

"Why don't you take your clothes off?" You retaliated before you could think through what you were saying. You could feel your cheeks turning a bright crimson as the gravity of your words set in. Suddenly, you were less afraid of the darkness and infinitely more thankful for it. Eddie opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly cocky, but you held your hand up and cut him off.

"Never mind, just take it." You slid the kelly green letterman jacket from your shoulders and threw it to him. You purposely made a show of wrapping your arms around yourself as you watched the last of the hall light be snuffed out.

"Come over here," Eddie paid no attention to your dramatics as he led you the corner farthest from the door. He plopped himself next to the water heater and patted the spot next to him. There was just enough room for the both of you, had either of you been any bigger neither of you would've fit.

Your right side pressed harshly against Eddie's left. You could feel his bicep flush against your arm. The room was suddenly a whole lot warmer—from the water heater or from your collective body heat, you didn't know. You let out a small awkward giggle as your elbows knocked together while you soothed down the skirt of your cheer uniform.

"You don't have to do this, y'know. I won't say anything if you back out." You were sure Eddie meant the words to be comforting, but to you they just confirmed that Eddie thought the same thing everyone else did about you: you were too much of a good girl to actually go through with something like skipping class and doing drugs.

"If I didn't want to do it, I wouldn't've came." The words came out a bit harsher than you had intended them to. You felt Eddie's arms shift against yours as he put his hands up in mock surrender. He said nothing but his breathing picked up a little, you only noticed it because it was now the same labored intensity as your own.

His chest brushed your legs as he reached for the lunchbox and handed you the flashlight. You shined the light on the rust red pail as he clicked it open. Your eyes rested on the contraband sitting in front of you; various amounts of cannabis sat precariously organized in tiny plastic Ziplocks. Eddie began to dig through them before plucking out a small cigarette-like roll. He held it up for you to see.

"This is a joint," He explained, going slow so that he could be sure you were comprehending.

"Obviously," you rolled your eyes at him, you may not have smoked one but you had at least seen a joint before.

"Okay, miss know-it-all," he laughed away your attitude as he reached between you and grabbed your hand, you tensed as his skin made contact with your own to gently place the joint in your palm. You held it between your pointer and middle finger, the same way you'd seen people hold cigarettes in the movies. Eddie really laughed this time as he plucked the roll from your fingers and replaced it between your thumb and forefinger then molded your hand so that you were holding onto it tightly with your remanding three fingers in the air. "I guess just knowing what a joint is is the extent of your knowledge?"

"Fuck off," You mumbled cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

"You don't have to know everything all of the time. I don't expect you to know anything about this." He pilfered through his lunchbox, presumably looking for a lighter.

"Why?" You hoped you didn't sound too much like you were interrogating him.

"Oh, c'mon. You're such a good girl." Those words from his mouth had more of an affect on you that you would have liked to admit. You clenched your thighs together and scooted closer to the wall, hoping to God Eddie didn't notice.

"I am not," You huffed hoping that the darkness concealed your smile. "If I was a good girl I wouldn't have even considered coming here."

"Why did you then?"

"Because you invited me." Playing dumb when the conversation turned to something you didn't like was a skill you'd mastered all too well. Besides, you were not about to spill your guts to Eddie Munson.

"But why did you come?" You were convinced Eddie could see right through you.

Because you invited me.

"Because I wanted to. Now, please hand me the lighter so we can get on with it."

Eddie dropped a silver Zippo lighter into your palm, the words Edward Munson engraved just below the lid.

"Thank you, Edward." You tried not to smile as you placed the joint between glossed lips and flipped the top of the lighter. With a manicured thumb you struck the wheel and waited for a spark but it remained unlit. You struck it again to no avail before shaking it closed.

"Munson," You said with the joint still between your lips. "Your lighter is dead."

Eddie took it from you and in one fluid motion he popped the lid open and produced a flame.

"Looks to me like she's still kickin'," He watched as you scrunched your brows in the dark, noting duly the way the flashlight tucked between your knees cast shadows in the contours of your face. With gentle hands he plucked the roll from your mouth and placed it in his own. "I want you to watch me first," Eddie spoke through pursed lips as he lit up the drug.

"Suck...Inhale...Hold...Release..." He narrated each step as he went, a small cloud of smoke escaped his lips each time he spoke. "Sound easy enough?"

You nodded as Eddie brought the joint to your lips, his hand millimetres away from your face. You sucked in the scent of him in along with the smoke, giving your first taste of the drug a peculiar Eddie-like quality. You were halfway convinced that you could feel the heat where his lips had been on the joint a moment before. You blew the smoke out quickly.

"If you want to get high you actually have to inhale," Eddie teased as he passed the joint to you. "Ah, ah, ah," he tsked, "Hold it how I taught you to." You readjusted your grip around the tight bundle, being careful to keep your fingers away from the burning end.

"Good girl," He praised then waited for you to refute him again. You didn't this time, instead you looked up at him and shyly fluttered your lashes.

Eddie smiled down at you and for the first time you allowed your gaze to linger on his face, mapping out the crinkles that surrounded the exterior of his dark eyes and the dimple sunk into his cheek.

The pounding in your chest increased as you placed the now lit bundle back between your lips. Suck. You did as Eddie had said said drawing in the smoke and letting it sit in your mouth.

"Inhale, now." Eddie reminded you. You did your best to try to swallow the smoke down but instead you put yourself into a coughing fit.

"Easy does it," Eddie gently pushed your head into his chest to muffle the sound. He rubbed your back consolingly as he shushed you, reminding you that you had to stay quiet before giving you the instruction to try again.

You repeated the first two steps again, this time succeeding in engulfing the smoke into your lungs. You held it there for a beat, noticing that Eddie had yet to take his hand off of you and that he was still rubbing small circles on your shoulder blade with his thumb. For a moment the sensation was all you could think about but Eddie's voice broke through the brain fog and reminded you to breathe. He took the joint from your hand as you exhaled.

"How long does it take?" You asked nervously, your knee bouncing in waiting.

"How long does it take to do what?" He was smiling like he knew exactly what, but still wanted to hear you say it.

"To kick in," You had to focus to keep your eyes on him especially when his hand was snaking down your side. You didn't even think that he realized that he was doing it. If he did, you hoped he didn't realize the affect it was having on you.

"Relax, hot stuff." He brought his hand over your thigh and rested it on your knee, applying the slightest bit of pressure to keep you from shaking, the cool metal of his rings caused you to shiver anyway. "Don't focus on what is going to happen, focus on letting it happen."

"Eddie," you tried not to whine, now was not the time to beat around the bush. "Please, just tell me."

"You'll feel it soon enough, doll. Until then you're just going to have to wait it out." He passed the joint back to you and watched in awe as you took another hit, when you tried to pass it back to him he held up his hand motioning for you to hit it again.

"Hitting it only once before passing is like wearing a neon sign saying you've never smoked before—"

"Well I haven't smoked before."

"—Hitting it twice is optimal, it's just enough to get a buzz without causing the person with you to loose theirs. Three times is babysitting, and you don't want to do that." Eddie explained as you exhaled for the second time.

Eddie could taste the remnants of sweet artificial strawberry lip gloss around the edge of the joint as he took his turn to hit. You watched him, trying to make note of everything that he did. His Adam's apple dipped down as he inhaled the smoke, stayed stagnant as he held it for 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, seconds, then bobbed back up as he exhaled through puckered lips. You wondered if you looked as nice as he did when you smoked.

"How will I know when it kicks in?" You asked in between your first and second hit.

"You'll know." His forefinger began to tap rhythmically on your knee, you were not in band but you could recognize 4/8 time.

"But how?" You passed it back to him barely able to focus on counting your hits because of the drumming of his guitar calloused fingers.

"You just will." He took the joint away from you. "Maybe you should wait a few minutes before you smoke anymore of this, we don't know how high your tolerance is."

"Eddieeee," You whined, making grabby-hands and causing him to hold it farther out of your reach.

"Just wait five minutes, then you can have it back." He said like it pained him to tell you no.

"But you're not taking a break."

"Because I know how much I can take, you on the other hand, princess, might over exert yourself." Eddie took a fourth hit and then a fifth, you watched him as you waited in anticipation for the drugs effects to kick in, jealous that you couldn't keep up with him.

"Babysitter," you mumbled, a tad bit more out loud than you'd meant to.

