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siriusleee · 1 year ago

Text

shot through with gold

“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”

tags: coming back home, implied torture, capture, smut, riding, reader is afab, mentions of medical procedures, mentions of blood word count: 7.7k author's note: This was a commission by the best and brightest @gazs-blue-hat. If you'd like to commission a fic, visit my ko-fi for more information. Also, I refuse to disgrace the good country of Scotland by attempting to do the full Scottish accent. Readers call sign is Sparrow, but it's only used once.

The room is heavy with dust; small puffs cloud around Johnny’s boots as he pads across the plush carpet. The summer’s oppressive heat makes the walls sweat - you’d be worrying about the mold forming in the drywall if you could see it. But Johnny doesn’t think of the way his handprints smudge on the paint you spent weeks agonizing over or the way your perfume lingers in the still air even after all this time.

His singular mission - to grab a few shirts he needs and leave - is the only thought he allows himself to think about, hands combing through the dressers and eyes trained downward, away from all the pictures hanging on the wall. He avoids your side of the dresser, avoids the lace that still peaks out from your top drawer.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, Johnny ignores it as he pulls the shirts he came to look for out of the dresser drawer, tucking them beneath his arm. He follows his tracks in the dust back out, eyes cast down at the carpet. The whole trip takes less than 10 minutes; he doesn’t let himself look up until he’s slamming the passenger door of Simon’s truck shut behind him.

“Got everything?” Simon asks, shifting the truck into drive.

Johnny sits ramrod straight in the seat, eyes avoiding Simon’s as he buckles in.

“Yeah, got everything.”

Your fingers trace over the marks you’d carved into the soft stone wall. You’d tried to keep a tally mark of days, but time slipped by in odd increments within your cell. Some days you’d watch the sunrise from the cracks in the ceiling and after just a blink, the inky blackness of night would be seeping in. Sometimes the sun hung in the sky for months before finally falling to the full moon. No matter how hard you tried to decode the pattern, the moment you had it everything would reset.

The guards were in on it; they had to be. They’d bring your meals at odd times - sometimes you’d still be full from the moldy slop they shoved in between the cell bars, spilling it out onto the floor like you’re an animal in a cage, and sometimes you’d be so hungry that you could barely crawl to eat.

It was supposed to be someone else - you were pulled for guard duty after another soldier slogged off and broke his foot doing something stupid while training. You’d finally been pulled to work with Johnny, three days away from being a full transfer to the 141 when your C.O. had appeared at the door of your bunk, new orders in hand.

A simple guard duty: get the guy to where he was supposed to be going, hand him off, and fly home. Your transfer could wait an extra forty-eight hours. But your plane was shot down somewhere over the middle of nowhere - you had told your C.O. that flying that low was a risk, but the desert was empty and the plane was old. They’d been making the flight for weeks, ferrying men back and forth with no hiccups. Your flight should have been no different.

It should have been someone else.

You couldn’t remember what had hit your small passenger plane: but the ground was David, and you were Goliath. You’d hit the ground beside the pilot’s head, his mouth formed in a soundless scream, and after a quick flash of black, had woken up to a bucket of water being poured across your face.

Whatever language your captives screamed at you, you didn’t know it. And if they knew any of the ones you screamed back at them: Spanish, Arabic, German, they didn’t let you in on it. You couldn’t figure out what they wanted until they’d ripped the Union Flag from the breast of your vest, a quick picture on a Polaroid camera snapped above you before you realized what they wanted.

Blood dribbled down your chin when you laughed at them: the government didn’t even pay for soldiers who got captured at war. What would they pay for your half-broken body to get shipped back in a wooden box? A simple mistake that could be written off as a plane malfunction.

The anger had come first, feet and fists slamming into the men when they appeared at the cell doors. Nails ripped from their beds when you tried to claw at the seams in the walls. It had cost you a few teeth and a pound of flesh. And then, when you were tired of the endless beatings and anger that went nowhere, you begged them to kill you, to do something to end the torment. By the marks on the wall, it took months before you first asked to be killed, and only weeks later for that to end, each request met with silence and a sneer. Now you lay in the corner, waiting for the few moments when they’d let you out to see the sun glinting off of the mountain ranges, the clouds threatening to storm in the distance.

Those quick trips seemed to come with less frequency as time slipped by.

You trace the tattoo on your thigh; they’d cut through it once after you kicked one of them in the chest, his ribs caving beneath your feet, but even beneath the dried viscera and matted dirt that covered your skin, you could still see Johnny’s name there.

You wonder if he’s picked a gravestone for you yet.

The two of you had talked about it, once. It was the nature of your jobs - to be prepared for everything that could come your way. Your wills were done: 75% to Johnny, 15% to your sister’s kids, and the rest to a local charity. Johnny wrote in that you were to get 100% of everything he owned, and you had chided him about it.

“What about your mom? Your sisters?” You had asked across the steam from your cup of coffee. Johnny had shrugged, dropping the black pen onto the table with finality.

“Already taken care of, birdie.”

After that had come the talk of headstones and burial plots. Of missing bodies and cremation. You had told Johnny that whatever he thought you’d like, to pick out. You weren’t picky about it.

You wonder if the military let him put his last name on the stone.

A decidedly male voice shouts from around the corner, and you pull back into the stone wall. Seconds later, fetid food falls through the bars. The man shouts at you, pointing at the food on the ground. Lazily, you turn your head towards him, watching the way he sneers at you through the bars.

They must be getting angry then. No ransom came through after all these months.

You bare your teeth at him.

You’d rip his throat out if you had the strength to do so anymore.

Johnny’s fingers don’t shake like they used to when he buckles the strap of his helmet, the night vision goggles weighing him down. He’s tired - exhausted. The entire convey smells of cigarettes and sweat. Heavy men in heavy gear press around him; across from him Gaz’s eyes shine terribly bright in the darkness. They press in on Johnny, forcing him back into his seat heavily.

Price’s voice is loud in his comms, intermingling with the sounds of the Marines and the whir of the mechanics beneath his feet. Johnny can’t make out the details over the sound of the truck rumbling beneath him.

“Steady Soap?”

Gaz knows - Johnny doesn’t know how Gaz can do this kind of job with the way he fucking oozes empathy. Or sympathy. Johnny could never remember which one was which, he always had to ask you which one to use. Gaz had been the only one who’d asked him if he was alright; Simon had lingered at the edges of rooms Johnny was in to keep an eye on him, and Price tried to give him an extended leave. Johnny had refused.

But Gaz had been waiting until Johnny was sitting outside of some bar a group of Seals had taken them to - a celebration for a job well done months after you were gone, after Johnny's failed attempt to find you.

“You good?” Gaz had asked, fingers twirling a cigarette he would never light.

“O’course.”

It had made Johnny feel like shit to lie to Gaz, and the same feeling washes over him as Gaz’s eyes linger on Johnny.

The warm summer air washes over them; sweat is starting to coat his lower back, his fatigues keeping him too warm. The smell of the desert, of warmed sand keeps him grounded, reminds him of where he is - what he’s doing here.

In the glint of the moonlight, the mountaintops shine at him.

The first few missions had been difficult: he’d fought like hell to try to search for you, fuck the regulations. He’d resign if it meant finding you. The rest of the fucking government didn’t care: no one on the plane was as important as anyone else, not to the officials anyway. Johnny had done just that, his resignation had landed heavily on Price’s desk, only to land in the trashcan a moment later.

Gaz volunteered to follow Johnny, but Price had cut that off quickly. It was to be Johnny and Simon only. They had five days, a week at most before they had to be back home.

The farthest they got was the plane wreckage, a little burnt-out village miles away, and sheep that stared at them from the sides of the mountains. But he couldn’t find a trace of you or a singular person who even recognized the photo of you he kept tucked inside his gear. Even after Simon had disobeyed Price’s orders to return home now after weeks had passed. They didn’t find anything.

Johnny knew that’s why Price had volunteered the 141 for this mission - a small-time terrorist cell hiding out in a country they didn’t belong to, a small promise of the bodies of missing soldiers hidden somewhere.

It was something.

The guards are panicking; the dirt walls shake around you. You can’t guess what it could be: American pilots doing a blind bombing, Russians pretending to send help only to rain down hell on the perceived innocent. Maybe God’s here to level the land and flood it. Try again. Do something different this time.

He could start with your cell, you think, scraping at the dirt on your leg. Underneath the sun-starved skin is paler than it should be. If you ever leave, you think, the first thing you’re going to do is eat a fucking steak in the sunshine. The bones that refused to set correctly ache beneath your bruised flesh.

The sound of gunfire pierces the inescapable silence. Your captors yell, screams punctuating between the bursts of firepower. Good, maybe they’ll tear each other apart and leave you here to die in peace.

Maybe it was a poker game gone extremely wrong. Someone asked to strip when they should have been ponying up the cash.

Smoke pops in the hallway outside, you don’t run from the white creeping in on you, just pull the rags that were your shirt over your mouth to try and keep breathing. It overtakes your cell; you watch as the smoke creeps through the cracks in the ceiling.

The sounds of war flood the small cell - the taste of blood and gunpowder in the air around you. You can taste the iron when you breathe in. It coats your tongue. You run your teeth across the chipped and broken enamel, mixing the taste of other’s blood with your own.

Someone shouts so close this time you can almost make out the words - American accent thick and heavy in your ears - and it stirs something inside of you. You try to navigate the cell through the smoke, rolling painfully off of the pallets your captors had so kindly turned into a bed for you. Crawling across the excreta and mud you try to make a sound, but you haven’t spoken in months.

Your throat is raw, and the sounds that come from you are barely human. You’ll be surprised the men even hear you, let alone notice you there on the ground. You try to pull yourself up at the bars, but the fracture in your ankle that healed up wrong weeks ago keeps you on your knees.

“Hey-” you finally croak out loud enough for one of the men to cast his eyes down at you. “Please.”

He’s so familiar, the softness in his eyes tugging at something familiar inside of you, the sharpness of his shoulders calling to you. You pull yourself up, leaning heavily on the bars and the one ankle that doesn’t scream at you, hands slipping through the bars to try to reach towards him.

His gun drops, swinging loosely on its strap as he steps towards you. His fatigues are filthy, and his nose wrinkles beneath the cloth mask covering his face. You know you smell terrible, and you want to apologize for it, but you can’t make the words come. He looks so tired as he steps towards you, hands reaching out to grip the bars between the two of you.

“Sparrow?”

“Johnny?”

It takes days for you to make it home: IVs from field medics who barely know what they’re doing, anti-viral meds, shots, stitches. They don’t even let you take a real shower until you’ve landed at a base you barely recognize. It’s a painful process, a female nurse wiping at you gently, but still peeling away layers of skin with each pass of the washcloth, your sobs muffled by the shower.