Eddie choked on the smoke as he playfully slapped your knee and broke out in laughter, you did too. You couldn't help yourself, the sound of his jubilation was just that contagious.

"I am not," Eddie laughed as he released a puff of smoke.

"You are so," You almost couldn't choke the words out for the way you were giggling, it seemed as though everything was way funnier now that the drug was in your system. "You're like the President of the Babysitters Club."

"I'm already the President of the Hellfire Club, and I can't be the President of two clubs, no one has time for that."

"Oh, how could I forget about the cult of virgins," you rolled your eyes as you released a guttural laugh.

Eddie slapped your arm playfully as he tried to force himself to stop laughing and feign sincerity. "We are not virgins."

You gave him a you-have-to-be-shitting-me look and he spoke again. "Fine, I'm not a virgin, the rest of the club's virginity is... undisclosed." You were both laughing so hard now either of you could barely speak.

"The leader of the cult of virgins isn't even a virgin. My life is a lie."

As Eddie took another hit you could tell just by looking at him he had some sort of burning question, but when he handed the joint back to you, you were so grateful to have the drug back in your possession that any thought of prying whatever he had to say out of him completely slipped your mind.

This time you didn't even have to think of each step that Eddie had told you as you smoked, you preformed the actions almost instinctively.

"How old were you when you first started smoking?" you asked innocently.

"Around fourteen if we're talking weed. Twelve if we're talking cigarettes. What about you?"

"This is my first time smoking anything."

"Not even cigs?" Eddie looked astounded.

"Not even cigs. My parents would flip their shit if they caught me smoking.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Eddie was chewing on his bottom lip. You couldn't stop staring, and you were beginning to think he was starting to notice. You handed the joint back to him.

"yea, because having strict parents is everyone's dream."

"I think it'd be nice to have someone care for you so much that they want to protect you like that. My parents didn't give a shit, and my uncle gave a few shits but maybe if he'd given a few more I wouldn't be here right now."

"My parents give entirely too many shits, and I'm here too."

"Because of me."

"Because I want to be."

Eddie took a deeper inhale this time, holding the smoke in his lungs for a longer time than you'd seen him yet. When he spoke his tone was different. Huskier. "You're a little spitfire, you know that?"

You gazed at him through the smokescreen, watching to see if he expected a response. "Only sometimes." You said finally.

"Do you think i'm a bad influence on you?"

"Yes." You said simply. Eddie smirked at you, bringing the joint up to your lips himself. "I have too many good influences, I'm in need of a bad one." You said softly as you exhaled.

The room was slowly beginning to spin. Maybe it was spinning this entire time and you just noticed it. You couldn't tell. The shadows on the wall became animated; the noises outside amplified. You were cold and too hot all at once. The lines separating Eddie's figure from the wall began to blur and you had the sudden thought that Eddie was going to fall through the wall at any moment. You grabbed hold his shirt collar and pulled him toward you.

"I'm having so much fun." He was so close now that you had no choice but to look into his eyes. Then you had another thought, "I want to kiss you."

You hadn't meant to say that aloud.

"I think you've smoked too much."

"I think so too." You laughed hard and loud. Eddie could get used to hearing that sound. "I still want to kiss you though."

"Shh," Eddie's hand clasped over your mouth suddenly, cutting off your laughter. The metal of his rings sinking into the plush flesh of your lips. You fell silent at once, as you did you could hear the faint sound of jingling keys crossing the door.

"I thought you said no one used this hallway." Fear was evident in your voice.

"They don't...usually." Eddie smiled at you cheekily as he pressed his hand further into your lips, as if that would stop you from asking anymore questions.

"What if someone comes in here?" You whispered through Eddie's hand.

"They won't," Eddie answered, somehow deciphering your mumbles.

"But what if they do?"

"Then you'll let me do the talking."

"But—"

"Shh, you're making yourself paranoid, dear. I've brought people in here loads of times and we haven't been caught yet."

"Oh." The admission hurt worse than you thought it should've. Your stomach turned and suddenly you weren't worried about whoever was outside anymore, instead your mind reeled with the images of him knocking knees in the janitors closet with another girl.

Eddie must have realized his mistake as he quickly blurted, "No, no, not like that—I mean..." But you didn't hear the rest of his explanation because you felt something lurch in your throat, and knew with a sudden sureness that you were about to spill your guts. This time, you meant it literally.

"Eddie..." You pushed his hand away from your mouth and tried to warn him of what was to come, but he just kept talking. You leaned over his lanky legs and felt around in the dark, just having time to grip onto what you hoped was a mop bucket and retched right in front of him

"Oh shit. Are you okay?" As soon as Eddie realized what was happening he gently grabbed the end of your ponytail, keeping it out of your face. Your answer came in the form of another wave of nausea.

"I'm sorry." Tears of discomfiture rolled down your face and you didn't know how to stop them. You tasted the drug in your mouth and throat and your stomach churned once more, this time it was out of substance to surge up.

"Hey, hey, it's alright." Eddie helped you sit up against the wall and handed you a bottle of water from his bag.

The water mingled with the tears that trickled down your chin as you drank. Your mind, still gone from the marijuana, barely registered Eddie softly grabbing your jaw and wiping your mouth with his thumb before disposing of the sick residue on a set of green and white microfiber towels you thought you recognized from the annual cheerleader car wash fundraiser. "It's my fault. I knew I should've made you stop earlier, you just looked so... Never mind."

You were too woozy to pry, but when you looked up at him with woozy eyes—You couldn't tell if your vision was blurry from tears or from the drug—He seemed sincere.

"It's not your fault," You murmured, embarrassment heating your cheeks as you became hyperaware of Eddie's hand still holding your chin and the way he seemed to be studying you with red-rimmed eyes. Your eyes darted to his lips, then to his lunchbox where the mostly smoked joint lay snuffed out on the lid. when had he done that? When you turned you attention back to him, his eyes were on your chest. Instinctively, your hand shot up covering your breast.

"I-I wasn't...It's just..You've, uh, got a little something," Eddie pointed to your chest, and as you dropped your hand you saw where a spot of sick stained your uniform.

"Shit," You huffed, holding back another wave of tears, "Great, now I've got to go around for three more periods with vomit on my top."

"I have an extra shirt in my bag if you want to borrow it." Eddie offered, already hopping up to dig around in his backpack for it. When his hand emerged he was holding a crumpled baseball tee, the picture of a smiling demon printed onto the fabric. "It's, um...," He smelled it and tried to hold back his reaction. "At least it doesn't have puke on it." He offered you his hand to help you up off the floor.

"Thanks." You smiled as he pulled you up, you couldn't help but to notice the way the veins in his arm tensed as he took on your weight. "Thanks for this too," You took the shirt from him eagerly, though it really did reek.

"It's no problem, really." Eddie's words were followed by an awkward silence, neither of you sure how to best approach the situation next.

"Are you going to just stand there and watch me change?" You asked him playfully, hoping the sarcasm masked the giddy nerves at the thought of him seeing your indecent exposure.

"Did you want me to?" Eddie responded with just as much sarcasm. He put his hands in his pockets and lightly whistled as he turned to face the opposite wall.

"Perv, you won't even kiss me and you think I'm going to let you see me naked."

"I don't fancy kissing the same lips I watched your lunch spill from five minutes ago." You could hear the smile in his voice. "What was it that they were serving today? Cheeseburgers?"

"Sloppy joe, actually." You retorted.

"Even worse."

"Whatever happened to 'In sickness and in health?'"

"I didn't know we we married."

"As if I would marry you."

"You'd kiss me though?"

"On second thought, you said you'd had countless girls in here, get one of them to kiss you."

"I said I had brought countless people here. Not girls."

"Touche." In the dark you fumbled around to find the zipper of your uniform, patting around with blind eyes attempting to yank it down. After three failed attempts you sighed, "Eddie, can you help me?" You heard him hum in the dark. "I think my zipper is stuck."

You heard his boots— Doc martens, he must have had to save up for a while to afford those—squeak on the floor as he turned to face you again. Wordlessly you held your hair away from your neck and lowered your head, giving him permission to partially unclothe you.

His left hand sat on your waist, the other at the base of your neck, slowly slipping the zipper down. You heard his breath hitch as the garment fell from your shoulders, the back of your torso now completely visible to him. He watched with eager eyes the movement of your shoulder blades in the dark as you let the top fall from your arms before throwing it on top of your backpack. The outline of your breasts cast in shadow from the flashlight which lay abandon on the floor. "I need you to help me put my—your—shirt on."