Johnny waits for you on the fringes of all the people that press around you, poking you, prodding you painfully until finally, you find yourself slammed into a British hospital bed.

Johnny comes in the moment they let him, hands held behind his back in a mock parade rest. You barely recognize him, his mohawk almost completely grown out and bags under his eyes. You know you don’t look much better; you’d caught sight of yourself in a mirror before they’d forced you into bed. Ruined was the only word to describe what you saw. Too thin, too broken. Too torn apart to be stitched back together. At least not without all the types of therapy a military doctor listed out to you: hydro, occupational, physical, mental.

Neither of you know what to say, so you start with the last thing the doctor told you.

“They’re going to rebreak my ankle tomorrow,” your voice is still thin, full of isolation. You’d tested it out on everyone who’d been in to work on you, but it didn’t sound right at all. Johnny shuffles nervously where he stands, and then rushes forward to sit in the chair beside your bed. He’s moving wrong, you think, like a wind-up doll. Too slow and then all at once, too fast.

“Why?”

“I healed up wrong.”

Johnny’s hands play with the edge of the blanket that dangles off of the bed, eyes trained on the fabric. He’s not going to look at you. At the ruin you’ve become. You press yourself down harder into the thin mattress, hands tucked beneath your thighs to keep them still.

“Is it going to hurt?”

You can’t help but smile at his question, your toes twitching beneath the blanket that feels so out of place across you. How many months had they had you? A year? No one had told you yet.

“They said I’d be fucked up on medicine. But probably, yeah."

Johnny’s hands aren’t still against the blanket, instead reaching out towards you. The movement startles you, and you jerk to the opposite side, nearly pulling your IVs out. Johnny pulls his hands back, crossing them across his chest.

“When you -” his voice breaks, just a moment before he put it back together, eyes finally meeting yours, “when you come home I’ll bring the bedroom downstairs so that you don’t have to walk far.”

You have the nagging suspicion that he changed what he was going to say at the last moment.

"Are you going to sleep on the couch with me?" You try to tease, but your voice falls flat, unpracticed. But it still makes Johnny smile, sharp incisors digging into his chapped lips.

"I'll sleep wherever you tell me."

The two of you are surrounded by the sounds of the hospital: the beeps of the heart rate monitors, the sounds of the nurses' quiet conversation outside of your room. You trace your hands across the blanket, grasping Johnny’s whenever your fingers collide with each other.

For a moment, neither of you move, just languish in the feeling of each other’s skin; you’re too busy tracing Johnny’s palm to notice him pushing himself closer to you until he kisses you, softly but with a tight undercurrent of desperation, his hand tightening almost painfully on yours.

The feeling of someone touching you so gently after weeks of rage and anger nearly stops your heart. The monitor goes crazy; Johnny pulls back, just the hint of a smile on his lips.

It takes four weeks for Johnny to get the go ahead to bring you home. Each day you were in the hospital he would come for a quick chat before work, bringing you breakfast he picked up. Every day after, he would collapse in the chair beside your bed, smelling of sweat and gunpowder.

The smell made you recoil when he tried to kiss you, and he didn't try again after that, even after you tried to stutter out a why. But the day the doctor tells Johnny that you can go home, you awaken to Johnny outside of the hospital room, arms crossed as he speaks to the head doctor - Johnny looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him off the battlefield.

Everyone rotates around you as if you’re not there, packing the room up, pulling your IVs out, fingers prodding and poking you until a nurse aide wheels a wheelchair into the room for you.

”Ready?” She asks, locking the brakes. She looks at you from across the room, and you know what she wants. Starting the day after they rebroke your bones, they made you get up and start walking, and you push yourself off of the bed, walkable cast heavy against the tile floor.

Johnny’s in the room in a second, catching sight of you whenever he sees you stumbling over your cast across the room. The aide lets him push her out of the way, his hands gripping the wheelchair as you lower yourself down.

“I can walk out, you know.” You grumble at Johnny as he tosses a heavy folder into your lap.

“Hospital procedure, birdie.”

Simon’s truck is waiting for the two of you in the parking lot, Simon in the driver's seat. He throws a glance at you as Johnny helps you clamber into the backseat, crowded around by grocery bags.

“Hello, Luv.”

“Hello, Simon. Thank you for the ride.”

Simon opens his mouth to speak, black hospital mask sliding up, but he’s cut off by Johnny clambering into the passenger seat.

You watch Johnny from the backseat, foot propped up beside you. His hair has grown out too long, the Mohawk nearly disappeared and his beard has started to grow in. In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him anything other than clean-shaven; even in the field, he'll butcher himself with a knife before he lets it grow in.

He’s thinner than he should be, too. You wonder if he’d been eating like he was supposed to.

The drive home is disorientating, Simon taking turns too sharply, too quick for your still queasy stomach. By the time Johnny helps you climb down from the truck, dropping your hands quickly when both of your feet are on the ground.

The house is clean, too clean for Johnny to have been here alone. Like he can sense you'd skepticism, Johnny speaks from ahead of you.

“I’ve hired a cleaner,” Johnny says, holding the door open for you. “So don’t worry about anything.”

It’s odd to be back home; you trace your fingers across the knick-knacks you’d collected throughout the years, the furniture you’ve spent years picking out. You have memories of sitting here with Johnny, memories of Simon and Gaz laughing from the kitchen. But now all you feel is lost, a bottle floating in a foreign ocean.