"Why can't you do it?" He asked, but he didn't sound like he minded fulfilling the request one bit.

"Because m'too dizzy."

As Eddie took a slow step toward you, you allowed yourself to fall into him, cheek pressed against his shoulder, bare breasts against his chest. If you listened closely you could swear you could hear the heavy beating of his heart. "M'tired and you're warm."

"You're a hot wreck," He shook his head full of frizzy hair. Slowly, he held your loose limbs skyward, slipping the shirt on over your head.

"Don't mess up my hair," you warned, not sounding nearly as tough as you meant to.

"Impossible." Eddie smoothed his shirt over your green skirt, the fabric loose and long on your frame, a stark change from your tight cheerleading uniform. He pretended to adjust the shirt in the back, but it was just an excuse to have his arms around you.

"I like this. I like you." The words came tumbling out, the drug alleviating all apprehension.

"You're high. You don't mean that." Eddie looked like those words hurt him to say. "Tell it to me when you're sober."

"I will."

With slow blinks you came to the realization that Eddie was waiting on you to move away first. with unsure movements you stretched your shoulders, reminding him of a baby bird just coming to the shocking realization that it has wings.

"Does it look okay?" you stepped back from him, motioning to your outfit.

Eddie's reply came out in a thousand stumbles and stutters, in awe at the sight of you, but eventually he managed to choke out a yes.

The taller man stepped toward you once more, putting a delicate hand on your cheek and shifting your gaze to him as he pulled a small bottle out of his pocket. He dropped the liquid into his own eyes first, and then angled the bottle over yours. "Don't blink."

"What do we need that for?" You squinted as the droplets made contact with your lenses.

"Takes away the red." Eddie replied simply before giving himself a few more drops. You gave him a look of confusion. "Weed widens the blood vessels in your eyes."

"Will they ever go back to normal?" Your voice was full of concern.

"Of course, honey. Y'know, I think this might be the only subject that I know more than you in," Eddie laughed as he knelt down and began to pack his things back into his backpack.

"I could tutor you sometime, y'know, in exchange for this," You leaned against the wall to keep yourself from falling.

"You want to hang out with me?" He acted more shocked at this admission than the one before it.

"Hey, I said tutor not hangout." You laughed, "But, you're not too bad, so I guess if you wanted to hang out, I'll allow it. plus, I get this cool t-shirt, which so totally doesn't smell like weed and the bottom of a gym bag."

Eddie threw his head back, laughing like a loon. "Hey, that's my signature scent. And, only members of the Hellfire Club get those. So, that means you're in."

"I want to hang out with you, not every nerd in Hawkins High."

"They're my friends."

"Well, your friends are nerds."

"Listen here, hot stuff, you've got my shirt, you're in my club."

"Ed's," you groaned, taking time to roll the nickname around on your tongue. It sounded good. Eddie thought so too.

[gintrinsic-writing]

Hi there. I always read fics where Warriors doesnt know that Time is Mask. But i was thinking why not the reverse? Children don't have that strong of a memory. So although Time remembers the Captain from the war and how much he meant to him, he didn't quite make the connection that he and Wars are one and the same. Meanwhile Wars over here is very proud of his little brother and also constantly trying to offer him hugs and giving him like a bedtime or something and Time is like ???

Do with prompt what you like, maybe when time finally makes the connection.

Also it's totally alright if you don't feel like writing it, no pressure. <3

Sorry this is uhhhhh two years late, Anon. I made it a little silly. :)

--

It was probably the scarring, Warriors mused, idly thumbing the thickened tissue that pulled at his nose and lips. No matter how prettily he attempted to smile, his expression bore a perpetual grimace. It didn't seem fair, but that was life, after all. The end of the war hadn't quelled any of the resentment from those who believed that the Hero should've been quicker, or smarter, or stronger; if anything, the peace that had followed merely gave them time to redirect their ire, and their blades. Warriors hadn't been able to feel his right cheek for nearly a year.

He imagined the length of his hair didn't help the situation either. It was longer, now, and it curled around his jaw if he didn't apply any product. Warriors rather liked it like that, maybe especially because of the way it looked nothing like the practical cut he'd sported during the war.

But still, surely Time recognized him. Yes, he'd gained a few healthy pounds, and he cared about things like moisturizers and conditioners when he'd never before had the chance to, but goddesses above, the scarf was pretty recognizable, and so was his "annoying, posh-ass accent," or so he'd believed.

He certainly remembered Mask, regardless of the decades that must've passed for the other hero.

But they'd been traveling together for days at this point, all nine of them, and Time's countenance revealed not even a semblance of familiarity whenever he looked Warriors's way. And that was...

Well, not great.

So Warriors waited for the right time, and when the younger heroes went off on some questionable exploration of a something called a "fire fruit orchard," he sidled up to the Hero of Time with the closest thing he could manage to a grin. "Portals," he began with a conspiring wink, "am I right?"

Time didn't seem to share his amusement. Not even for camaraderie's sake. "Are you not going to follow the others?"

"No, they'll be fine." Probably. Mostly. "I figured you and I should take the time to talk."

"Hm." Time busied himself with cleaning the back of one of his gauntlets. The metal practically gleamed already. "About what?"

Not one to be deterred, Warriors stepped closer. "It's only right that we get to know each other. Call it bonding, or... unmasking." He paused, waiting to see if the joke connected, and he couldn't help but lean forward to bump their shoulders together just like he'd done to Mask dozens of times during the war.

Somehow, he ended up on his ass. Literally.

"Not interested," Time answered flatly, drawing his leg back as if he hadn't just stepped aside and tripped Warriors with it.

A blushed warmed one side of Warriors's face, and he cleared his throat. Belatedly, he remembered to stand up. "I only meant--"

"I know what you meant." Time held up his left hand. A plain silver ring decorated his fourth finger. "But I'm taken, jackass."

"That's--I didn't--Mask--"

"Try that euphemism one more time, and I promise you won't experience a single peaceful night on this goddess forsaken journey."

Warriors stared, and for once, Time stared back. The look in his eye was fucking terrifying. Warriors couldn't help but admire the man, even if his skin crawled from the intensity of that stare. After what felt like one of the most dangerous moments of his life, he finally sighed and threw up his hands. "Do you truly not remember me, you brat?"

Time blinked, then narrowed his eye. "Should I?" As if it was a threat!

"Captain Link?" Warriors tried, drawling a little out of frustration. "Time travel? The War Across the Ages? Any of that ring a bell?"

For a moment, it seemed like Time had truly forgotten, then his jaw dropped; the stupidity of the look suited him. "Captain?"

"Nayru's sake, yes!" Warriors scoffed, feeling his scarred lip catch briefly. "I can't believe it took you so--Oof!"

He ended up on his ass again. This time, Time was on the ground with him. All things considered, it wasn't the worst hug he'd ever received. Not by far.

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

Young women are more likely to identify as liberal now than at any time in the past two decades, a trend that puts them squarely at odds with young men.

44% of young women counted themselves liberal in 2021, compared to 25% of young men, according to Gallup Poll data analyzed by the Survey Center on American Life. The gender gap is the largest recorded in 24 years of polling. The finding culminates years of rising liberalism among women ages 18 to 29, without any increase among their male peers.

Several societal forces have conspired to push young women to the left in recent years, including the #MeToo movement, former President Trump, rising LGBTQ identification and, most recently, abortion policy. Slower-cooking trends in marital status and educational attainment have also nudged the needle.

“I think there is a big generational shift that happened with Generation Z women who were really coming of age in the last five years,” said Kelsy Kretschmer, a sociologist at Oregon State University who studies gender politics.

The rift between young men and women may widen further. Earlier this year, the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, a precedent that had protected abortion as a constitutional right for nearly half a century. The ruling has energized young women. New survey data, released this week, shows that 61% of young women consider abortion a critical issue, compared with 36% of all Americans.

“I would always choose a candidate that’s pro-abortion,” said Rose Merjos, 21, a government major at Wesleyan University in Connecticut who is an avowed liberal. “Almost everyone either knows someone who has had an abortion or has had one themselves. This is something everyone can relate to.”

The share of men who identify as liberal has held fairly steady for almost 25 years, according to annual Gallup surveys. Roughly one-quarter of men ages 18 to 29 term themselves liberal, year after year.