You wander into the kitchen, fingers trailing against the wall - there are no dirty dishes in the sink, no food in the cabinets; Johnny wasn’t living here.

The only dish you recognize is sitting on the counter, you pick it up, feeling the unfamiliar weight in your hand.

“It’s called Kintsugi.”

The Japanese word rolls heavily off of Johnny’s tongue, your fingers pause tracing the golden lines that cut through the mug. It was your favorite, a gift from when you and Johnny had first met. The two of you met at a diner, out with mutual friends. You’d thought it was cute, the name of the diner printed across the front in vintage lettering. Johnny had swiped it for you, hiding it beneath his jacket until the two of you parted ways at your doorstep.

“What happened to it?”

“I broke it,” he admits, dropping the grocery bags onto the counter. Your fingernail can’t find any snag in the glaze, any sign that the mug has never had the golden lines cutting through it.

Johnny busies himself with unloading the bag, speaking without looking at you as he confesses.

“After you were taken, I spent weeks searching for you until Price forced me to come home. I was angry, and I smashed it.”

You can feel the frown sketched onto your face; you don’t look at Johnny as you set the mug down on the counter.

You lean against the counter and watch Johnny busy himself with the groceries.

“He was right,” you admit, feeling silly over the sadness that fills you over the broken cup, “but maybe that’s something Simon has a lot of experience with broken things ya’know.”

You and Johnny orbit each other for weeks: he’s there every day until you begin to question if he’s gotten himself fired to stay home with you. He drives you everywhere, and if he can’t, Simon waits for you just out past the front gate, no doubt on Johnny’s orders.

“I had a lot of time off,” he says one day, elbow-deep in the laundry that he dumped between the two of you, eyes cast on the television. “Never had a reason to take it before.”

Your hands smooth the wrinkles out of one of Johnny’s shirts, fingers picking at the loose string. Today had been talk therapy, recommended by the SAS doctors. They were strict about all the requirements you had to meet if you ever wanted to go back, and laying on a shrink’s couch for two hours a week was one of them.

The graying doctor had asked you if you had spoken to Johnny about the anger that still wells up in you, the dreams you have of tearing your captives to pieces with your hands, the internal self-flagellation you went through every night when you thought about the career you’d worked so hard for, and have now lost.

You had spent the rest of the day thinking about what he said, even when it meant not paying attention to the medical doctor’s order when they were cutting your cast off, but Johnny took in every word.

You almost say something then, tossing Johnny’s shirt onto his pile, but the wrong words come out.

“You need a haircut.”

“Yeah?” Johnny’s hands still around a pair of your shorts, you feel him watching you in his peripheral vision. “You want to cut it?”

Of course, you did; you spend more moments than not thinking about how his hair must feel like long if it’s still soft. But every time the two of you tried to touch each other, the other pulled away.

So when Johnny takes your hand, and pulls you up the stairs, you let him - hand heavy and warm in your own.

Johnny lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat; you feel unsteady as you approach him, clippers in hand, and you’re not sure if it’s from the closeness or the weight of your cast being removed.

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” You ask again; since you’d come home your fingers had been a kind of clumsy they’d never been before.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Johnny keeps his eyes trained on you, fingers tapping against the tight denim stretched across his jeans.

“I can scalp you bald,” you admit, switching the clippers on, “and then you’d look like a Q-Ball for eight weeks.”

“I’ll be the best damn Q-Ball anyone’s ever seen,” Johnny says, beard twitching as he smirks at you. If he notices the way your fingers tremble when you take his jaw in your hand, he doesn’t say anything.

His eyes close at the feeling of the clippers cutting through his hair, no doubt the feeling of the weight being removed was comfortable for him.

“You didn’t do this while I was - while I was gone?”

Your therapist says you shouldn’t shy away from calling your kidnapping what it was, but you still can’t form the words in front of Johnny.

He hums at your words, never opening his eyes as he speaks.

“I don’t let anyone else touch my hair, birdie.”

“What about your beard?”

Johnny snorts, eyes meeting yours as you maneuver his head to the side.

“You don’t like it?”

You like the way he feels against your skin, you want to tell him. But you can’t make the words form, can’t spit them out. Johnny watches you chew on them for a moment before he lets out a sigh. His hair is scattered on the floor around the two of you, more than you’d thought he’d had.

You swap the guards to shorten his mohawk, pressing yourself in between Johnny’s knees so that you can reach the nape of his neck.

His hands wrap around your thighs, light and warm against the skin that peeks out beneath the shorts you hadn’t taken off since you’d left your cast removal this morning.

Your skin is on fire at his touch, you try to ignore it as you clean up his neck; Johnny buries his face in your shirt, breath warm against your stomach. His fingers trace light patterns on your thigh and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep the clippers from straying.

His fingers trace the scar that covers his name, and you jump back like you’ve been shocked. Your back hits the wall, knocking the decorative towels you’d spent days choosing to the floor. Johnny’s hands linger in the air between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” you pant out with a heavy swallow.

Johnny pushes himself up, eyes watching you like you’re a wild animal ready to run.

He reaches out and brushes some of his fallen hair from your shoulders, electrifying your skin again. His touch is hesitant as he traces up your shoulder, fingers cupping the back of your neck.

He’s fire as he presses himself against you, lips brushing over yours just quick enough to light something up inside of you before pulling away with an apology. He loosens the clippers from your hands and shoos you out with a promise he’ll clean the hair up himself.