Meanwhile, among young women, liberalism has exploded. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, fewer than 30% of women identified as liberal. The liberal camp grew through the second term of former President George W. Bush. It expanded further during the tenure of former President Obama. It reached 39% in 2017 with the inauguration of Trump. In the last two years, liberalism surged anew.

“Young women today are much more liberal than young men,” Daniel Cox wrote in a June newsletter of the Survey Center on American Life, a project of the American Enterprise Institute. His work documents “a growing political rift” between young women and men.

Merjos attends a university long associated with both liberalism and activism. These days, though, she senses more of both among the women.

“In all of my government classes, there are probably two men out of 18 people,” she said. “ACLU [American Civil Liberties Union], that’s mostly women. I’m wondering if women are maybe just more inclined to be involved in the community, engaged in the community. And that liberalizes them.”

Ezra Meyer, 22, is a senior at the George Washington (GW) University who leads the College Republicans. He is a conservative on a campus that is overwhelmingly liberal and largely female. In conversations with classmates about politics, he treads lightly.

“My metric for deciding if I’m going to be friends with someone really does not come down to what their politics are,” he said. “It comes down to how tolerant they are.”

Meyer doesn’t know whether the men at GW skew more liberal or conservative than the women. But he has noticed a distinct trend among campus conservatives this fall.

“We’ve been doing a lot of recruiting of freshmen on campus,” he said. “And I would say, overwhelmingly, it has been male. The conservative females that do get involved, there’s fewer of them, but they tend to be way more passionate and way more involved.”

Several factors have liberalized the nation’s 20-something women. The most recent, and perhaps the most powerful, is #MeToo, an uprising against sexual assault, abuse and harassment that caught fire in 2017, empowering millions of women to come forward and seek justice.

The inauguration of Trump in the same year pushed more young women into the liberal column. The 45th president battled his own #MeToo allegations and proved uniquely unpopular among young, female voters. Polling in 2016 showed that only 25% of women ages 18 to 34 favored Trump, compared with 40% of same-aged men.

The rise of liberalism among young women has also marched apace with a dramatic increase in young people identifying as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender or queer. In a recent survey, 56% of young women reported exclusive attraction to men, while three-quarters of young men said they were solely attracted to women. Prior research suggests LGBTQ Americans of all ages trend toward liberalism.

Several longer-term trends have fed the liberalization of young women as well. One is marriage. The share of women ages 18-29 who are married has fallen by half in twenty years, from 31% in 2000 to 15% in 2021, according to the National Opinion Research Center.

The growing ranks of single, 20-something women feel a sense of “linked fate,” researchers say. They gravitate toward female friends in political views, whereas married women more often mirror the politics of their spouses.

“The correlation between women’s sense of linked fate and liberal political preferences suggests that the Democratic Party will benefit” from declining marriage rates among young women, Kretschmer and two co-authors wrote in a 2017 paper for the journal Political Research Quarterly. They noted that “women make up the majority of the population and vote at high rates.”

Women also outpace men in educational attainment, a trend that dates to the 1980s. The ratio of women to men in college enrollment now stands at roughly 60 to 40, and it continues to grow. Americans who complete college are more liberal than those who do not.

“Putting off marriage, going to college, entering the workforce, women are doing that at much higher rates than they used to,” said Marc Hetherington, a professor of political science at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. “And all of those things are going to make conservatism and the Republicans significantly less attractive to women.”

In 1998, the first year of data collected by Gallup in its Social Series surveys, 28% of young men and 29% of young women identified as liberal. The gender gap in liberalism grew steadily wider in the 2000s, wider still in the 2010s. The 2021 poll yielded a 19-point spread between young men and young women, the largest on record.

“I do have some male friends that are moderate,” said Luci Paczkowski, 20, a California liberal. “And it annoys the hell out of me.”

What bothers Paczkowski about her nonliberal friends is not their centrism but her suspicion that they “do not have any clue why they are moderate. They just do not want to pick a side and, therefore, they are apathetic.”

[drunkenskunk]

Welcome to another Drunk Skunk™ rant!

It is entirely possible that you have noticed: I love Warhammer 40k. At the same time, I hate Warhammer 40k... okay, hate is probably the wrong word, but let me explain.

40k is one of my favorite sci-fi settings because it is, hilariously, one of the few that actually manages to get the scale of Outer Space right. Most sci-fi writers have no sense of scale, but 40k is somehow able to convey the unimaginable, incomprehensible, terrifying vastness of Outer Space correctly.

Granted, I think it does this entirely on accident, because everything in 40k is exaggerated beyond the point of absurdity. The scale of everything is massive, every number has several zeros tacked onto the end of it, travelling anywhere takes months, years, even decades, and... that's just how Outer Space is. You can't exaggerate on what is already functionally infinite.

As a result, 40k as a setting has an enormous amount of potential. No matter how much we see of the Warhammer galaxy, we will only ever see a bare fraction of it, and there is always going to be more - and stranger - stuff hidden in pockets of the galaxy that has slipped entirely beneath notice for decades, if not centuries. Or even millennia!

But here's the problem I have. All of this potential? It is almost always completely wasted by Games Workshop. Nearly every single time, GW ignores the massive amount of potential in the setting they created, in order to focus on boring shit that nobody cares about like even more fucking space marines. It's infuriating.

As far as I'm concerned, there is no better example of this in the entire setting... than the Tau Empire.

The Tau annoy me, but not for the reasons you think.

The most common complaint I see leveled against the Tau is that they are the "good" guys, and that they don't fit into the Grim Darkness of the Grim Dark far future of Grim Dark. This is untrue. Moreover: it was never true. Even when they were introduced in 2001 with their first codex during 3rd edition, they were not good guys.

I've always held the suspicion that people saw things like their catchphrase "The Greater Good" and they read things like "the Tau are not overtly hostile," and took all of that entirely at face value, because a sizeable chunk of this fucking fandom has no media literacy skills.

It still amazes me that Warhammer 40k - a game physically incapable of subtlety - has fans that miss the blatantly obvious.

Before I get to my main point, let's clear the air on something right now: the Tau are bad guys, just like all the other factions in 40k.

If you were to place the Tau in any other science fiction setting, they would be a terrifyingly evil authoritarian space hegemony, with a firmly held belief of "Manifest Destiny" and constantly expanding the borders of their imperial holdings through the use of dirty tricks, illegitimate treaties, and good old fashioned military adventurism spurred on by their vast military industrial complex.

Yes, the Tau typically engage in diplomacy first, but that's usually only to establish a casus belli to claim the moral high ground in a conflict because the Tau are obsessed with appearances and love to play the Long Game. Yes, the average standard of living in Tau space is higher than the Imperium, but that's not a high bar. The Tau have a rigidly enforced caste system, and you can imagine how they deal with their "client races" who might disagree with that and even other Tau who refuse to fall in line.

Or have we all forgotten about Commander Farsight?

... I feel like I may have gotten a bit off track.

Okay, so: the simple reason the Tau annoy me is because there was a whole lot of potential there, and all of it has been completely wasted because Games Workshop doesn't seem to understand what made them interesting in the first place.

See, when the Tau were introduced in 2001, it was quickly established in the first codex that the only reason they even managed to make it to the "present" of 40k was due to a series of accidents that allowed that particular scrap of nowhere to slip beneath everyone's notice.

But here's the thing: we didn't really need that excuse. Every time we see maps of Tau space, it's always zoomed in to such an extent that it looks much bigger than it is... because, unlike every other faction, you can't have a full map of the galaxy that only focuses on the Tau, because it's always just a pinprick.

My personal favorite of these maps is the one from the 5th edition rulebook, but it's common with all of them.

To put this into better perspective: Tau space is almost always described as a sphere about 300 light years in diameter, which is roughly the same size as "The Bubble," the cluster of human worlds centered around Sol, in Elite Dangerous.

And that, right there, is why the Tau should be interesting, at least to me. They represent what could exist in the hidden parts of the Warhammer galaxy that slips beneath everyone's notice because SPACE IS BIG. The Imperium of Man may technically cover the entire breadth of the Milky Way galaxy, and "hold" a million worlds... but there are 100 BILLION stars, and even more planets besides, in a galaxy that stretches 100 thousand light years from end to end.

That is A LOT of Outer Space that could hold any number of secrets and weird alien species that nobody would know about until somebody accidentally stumbles on them.