A storm rages outside, threatening to cut the power at any moment. You watch it throw around tree limbs and leaves through the front window. Behind you, the television casts soft shadows on the walls.

“Still pouring out there?” Johnny asks from his spot on the couch. Your answer is the curtain falling back into place. You pad back to your spot beside Johnny; he holds the blanket up for you to slip underneath.

His bare leg rubs against yours, but his hands stay firmly in his lap. He hadn’t tried to touch you since that day in the bathroom - even when he dropped you off at therapy, you’d wait for him to stretch across and kiss you, but he’d just send you off with a wave.

You knew it was partially your fault: you couldn’t get the words out to explain how much you wanted him to touch you, how sorry you were for every jerk away. Every time you tried to tell him how much you wanted him, the words curled into your throat and refused to budge. You had even asked earlier for him to take a shower with you, to no avail.

The movie - some family flick Johnny picked because it didn’t have any violence, you know - cast shadows across Johnny’s face. His stubble is starting to come in again; you reach out and trace your finger across the five o’clock shadow creeping onto his jawline.

Johnny doesn’t take his eyes away from the television screen, but he leans his face into your touch. Your fingers trace upwards, lacing through the Mohawk you’d trimmed just two weeks ago. Johnny nearly purrs when you tug on his hair, pulling him down so that he’s lying across your lap.

You have to take it slow, you know or you and Johnny both might break apart. So you just settle beneath him, fingers tracing patterns onto his scalp, eyes trained on the television, but not really watching.

“I don’t think I’m going to go back,” you whisper, voice nearly drowned out by the storm outside. Johnny rolls, doing his best not to dig painfully into your thigh to look up at you.

“To work?”

You nod, still refusing to look at him.

“I talked about it with the therapist today; I just - I think it would be best if I just cashed in my retirement. I’ve got a lot saved up: hazard pay and all that. The corporal offered me a job as a trainer. So I could still be around."

Johnny’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist, forcing you to look at him. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you don’t like that. He’s always your open book. You try to keep your heart rate steady at the feeling of him tracing patterns on your wrist.

“I’m sorry, birdie.”

And you know he’s not just apologizing for your ruined career, for the nearly year you’d spent locked away in some disgusting cell, for the still broken teeth in your mouth, or the screws that hold most of you together now. He’s still apologizing for not being able to find you earlier, to be there months earlier.

“It’s not your fault Johnny - I should have told them no. I should have been smart enough to just tell my commanding that I couldn’t do it. I should have-“

Hot tears start to fall; Johnny pushes himself up, fingers brushing them away gently. When you don’t shy away from his touch, he pulls you into his lap, tucking your head beneath his chin, and pulling you so tight you think you might break beneath his touch. And you would let yourself shatter beneath him, if it meant he could put you back together, shot through with gold.

Johnny lets you cry on his shoulder until the fabric of his shirt is soaking wet; after a while, the smell of him, the softness of the way he caresses your back,and the feeling of his jean-clad thigh between your own stirs something else inside of you. You need something else, something more desperate, something to push away the feelings of failure. Of the fear that still lingers in you of heights, and darkness, and men who smell of sweat and gunpowder.

So when you kiss him, softly, Johnny doesn’t push you away like he can feel how much you need him to touch you. Even as he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, you don’t break the kiss. It stays superficial, and soft, neither of you breaking apart or deepening it. You expect him to carry you to the spare bed he brought downstairs for you, but instead, he cradles you up the stairs, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there will be a thumb-shaped bruise there tomorrow.

Johnny doesn’t stumble as he carries you.

In the bedroom the two of you shared before you were lost, Johnny collapses on the bed, his smell enveloping you, hands never leaving you. He buries his nose in the soft skin of your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“Are you here with me birdie?”

Johnny’s voice is muffled on your skin, his hands pausing at the hem of your shirt.

“I’m here Johnny.”

You rest your hands on his biceps and feel the way his heart is in your own chest. His weight presses down around you, the mattress sinking down beneath the two of you. The wind rolls in through the window, gooseflesh erupting on your skin where Johnny isn’t touching.

Johnny’s hands don’t move from the hem of your shirt until you slide your own down to his wrists, a bravery you hadn’t felt in weeks taking over you.

“Please, Johnny.”

Johnny shifts, knees spreading your own apart, but he still doesn’t touch your bare skin until you tug on his wrists, trying to slide them underneath your shirt, instead, he traces your arms - the area you know he thinks is safe.

The feeling of his calloused hands on your soft skin makes you shiver; Johnny presses a kiss to your pulse point. You know he can feel the way your heartbeat picks up quickly, and he bites down on the sensitive skin lightly. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way you buck your hips upward into his.

“Birdie.” It’s a warning and a promise rolled into one, and it makes you press your knees together, trying to slow yourself down.

You let your own hands start exploring Johnny. Once, you’d had his skin memorized - every scar and freckle committed to your own memory. But there are new scars there you’ve never seen before, new wrinkles at the corner of his eyes he didn’t have before.

It’s like the first time again, both of you exploring each other slowly. Johnny pauses every time you make a noise, eyes searching your face to make sure you’re alright. You push him away just long enough to pull his shirt off of him, hands instantly reaching out to pull him back down. His own hands slide your shorts down until you can kick them across the room.

Johnny kisses you, full of the same desperation he’d had that day at the hospital. Your teeth click together as the two of you suddenly move frantically, hands grasping at each other. Johnny shakes as you run your nails down his back, pushing until he realizes what you want.