The Tau could have - should have - been a jumping off point, allowing Games Workshop to make the setting feel even bigger and far more strange than it already does. The Tau could've been the template for introducing "pocket empires" to the setting: smaller xenos armies that people could use in skirmishes, but without entertaining the illusion that they have the military projection power to stand up to the other factions on an appreciable strategic scale for an extended period of time.

And yet...

It fees like Games Workshop consistently misunderstands what should make the Tau interesting. Every new codex, every new edition, it feels like we get more and more of GW trying to be like "No, no! The Tau can definitely stand toe-to-toe with the Imperium of Man! They build tall rather than wide, and are ABSOLUTELY a threat to the Imperium, we promise!" when in reality the only reason the Tau are even still here is because the Imperium always has bigger problems to deal with.

There was the bit I mentioned earlier, where the Tau were initially saved after they discovered fire due to a mixture of freak warp storms and the Age of Apostasy causing the records to get lost. The Damocles Crusade ended in the Imperium's withdrawal because of the imminent arrival of Hive Fleet Behemoth. The Third Sphere Expansion was only successful because Failbbadon Abbadon launched the 13th Black Crusade at the same time on the other side of the galaxy, blew up Cadia, and split the galaxy in half with the Cicatrix Maledictum. Every single time the Tau do anything, a much bigger threat always shows up, and causes everyone to forget about the Tau until they inevitably go back to poking the monster.

Like, I know it's GW doing this, but sometimes it feels like Tzeentch is secretly pulling strings behind the scenes to specifically ensure the continued survival of the Tau, for no other reason than simply because the Changer of Ways thinks its funny.

And that's not even talking about how they've slowly morphed into The Gundam Faction.

Like, it used to be that the Tau Empire was supposed to be this big conglomeration of many different alien races all working together. And there are token mentions of that in the 9th edition codex, with a big list of names largely devoid of context. But as soon as you see these guys in action on the tabletop, it's immediately clear what they're about. You only ever see Tau, and you only ever see Big Robots.

Which... it's not bad, the model range looks great, don't get me wrong. But it still feels slightly disappointing, when you think about what we could have had.

I love Warhammer 40k.

But I also hate Warhammer 40k.

Because I see all this potential... and, inevitably, I see it squandered.

And it frustrates me to no end.

[loquaciousquark]

My dog is getting old. This has happened to everyone in the history of the world who has ever loved a dog.

It's my turn, horologically speaking, to watch age catch up to him. I keep trying on the grief to see how it fits. Today I'm more sanguine; today I'm remembering the good days and the good years. The lump in the throat still hurts.

It's hard for him to stand up now on the bad days. Especially in the evenings, especially when a few hours ago he'd flung himself wall to wall with joy when I got home from work; and especially first thing in the morning when he wakes stiff as a board in the hips. On the good days he can still take the four stairs up to the living room in one light-speed jump when he's on a tear, though he trusts the kitchen linoleum much less than he used to. Today's a bad day. Yesterday was worse.

There's a faint discolored patch on my quilt where he sleeps. Right side, foot. It took half a decade to show up, and every few months I give it an extra soak in a bleach-filled bathtub. It still never really goes away; besides, he puts it right back on. Not tonight, though. Tonight he sleeps in the front room, because the stairs up to me are too hard. He watched me go up tonight without him and his tail drooped so low it touched the floor. He's only been mine eight of his eleven years, but I was there when he came home the first time, when he was exactly eight weeks old. I held him up in one hand like a waiter's tray and it was easy. He's ninety pounds now and I can't help him much at all.

German Shepherds are prone to hip dysplasia. Half-breed, half-hipped, I'd hoped, but on the bad nights he struggles to get up on those back legs like he's heaving ballast off a sinking ship. The husky part of him just seems to make him shed and yell, especially when I'm late getting home. I'd hoped for a little more time from the mix, maybe. But maybe not.

He's finally gotten used to fireworks. Thunder's mostly all right now, unless it's very bad. The washing machine is a new terror; sometimes I forget until it goes into the spin cycle and he lifts my legs off the ground trying to crawl under me. He eats books when he's anxious, when I've committed the temerarious crime of coming home and leaving again in the same day. Cold Mountain is nothing more than shredded cardboard and a few strung-together chapters, a sacrificial lamb to preserve Catherine, Called Birdy and Holes. The Private Patient died years ago.

He didn't want to come indoors tonight. The dryer was going, almost as bad as the washing machine, and there were stairs between him and bed. He let me coax him in at last, because I can't lift him and can't push him, and he made it clear that when he stiff-leg trotted inside he did so because he loved me, not because he wanted to. I sat with him while he found an acceptable patch of rug in the front room; I cooed and petted him and gave him a treat he didn't earn. He still whined when I left and looked like he wanted to get up, but didn't think he could make it.

He's getting old; it's his turn. His muzzle is turning white and his eyes have gone cloudy with cataracts. 2+ nuclear sclerosis, maybe -- probably all a little blurry, that's all. No PSCs, no cortical spoking; central vision's honestly probably fine. The vet keeps saying dogs adapt well. He can certainly see the stray cat who keeps lurking on my front porch. I'd like them to be friends, but a week ago he got out and chased her off like a bullet from a gun. His hips were good that day, and adrenaline covers a multitude of sins.

I have a picture of the first time we took him to get a Christmas tree. He's sitting and looking up and his head isn't even high to my knee. I remember watching him tear around the dog park lap after lap after lap, the single mixed greyhound out of fifteen or twenty dogs the only one who could keep up with him. I have pictures of him at the end of nearly every lecture I give; lately I've been tripping over them like rocks, stony little griefs worked loose from a streambed when the water moves too fast.

I'm thirty-five years old. I keep thinking that every dog who was alive on the planet when I was born is dead. Most are long dead. My dog has meds to help, which is comforting. I have a vet who will help me put him to sleep in my home, his home, when the time comes. Two to four years, she guesses, maybe, if he doesn't get cancer. When I watch him struggle to stand up I wonder if that's not too long for kindness.

It's a very human thing to miss someone before they die. Dogs don't do that. They live in an endless now, like a kid in a yellow summer. Now, I love you. Now, it hurts -- now it stops. Now, I love you.

I want that for us for what's left, for whatever one two three four years we have. When it happens, I want him to die in no pain, looking at me holding him where all his toys are, his favorite rope, his purple pig, his leash, his tennis balls. I want him thinking nothing but Now, I'm tired; now, I'm happy.

The empty place at the foot of the bed hurts tonight. The grief stings and bites, worse because I know I'm borrowing it ahead of time, because he's asleep fifteen feet below me, warm and full, even if tonight's a bad night and the stairs are too hard. I have to sit in it, though, just for a few minutes. Try it on for size. It's his turn, I keep thinking, and mine. Everyone who has ever loved a dog has done this before me. Now, I love you. Now, I miss you. Now, it hurts.

[sideroachblog]

Kinktober Day 6: Body Worship

I forgot to post this yesterday!! Oops. Hopefully I'll get Day 7 posted today, too.

Thanks to @nonsenseafterdark for the prompt list!!

Words: 1,885

Summary: Price needs a confidence booster. Roach is happy to help. No actual smut, I didn't get that far 😅 but the build-up is there.

TWs: The Captain is a dirty old bastard (he's not that old). No real TWs for once, surprisingly. Don't get used to that.