Johnny rolls, hands still wrapped around your waist until you’re on top of him. The thin material of your panties is already wet; you can feel it when you grind down on him. The rough material of his blue jeans has enough friction to send lighting bolts through you.

“Is that what you want birdie?” Johnny’s voice is low and rough in his throat; his hands rest lightly on your hips as you grind down. Your hands reach back to rest on his thighs, more leverage for you to move.

You can’t answer him, already biting down on the moans that start to build in the back of your throat. Johnny’s grip tights as you speed up; you can feel his erection pressing tightly against his zipper as you grind faster.

You feel yourself start to tremble, hands moving to brace yourself against Johnny’s chest. He wraps one hand around your wrist, the other still at your waist; you can’t look away from the hungry glint in his eye.

Outside the storm lashes, the cool air rolling in across you and Johnny.

“Let it out,” he whispers, voice ragged and panting. He’s bucking his own hips in time with your grinding; he’s holding back - you know he doesn’t want to scare you, so you loosen the knot inside of you, moaning loud enough that a blush starts to creep up your chest. At the sound, Johnny bucks up harder.

You can’t help the way you come undone, nails digging into Johnny’s chest, leaving half moons on the sensitive skin. Johnny lets you ride him until the waves of your orgasm finish rolling over you, his hands not leaving you until you finally still, thighs shaking on each side of him. You can feel your drenched underwear, feel yourself soaking into his blue jeans.

Johnny is so hard beneath you, a red flush across his chest. Outside the storm rages harder, and the lights flicker momentarily. Johnny pushes himself up onto one elbow, the hand that has refused to move up your shirt sliding up just an inch. His fingers play with the edge of your underwear, the lace snagging on his callouses.

“Why don’t you want to touch me?” You can barely hear yourself over the rain lashing against the window; Johnny’s eyebrows knit together, and he pushes himself up until he’s sitting up, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep from falling backward.

“I want to touch you,” he tries to reassure you, hands tracing patterns across the back of your shirt. But you shrug his hands off, catching his wrists in your hands before he can fully withdraw away.

“You won’t touch me beneath my shirt,” you slide his hands down to the bare skin of your thighs, moving them until the hem of your shirt falls over his fingertips. “You wouldn’t take a shower with me.”

Johnny chews on his lips, they’re too chapped, you think. The silence stretches in the sound of the storm, and the flickering lights. Before Johnny can speak lightning and thunder crash outside, and the house goes dark - the sound of the electricity powering down cutting him off. Neither of you moves in the sudden blackness.

“I’m not broken, Johnny.” You don’t want to sound so pathetic, but you do.

“I know you’re not, hen.”

“Then why am I having to beg, Johnny?”

Johnny’s hand slips up so that he’s holding your hips beneath your shirt.

“I’m not going to hurt you too.”

It’s a tough confession for him to make, you know. He’d done his best not to talk about the whole ordeal, he never asked what you went through. This was his way of keeping you away from it.

You roll your hips across his again, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Please Johnny; you’re not going to hurt me.”

You don’t know if it’s the whine in your voice or the way you trace your fingers across the hard plane of his chest, or if Johnny is just as tired of holding back as you - but he rolls you over, gentle and quick until his chest his pressed against yours, his mouth finding the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

You’re horribly out of practice, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, getting stuck when Johnny pulls your shirt over your head, but he doesn’t let his lips leave you; your teeth clip together as Johnny deepens the kiss he refuses to let end until your gasping for breath beneath him.

It’s electric in the best and worst ways - Johnny’s calloused fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh of your breasts, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear, pushing them further down each time.

The current running through you makes it difficult to breathe; you can’t even warn Johnny, can’t beg him to slow down what you were just begging him to speed up. But there has never been anyone who’s known you the same way Johnny has, and when his hands slow you know he can feel that it’s too much. Just for a moment.

“Still with me?”

“Still here.”

Johnny’s hands don’t speed up, but he doesn’t slow either - pressing open-mouth kisses down your neck, between your breasts, across the planes of your stomach until he finally stops at the edge of your underwear. He darts his tongue out to lick the sensitive skin peeking out above the hem, and the feeling makes you gasp out, hips pressing harder into the mattress. His fingertips brush just over the wetness you’ve soaked through and you grind your teeth together, painfully.

“Too much?”

Yes.

Too much for you at this moment; you’re not sure if your body will hold together if Johnny even tries to eat you out, tries to stretch you with his fingers, you can hardly keep together at the feeling of him touching you anywhere after so many months of nothing but dirt, and maggots, and feverish longing for-

You didn’t notice Johnny crawling back up your body until he presses a soft kiss on your temple, fingers wiping away your hair that’s plastered with sweat there.

Johnny’s whispering in your ear: how much he missed you, how he had thought about you every day, how he’d tried to scorch the earth to look for you; he pulls you until you’re back on top of him. You can feel how hard he is, how wet you are as you grind down against the hard planes of his lower stomach, searching for him.

Johnny’s hands squeeze at your hips, shifting the both of you until you feel the tip of him catch against you; a shudder rolls through you both, but Johnny doesn’t move. Every muscle in his body is pulled taunt, pulled against fucking into you at a frenetic pace. You recognize the set of his jaw, the way his hands wrap around your forearms. He’s letting you set the pace, letting you control him.