Price glared at the small glass case on his desk. It held a Newton’s cradle made to look like billiard balls, although Price wasn’t a physics scholar nor a pool fan. It was something his father gave him for Christmas last year without putting much thought into it. However, that rabbithole went unexplored at the moment as his attention rested on his own reflection.

~~~

Price looked more and more like his dad every day. Pushing forty wasn’t old by any means. That sentiment didn’t stick now after the last remnants of his youth slipped through his fingers when he wasn’t watching, his full, brown beard sprouting gray patches on his chin.

There were larger problems at stake. Lamenting the passage of time did no one any good. He should feel lucky to have had all these years, considering the many perilous escapades he roped himself into, but it was hard when it earned him bad memories nearly as deep as his stress lines. Price sighed, running a hand through his hair. Christ, was it starting to thin?

Someone cleared their throat standing at his desk and startled him.

Roach stood there like an apprehensive stray, gaiter down around his neck, all his other gear in the armory. A little over a decade younger than Price. Not quite pushing thirty, probably unaware of how fast the birthdays ran by. He had a full head of rich chestnut hair (his crew cut grew out a smidge too far), big brown eyes without a dark circle in sight, high cheekbones his flesh hadn’t begun to sag from yet. Not a boyish face per se, considering the sharp, scruffy jawline it sported and the myriad of scars obtained on missions. Youthful but not young.

Quite the lady-killer, in Price’s opinion; perhaps a bit of a captain-killer as well. Sure, call it unethical to have little crushes on sergeants, but don’t fault a man for preferring trained dogs that come when called and still have the energy for tricks.

Price shook himself out of it before he thought too hard about scratching Roach behind the ears as the man sat in his lap. “Jesus Christ. Would it kill you to knock?”

“I did. You didn’t respond but the door was cracked.”

“Still. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Roach grinned. His teeth were crooked and one of his front incisors had been knocked out on their last mission. “I know, you’re getting up there, huh? When do you have to go for your first colonoscopy?”

Price groaned, dropping his head into his hands to rub his tired eyes. “Not for at least five years.”

Might as well be a minute in the grand scheme of things.

“Everything okay?” Roach asked.

“Aye, lad. Peachy. What can I do for you?”

“Got a leave request for the holidays. I want to spend ‘em with my parents.”

He reached over the desk for the papers then leaned back in his chair, boots on the desk. “What, no girlfriend to spend them with?”

The man laughed, rubbing his upper arm awkwardly.

Price raised an eyebrow. “Or, uh, no… boyfriend? To spend them with? Which would be no problem, if you did.”

His face flushed. Price liked the sight.

“I’m not seeing anyone, at the moment. Being in the S.A.S. makes dating tough. My mum's gonna make dinner.”

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re not heading over early to help?” Price scolded.

“I’ve only requested Christmas and the day after off… I’ll help clean up!”

“Damn right you will,” Price said, sliding the papers back across the desk. “Add Christmas Eve so you can be a good boy and help your old lady. Then I’ll approve.”

Roach nodded. Price expected him to leave but, to the Captain’s surprise, he flopped down in a chair.

“Don’t you have duties to attend to, Sergeant?”

“Lunchtime. I’ll bring you chow if you pretend I’m not lollygagging.”

Price was hungry, and his sciatica had been acting up again—it shot pain down his right leg for a few minutes whenever he stood up or sat down. “Deal,” he agreed without much deliberation. Plus, it meant the eye candy stuck around a little longer.

Roach put his arms behind his head and leaned back. He carried his strength in more of a swimmer’s build rather than bulking as much as Ghost or Soap. Definitely strong, though. Well defined muscles flexed below his shirt as he stretched. Price sighed again—he’d lost much of his own definition over the years despite being just as strong. And the aches only ever got worse.

“Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, Sanderson. Having a mid-life crisis, is all.”

He flashed that gap-toothed grin. “Hey, you’re not that old!”

“I’m no spring chicken.”

“Okay, well. When you talk like that I can only assume you were born in the fifties.”

Price rolled his eyes. “Way to hit a man while he’s down.”

Roach laughed.

Price didn’t. He thinned his lips, opened his mouth to start speaking once or twice, pressed his fingertips together. Finally, he asked, “Do I act old?”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad! It’s fine, really.”

“Hasn’t felt fine lately. I’m greying. Gonna be balding soon, I bet. Got crows feet, smile lines, droopy skin… I’m not the heartthrob I used to be. Enjoy it while it lasts, lad.”

Roach leaned forward. “Hey, don’t be like that! Think of it this way: you’re a DILF now. Once the D turns into more of a G, you’ll just be in your silver fox era.”

“What’s a DILF?”

Roach grimaced. “I was hoping you knew what that meant already.”

Price totally did. GILF, too. But he wanted to see Roach squirm, so he tilted his head in a curious ruse.

“You know what a MILF is, right?”

He nodded.

“So you can guess what the D stands for, right?”

“Are you calling me a ‘dad you’d like to fuck?’”

He took sick joy in the way Roach covered his eyes, immediately pink from his clavicle to the tips of his ears.

Roach said, “It’s—It’s a figure of speech, Sir.”

“I get it, I get it, I’m messing around.”

Price half expected the Sergeant to leave for lunch now that he was mortified. He didn’t. Price’s stomach growled; maybe he could speed this along.

“What makes me a ‘dad you’d like to fuck?’”

“Quit saying that!”

He just laughed.

Surprisingly, Roach kept talking, sweet-talking, even. “Uh, I guess it’s the salt and pepper that does it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And the way you carry yourself. You’re strong and confident ‘cause you’re experienced. Well-seasoned. It implies you've been around the block once or twice, if you catch my drift.” Roach’s face only got pinker.

“So you like a man more experienced than you?”

“Captain!”

Price had to backpedal. “Just joking! Nothing wrong if you do. Or don’t.” He chuckled and sighed. “Don’t mind me, I’m a dirty old bastard. Go get lunch, and change that leave request.”

“R-right.”

Roach was out the door before Price could change his mind. Maybe he sped things up too fast.

‘Been around the block once or twice.’

‘Experienced.’

Sounded like Roach wanted to be collared, leashed, and taken for a walk.

…

About ten minutes later the Sergeant returned carrying two meals, again scaring the piss out of Price when he tossed the metal tray onto the desk and a jacket potato threatened to jump out of its designated cubby.

“Christ alive! You didn’t knock this time, either—!”

“Yes, I did! Sir!”

“No, you didn’t! At least I know you’re not a bloody vampire.”

“But I do bite.”

“Great,” Price said sarcastically. “I’ll send in an purchase request for a muzzle, then. Go on, sit.”

He enjoyed the scarlet red Roach immediately turned.

“What had you distracted this time, Captain?”

Being too old to die young anymore. Dying old and ugly and alone.

“Nothing,” Price answered. “Not a thing.”

“Still feeling old?”

“Yup. And It’s getting worse by the second. You’ll be in my shoes, one day. If you’re lucky. You’ll prune up, lose that pretty face, hunch over like a question mark. All your hair will fall out. I bet yours will start from the crown of your head rather than recede; you’ll look like a monk.”

“Don’t be so negative. It’s natural. It’s maturity. Like wine!”

Price smirked. “I don’t believe it. Don’t flatter me, kid, that’s how you become a kiss-ass. I already peaked around your age. It’s all downhill from here; been going downhill for a while.”

Roach clicked his tongue. “It’s not kissing ass if you’re the one turning away from my compliments and pulling your pants down. I can’t help if you won’t listen.”

“I’m not an auditory learner.”

“Ha-ha. You’re a physical one, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“Said it yourself. Dirty old bastard.”

He laughed. His mouth moved before his brain could filter it. “Well, if you teach me why I’m a DILF, I’ll share what I’ve learned on my adventures.”

Roach’s mouth gaped and his eyes went wide. Price nearly saw the discharge notice flying at him—then the Sergeant crossed his legs to hide a boner. Price would be lying if he claimed that didn’t make him hard as a rock.

He paused. Cocked an eyebrow. “Are we pretending I didn’t see that, Sanderson?”

Roach wouldn’t look his way.

“You’re not in trouble. Lock the door, I’ll show you a thing or two. Or leave and there’s no harm done, aye?”

Roach’s brows furrowed. He looked at his Captain, then the door, then his lunch, then repeated the circuit. “Can we eat first? I’m starving.”

He smiled. “Brilliant idea.”

…

And so they ended up locked in Price’s dark office together, the Captain in his chair as Roach straddled his lap.

“You’re so sexy,” Roach said, feeling Price’s trapezius muscles, digging in to release tension. His fingers slipped under the man’s shirt collar. “I can’t believe you don’t see it.”

Price moaned. He couldn’t help it, gripping Roach by the hips as the Sergeant trailed kisses up his stubbly neck. Next thing he knew his shirt was untucked and Roach took warm handfuls of his hairy tummy.

“Not as… toned as it used to be,” Price said sheepishly, eyes closed for reasons he couldn’t explain. It felt more comfortable that way.

“I love it. It’s perfect. And I can still feel the muscles underneath—you’re just as strong.”

“Yeah, yeah. Butter me up. It won’t get you anywhere special.”

Roach pulled away. Price leaned forward to chase kisses now withheld, peaking one eye open when an arm across his chest pinned him in place.

“Something wrong, Sanderson?”

The man stared down his nose at Price. “How long’s it been since anyone’s given you any appreciation?” He asked.

“Huh? Oh…” Price tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Can’t remember, so I reckon it’s been a while. Once you’re in my position you’re in charge of dishing it out to keep moral high.”

Roach hummed. “I mean in your love life.”

“The well’s run dry since I've been a Captain. Always been more of a giver, though.”

“Let me change that.”

[reireichu]

Louis will be the one to turn Daniel into a vampire.

We're nearly at the end of the line***, and I have this theory that Armand is not going to turn Daniel into a vampire at the end of the season. Instead, Louis will, and it's because of the above scene.

The entire Season 2 has established very nicely that Armand is a lying liar who lies, but it also has established something else very important:

Louis (is also a lying liar who lies!!!!!) has not forgiven Armand, he has never forgiven Armand, and he never will.

Look at that face.

IWTV hit the lottery with all the actors, and that's including the background actors, the extras, bit parts, the entire Theatres des Vampires and most importantly, with their main characters. Jacob and Assad (and Sam, but we aren't talking about him here) have used the entire fucking season as a masterclass in micro-expressions and honestly, it's so telling that you can rewatch an episode once, twice, ten times, and you will probably catch some tail-end of a thought in Armand's head, or Louis' mind, something you missed, maybe that slight curl of the lip, twitch of the brow, or maybe it was a trick of the light.

We are seeing these particular expressions in real time, instead of via a narrative. These expressions are who they are, how they feel, what they think in that particular moment. None of these acting choices are accidental.

(I could go on a tangent about the big game of Who Lives Who Dies Who Is Telling The Fucking Story Right Now*** and how manipulative Armand and Louis are in their versions of things, how Louis has painted this portray of Lestat that we see and read through his eyes, how they are reading each other, but that's not for today, today is about old maniel okay thanks bye.)

Armand and Louis have a contentious relationship, it’s basically the prolonged divorce of two assholes trapped in a toxic relationship. They’re both the victim and they’re both the villain. They both accept and avoid accountability for all faults. They're as bad as each other.

Is there love there? Yes. That’s what a toxic relationship uses to cage you in—the entire “I can fix him” joke and “but daddy, I love him” trope came from this—and toxic relationships can endure for a very long time, and it can eat you from the inside out, twisting you into some sort of malevolent creature of held together with tape, glue, spite and cruelty wearing the mask of an angel.

Louis and Armand have turned maiming each other with love into a higher art form. They've used it as their courting game, their mating ritual, and now it's their fucking battleground. They love each other, they break each other, and they stay together, and they love each other. Love and hate, different sides of same fucking coin. It put the particular scene when Louis offers Daniel The Gift into a different light for me.

Armand’s expression, as fake!Rashid,could have been read as so many different things (all the awards and commendations to Assad Zaman, please and thank you), and that’s probably the beauty of this entire show. Watch it again now, after the knowledge that Armand sat there as Claudia was burned to death because he ‘could not prevent it’ (LIAR!!!), after knowing that Louis has been with Armand for seventy-seven years of love and hate and ‘tri-annual fuck off and find me’s and everything else in between.

Louis has spent seventy seven years with Armand. He had seventy seven years to see what vulnerabilities there are to exploit, which buttons to push, what words will trigger.*** He’s also a patient man. He’s the guy that will buy a splotchy painting to see it go up in value. He invested in real estate before it was trendy y’all, he’s not here for your fucking NFTs or get rich quick schemes. Louis is a schemer, manipulator and a long term investor.

He’s been waiting for awhile, but he’s also spent decades chipping away that armour Armand wears. The little jibes here and there, dismissive, snarky, cunty or full on there it is, that half blank half apocalyptic stare because this man is either all or nothing. I love you, I hate you, I’m not your fucking companion, you’re so boring, leave him alive Arun, you’re a beige pillow, have you met the love of my life.

Armand is fully aware of what Louis is capable of. Armand might have played Judas in his coven’s little play, he might have been cast out, he might have been persona non grata, but Theatre des Vampires was still his coven and (spoiler alert book wise but I mean we are all know this happens) Louis burnt it all down to the ground. Armand might have hated them by then, Armand might have loathed them, Armand might have tired of them, but if anyone was to light the match on his wretched coven, it should have been Armand.

And now, Louis has invited Daniel into his coffin, the graveyard where Louis has spent the last weeks enshrining Lestat like he’s the beautiful boy nailed to the cross, Lestat whom he hates, Lestat whom he loves, Lestat Lestat Lestat Lestat Lestat.***

Why does it have to be Daniel?

It could have been anyone. History isn’t all that important, or maybe it is.

Don’t tell me Louis hasn’t consumated and consumed so many other writers, because we know he has. Because what is it, Daniel, did you think you were special? How many hundred something boys has Louis fucked around and found out with, after lying and telling you it’s just five. How many after that. How many in those seventy-seven years of Loui’s fuck off and find me sprees, surely there’s been hundreds of writers.

So why Daniel.

Because Armand now has only one thing in this world that is truly his, or was truly his, depends how you see it. Armand loves someone, and that someone is mortal, breakable, dying. Because the Dark Gift has been the thing that broken Armand and Lestat and freed Louis. Because Louis and Armand are lying liars who lie, because love of my life is not the same as coal fire in winter. Because Armand is a broken, manipulative asshole who was the victim, who is the villain, who Louis loves and hates. Armand took Claudia, Armand ruined his life, Armand lied, Armand was Arun was Amedeo was a fucking whore and I’ve always been real good at running the fucking show, Armand Armand Armand Armand Armand—

A very wise old man (and evil dictator, murderer of children, rose garden enthusiast)*** once said:

It's the things we love the most that destroy us.

And Louis has spent a very long time waiting for the right moment to destroy Armand.

And he’s going to use Daniel to do it.

HAPPY FINALE WEEK Y’ALL.

aLSOOoooo:

Just me reaching with weird foreshadowing or references, idek.

Not Lestat's blood. [...] Not good enough for her.

***I’ve had this post in my drafts for about three weeks, and only am posting it now because I basically have been trying to make it more concise or less nonsensical, only to realise that finale week is here so instead it’s now just waffling, with footnotes, bad references, stolen gifs, and inconsistent theorising? Pls forgive me for typos bc I just word vomitted this out to beat the Aus Timezone episode drop.

***Donald Sutherland you were the OG the big bad RIP :(((( you will live on in MASH, Hunger Games and fandom head canons of your twinky younger self from the prequel movie

***I'm actually such Hamiltrash that I couldn't make this post without one Hamilton reference.

***hello arun maitre dom/sub dynamic that reads like a fanfic, the contrast of a former pimp and the former prostitute, using your body to get what you want vs using breadcrumbs affection to manipulate a person, all the narcissism bpd ptsd broken meow meows someone else make this post pls.

***the fact that i cannot let go of this scene, and have used it in both this post and parasite, idek anymore.

[nattblacklupin]

Timeless

Pairing: Amren x GN! Reader

Warnings: Nothing just fluff

Summary: You were looking everywhere for your long lost lover

Masterlist

You travelled from court to court, trying to find your long-lost love. It's nearly two hundred years since you started your journey in autumn court. You didn't stay long there. The high lord made you uncomfortable, instead deciding going to next court. Coldnest of your home for few decades contrasting warm of autumn, yet it was strangely comforting for you.

Cold always reminding you of your lover. The dragon you used to fight wars with, flying through the skies like you were rulers of them, it was the love you find only once in a lifetime. You couldn't help but smile remembering the kisses you shared. The smiles that were held unknown in front of your friends. The sweet smile you held quickly disappears at the thought that your lover might have found someone else, or even be long dead. You didn't let these dark thoughts couldn't cloud your mind. You survived regin of Amarantha, the end of your home, now it's time to find what happened to your only true love. It didn't matter if she's dead or happy with someone else. You needed to know what happened with her.

Night court, your last visit. Walking through every court and befriending High Lords and their families was a fun adventure. You had to admit, this journey was more than enjoyable. Even without the lover you were looking for, you still found excitement and positivity in this. Many friends were made on the way that made you feel safe, no matter what you knew that they had your back.

If this didn't end with finding your lover. You would probably go to the day court, enjoy the atmosphere, and sun rays with one of the kindest and funniest high lord you met.