You wait for just a heartbeat before pressing down onto him; your vision whites out from the almost uncomfortable stretch of him as you sink down slowly. You can’t remember the last time the two of you were here, the last time the two of you fucked. Johnny’s nails dig into the underside of your forearm, yours into his chest until you finally reach the hilt.

You hold there for a moment, feeling the way he fills you up - so much so that you don’t think there’s room for anything else besides Johnny - there never has been. You can’t even think between the feeling of Johnny filling you up and the feeling of not trying to cum so fast. Finally, when your heartbeat slows incrementally, you rock yourself against him, slowly, using his chest as leverage.

Beneath you Johnny is coming undone; he’s biting his lip so hard you think he might draw blood, so you trace your fingertips across his bottom lip. His lips part beneath your touch, and he takes your pointer finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around it.

The feeling makes your hips move faster, stuttering against him. Johnny moans, muffled around your finger. The sound is horribly erotic in the darkness, and it spurs something inside of you to move your hips faster, rougher against Johnny. But he doesn’t move beneath you, still holding himself back. The sound of skin on skin, of how wet you are for him drown out the storm.

Johnny’s hands are everywhere: in your hair, cupping the supple flesh of your ass, pinching and rolling your nipples between his thick fingers; one hand sneaks across the flesh of your hip, dipping between the two of you to circle your clit. The feeling makes you crumple against him; Johnny takes the opportunity to roll you over, pressing you into the mattress.

Johnny presses one of your knees up, hooking it over his elbow so that he can fuck into you, still gentle even when he’s deeper than you think he’s ever been before, his other hand still circling your clit, slowly enough to keep you from falling apart, but fast enough to bring you to the edge.

His pace grows rougher; you claw at him, drawing red welts across his skin, but Johnny doesn’t slow down. You keep your eyes closed tightly, back arched to try and get him in deeper, to get more.

“Look at me.”

Johnny’s voice is rough, a gentle command you have to follow. His eyes never leave yours, even when his pace increases, the finger on your clit still rubbing tight circles until-

Until you’re breaking apart, shattering beneath him. Your orgasm makes you arch, back nearly leaving the mattress. Johnny’s hands move to cup your face, pulling himself down until he can kiss you as you ride through your orgasm, gasping in his own mouth. Your nails draw thick red welts across his back, but Johnny doesn’t stop pounding into you, your moans drowned out by the way he kisses you.

Not long after, Johnny’s pace starts to stutter, his lips never leaving yours until he plunges in deeper than he had before, and you can feel his warm release spill out inside of you.

Even when he’s completely spent, Johnny doesn’t pull out of you, instead fucking into you once, twice, three more times until you know you can’t take anymore, hands pressing on his chest to push him away.

Johnny’s fingers smooth your twitching thighs as he pulls away. In the darkness, you can just see his outline as he shifts between your legs, but he doesn’t move from there.

He caresses you until you are finally still and your panting finally slows. His fingers trace across the cracks you can still feel, stitching you back together, shot through with gold.

“Still here?”

“Still here.”

#my fics #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish #cod soap x reader #cod imagines #cod smut #soap mw2 #soap mactavish #cod x reader #johnny mactavish

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scotianostra · 2 months ago

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Good Morning from Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Broughty Ferry Castle, bathed in the soft glow of the mornings sunrise.

📸gthomsonphotography/Graham Thomson on Instagram

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ayeforscotland · 4 months ago

Note

hi! i am an American, falling in love with Scotland and want to move there someday. what recommendations would you have? i want to be respectful of the heritage of the place and find a community i feel safe in

I don’t really think there’s any recommendations specific to Scotland that don’t apply elsewhere. The rule of “Don’t be an arsehole” applies pretty much everywhere.

Obviously a lot of Americans are interested in Scotland due to Outlander, the only thing I’d say there is don’t take stones from ancient burial sites and ferry them back to the States. Saw a story recently about an American woman doing that at the Clava Cairns up by Inverness.

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thepastisalreadywritten · 10 months ago

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By Brian Melley, AP News

13 January 2024

LONDON (AP) — An unlikely refugee from the war in Ukraine — a rare Asiatic black bear — arrived at his new home in Scotland on Friday and quickly took to a meal of cucumbers and watermelon.

The 12-year-old Yampil was named for a village in the Donetsk region where he was one of the few survivors found by Ukrainian troops in the remains of a bombed-out private zoo.

Yampil, who had previously been called Borya, was discovered by soldiers who recaptured the devastated city of Lyman during the Kharkiv counteroffensive in the fall of 2022, said Yegor Yakovlev of Save Wild, who was among the first of many people who led the bear to a new life.

The bear was found in a menagerie that had long been abandoned by its owners.

Almost all the other animals had died of hunger, thirst or were struck by bullets or shrapnel and some were eaten by Russian troops.

Yampil narrowly missed the same fate, suffering a concussion from a projectile that landed nearby.

“The bear miraculously survived,” said Yakovlev, also director of the White Rock Bear Shelter, where the bear recovered.

“Our fighters did not know what to do with him, so they started looking for rescue.”

What followed was an odyssey that your average bear rarely makes, as he was moved to Kyiv for veterinary care and rehab, then shipped to a zoo in Poland, then to an animal rescue in Belgium, where he spent the past seven months, before landing in the United Kingdom.

Brian Curran, owner of Five Sisters Zoo in West Calder, Scotland, said his heart broke when he learned of the plight of the threatened Asiatic black bear.