You looked in the mirror for the last time, carefully preparing yourself to look presentable for the meeting with Rhysand. The sparkly silver dress you choose pooled at your feet, hugging your curves just right in every place. You were ready, last chance to find at least a little bit of information about her.

The residence of Rhysand was beautiful, with paintings on every wall. Some of them were pictures of landscape and some family portraits, and all of them were drawn by high lady herself.

You turned into hall where the meeting was supposed to be held when something made you stop in place.

It was her.

Your long lost lover, your only love, the woman who captured your heart, Amren.

She seemed to notice the change of atmosphere in the room. Turning around too slowly for your liking. She had fae body now, same as you. But that didn't stop your soul from recognising her. The one you promise to love till the end of the time. "Y/N"

In the blink of an eye, she was in front of you emotions swirling in her eyes.

"Is it really you?" She cupped your cheek so delicately, like she was scared you're going to disappear under her touch. "Yes, it's really me"

She buried her face in your neck, her arms snaking around your waist while you started to draw circles on her back. "I thought you were dead. I thought that I had lost you forever. " You could hear her voice slowly breaking at the weight of ger words. "You can't get rid of me so easily. I was looking everywhere for you. I was in every court there is, trying to find any piece of information about you, " saying that lifted so much weight of your shoulders, finally feeling free and whole.

"I somehow always knew that you and I would've found each other." She looked you deep in the eyes, sending you all love through the mate bond your new fae bodies gave you. Her lips held a smile that she only showed in front of people she trusted the most. The smile that she didn't show in two hundred years cause the only person who she trusted wholeheartedly wasn't with her. But now you're here, real, unharmed, and prettier than she remembered.

"I believe that we were supposed to find this, so even in a different life, you would've still been mine." Without leaving you space to answer, she kissed you. You could remember the last time you kissed as it was tomorrow, yet this time it was different, this time it was deeper, more feelings were put into this, telling each other how much you missed each other.

"We would've been timeless"

[cleolinda]

Weekend links, April 21, 2024

My posts

Initially I wrote, “I ran my mouth about the Watcher streaming/paywall situation because I make bad decisions,” but I think the post has actually gone over well? In short, I want to see them succeed but I am also deeply fuckin’ baffled. I so desperately want the tea about what was really going on behind all this, and how the guys are reacting to it now, and I really hope they can turn this around somehow. 

Side note, Friday was CHAOTIC. 

Reblogs of interest

The Hot Vintage Lady Polls are escalating in round four. We got to a point where I posted propaganda for Ava Gardner AND Dorothy Dandridge in their matchup. Probably the biggest scandal of round three was Vivien Leigh getting knocked out, but she’s now High Chancellor of the Shadow Realm. The most contentious matchup this time seems to be Judy Garland vs Natalie Wood, which is nearly 50/50 as of this writing. But keep your eye on Hedy Lamarr, who may have Mifune Sweep energy. 

(I think I love these brackets for the same reason I love Dracula Daily: it’s delightful that thousands of people on Tumblr actually have deeply-held opinions about things from many decades ago, and if they didn’t before, they do now.)

(“I’m Katharine Hepburn, and this is Jackass!”)

--

Happy Bread Day (Observed)!

Hozier Watch 2024: “Why Would You Be Loved” has arrived on the Wasteland, Baby! special edition. I like this post about how that song is in conversation with “No Plan,” one of my favorites. (I wrote about “Movement” a while ago, but I could have fully inflicted an essay on you about how “No Plan” pulled me out of my six years of hiding from the internet. Anyway, it’s a great album from a few years ago, check it out if you haven’t.) 

Generally I keep my mouth shut about Taylor Swift, but the new songs sure have some lyrics. I love Florence Welch, but I’m scared.

You’ve heard of spoon theory, now check out spell slot theory

“You’re either frolicking in this field with me, or...” is funny, but then you get to the reblog.

What if we lay in this field together and held feet

A deep breach of etiquette with a little dog named Gucio

A story about statue vandalism with a delightful twist

You gotta fight mint with mint (like I can bring in my lemon balm, but at what cost?) 

I saw this post about feeding wild skeletons on Pinterest and I loved it so much that I tracked down the original. 

Once again, Holy Shit, Two Cakes theory

Remember the haunted house I grew up in? Yeah, it had a carpeted bathroom like this.

“gonna start formatting my posts like fics on ff.net circa 2008” will do you exactly the psychic damage you’re imagining 

The Round Table attempts to use Zoom

Video

Lil Nas X covers “Jolene,” Dolly Parton loves it, and @oscar-wet-and-wilde has further Black Country recs

A big loud steppy

“He’s retrieving”

Crispy meows

Watching this angel of a Doberman get a full spa treatment is also self care

AND YOU DARE SAY NO MORE TREATS??!?

The sacred texts

I don’t like thing, now with artist credit 

Personal tags of the week

I love when I can use a really niche, specific tag, and this week, it’s mouth perfect size for meme, with a little shaped on the side.

[harrowharks-iliac-crest]

Fuck. Yeah, let's talk about grief.

Have you ever lost someone close enough in such a way that you would, if given half the chance, lobotomise yourself to dull the pain even a little bit?

I have. And I was twenty-six, nearly a full decade older than Harrow.

Really, when you take a little step back, this book is all about grief. About how grief can drive you to do horrible, awful things.

Not just what Harrow did - erasing Gideon from her existence entirely - or at least trying to; though this is probably the most obvious example.

(I kinda can't believe that when I first realised Harrow's memories were all skewed, my literal first theory was "Harrow couldn't deal with the grief and fucked herself up so she could go on not feeling it".)

But also God - in his grief for the whole world, resurrecting it - resurrecting his love, his friends - and then having to deal with the consequences.

But also Mercymorn and Augustine - ten thousand years later still driven to murder by their grief - justifiably, to be honest.

It comes though in Gideon's narration - her grief for her mother, her grief for Jeannemary, her grief for herself! -

It's an undercurrent in the entire book, more present than the River.

If you lost someone that close to you, wouldn't you also fuck yourself up so you wouldn't have to remember?

I remember when I first learned that my best friend had died, suddenly -

Just having to sit there, as the world came crashing down around me -

And just not knowing how to deal with it. at ALL.

I still don't know, to be honest. It's been years.

There's something about the unrelenting cruelty of, of having to get up, having to go on. Having to eat dinner (or at least unenthusiastically pick at it), having to go to bed, try to sleep, having to get up, and go to work in the morning.

Maybe not right away. But whether you like it or not, the world just fucking keeps on turning. It's unrelenting, uncaring almost. How can everything just keep going when your world has just been shattered?

I don't blame Harrow. I don't blame John, or the Lyctors - I don't blame any of them.

I don't blame any of them.

What do you do??? What do you even do?????

And it makes me angry -

It makes me so, so angry, that it's so, so difficult to talk about it.

Grief is one of the most universal human experiences. It is. None of us will go through life without losing someone close to us. If we do, it's only cus we die young enough to become that someone to the people around us.

And how do we deal with it??? In the culture that I grew up in and live in, it's just not really talked about. You talk about it maybe, when it happens, briefly, you maybe mention going to a funeral. You hear awkwardly, sorry for your loss, condolences, I don't know what to say.

I don't know what to say. No one does, ever. It's a problem. It's a problem.

You might bring it up on anniversaries or if something reminds you of them. You might swallow it because you don't wanna bring the mood down. You might not even know how to talk about it yourself.

I don't. Not really.

I really feel like grief is the big elephant in the room in western societies, largely ignored, yet always present. Aren't we all grieving in some way? It doesn't even have to be for a person - a relationship or the climate or a place you've had to move away from - a place you remember being different to how it is now - a time you can never go back to. A pet. Your health. There are so many things you can lose forever.

Aren't we all grieving in some way?

I guess finishing this book has brought a lot of mine up to the surface, quite suddenly. I didn't expect that. But like a kaleidoscope, grief reflects in many colours. I like it when books can play on my emotions like harp strings - and this book has definitely done that; it held up a mirror, and it said:

If you had the power to erase your pain, wouldn't you?

And if you're itching now, as an older, wiser version of yourself, to tell Harrow - tell her that grief isn't easily escapable like that - tell her that those memories are precious, don't you get it - tell her that it will hurt worse, in the long run -

How would you feel? How did you feel, back then, when the wound was still so fresh and raw? When you were younger, more desperate, with fewer options?

Wouldn't you also have chosen to live in a world where your pain was overwritten?