“He was in terrible condition; five more days and they wouldn’t have been able to save him,” Curran said. “We were just so amazed he was still alive and well.”

The bear was skinny but not malnourished when he was found, said Frederik Thoelen, a biologist at the Nature Help Center in Belgium.

He now is estimated to weigh a healthy 440 pounds (200 kilograms), Thoelen said.

The nature center in Belgium, which usually treats injured wildlife and returns them to their natural settings, has taken several animals rescued from the war in Ukraine, including a wolf, a caracal cat and four lions, though those animals had not experienced the ordeal Yampil endured.

It was remarkable how calm Yampil was when he arrived in Belgium, Thoelen said.

The bear was trained in the past two weeks to move from his enclosure to the crate that would transport him across Belgium to Calais, France, then across the English Channel on a ferry to Scotland.

Pastries from a local bakery were used for good measure to lure him Thursday into the cage, where he was sedated for the journey.

“We want to use the food that he likes most, and for most bears — and for people also — it’s sweet, unhealthy foods,” Thoelen said.

Thoelen had a sense of the bear’s weight as he drove the crate to the port.

“Every time when we had a red light or a traffic jam, when the bear moved a little bit, you could feel the van moving also,” he said.

“You could feel it was a heavy animal in the back of the car.”

Yampil arrived at the zoo about 15 miles (25 kilometers) west of Edinburgh and immediately made himself at home.

He feasted on cukes — said to be his favorite food — and melon, said Adam Welsh, who works at Five Sisters.

The Asiatic black bear is listed on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List of Threatened Species as vulnerable to extinction in the wild, where it can be found in central and southern Asia, Russia, and Japan.

It’s known for the distinctive white crescent patch on its chest that gives it the nickname moon bear. It can live for up to 30 years in zoos.

It’s not clear if the bear will go into hibernation. The winter has been warmer than usual but colder days are on the horizon.

The zoo has other bears, but Yampil is the only Asian bear and unique in other ways.

“We’ve had circus bears, for example, that have been rescued,” Welsh said.

“We’ve had bears rescued from places like roadside restaurants where they’ve been used as kind of roadside attractions and been kept in subpar conditions. But this is the first time that we’ve worked with an animal that’s been rescued from a war zone.”

youtube

Scottish zoo welcomes black bear which survived war in Ukraine

13 January 2024

🖤🐻🤎

#Asiatic black bear #Ukraine #Scotland #Yampil #Borya #Save Wild #White Rock Bear Shelter #Five Sisters Zoo #Nature Help Center #Belgium #Poland #International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List of Threatened Species #moon bear #save animals #protect wildlife #threatened species #refugee bear #private zoo #Youtube

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ladykailitha · 8 days ago

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Around the World Part 6

Hello! And welcome to another chapter of this very underrated fic. Thank you to everyone who has given it love in the way of comments, reblogs/tags, and likes.

It's London calling! And we meet a Murray Bauman in the wild. Eddie and Steve get a little introspective and Steve does something rash.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Their trip through the haunting and beautiful Ireland was amazing. So many tales and history. This is why Steve wanted to do more than just America like Eddie had originally wanted, because America just didn’t have the history Europe and other places did. Not unless you wanted to disturb actual First Nation people and that was something he wanted to avoid at all cost, thank you.

They were on the ferry from Northern Ireland to Scotland and Steve was looking out over his shoulder at the water as he leaned against the guardrail. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, allowing the wind to blow through his hair.

Eddie slid his arm around him and Steve laid his head on his shoulder.

Today Eddie had his beard and faux-dreadlocks in a light blue button up shirt and cream colored wide-legged pants. His chunky sunglasses covered the his face.

“You know,” Eddie murmured, “until we reached this leg of our journey and you started to disguise me, I didn’t realize how much I missed just being Eddie Munson, regular guy. I can really see the appeal of you and friends’ way of doing it.”

“Yeah,” Steve said softly. “Of course it means that we can’t go all out and buy everything we want, stay in fancy hotels, show up at restaurants without a reservation and get in. But I can go into my local grocery store and buy two tubs of mint ice cream because I felt like it.” He lifted his head to look Eddie in the eye. “Like some Karen would judge me, but it’s not going to go up on TMZ that I’m letting myself go.”

God, Eddie had had that happen more times than he cared to count. Like once Chrissy was on her period and he went to go get her chocolate, Ben and Jerry’s, and pads. Before he even got to his car it was all over the internet that he was letting himself go, just because it was 2am and his best friend needed something to help her feel better.

“You think you’ll ever come out?” he asked, pulling Steve in closer.

It was a familiar and well-worn topic of theirs; whether or not Steve would ever come out as bisexual at least.

He ducked his head and looked away. He didn’t know. He didn’t like hiding parts of himself for those he loved. He would like to tell people this is the love of my life.

“Would you leave me if I said no?” he mumbled, not daring to look up.

Eddie placed his finger under Steve’s chin and lifted his head gently. “Of course not, Stevie. There are literal actors who have been married for years and no one knows. It’s just between them. We could do that too. Just a quiet ceremony, Robin and Chrissy as the witnesses, and a justice of the peace.”

Steve let out a weak sort of watery laugh and shook his head. “I want all our friends there, famous and otherwise. I want a full tilt party with music playing into the early hours of the morning. I want fancy tuxes and flowers galore. I know I might not get that, the absolute coward that I am. But if I marry you, it be to scream from the rooftops that I love you.”

Eddie bumped their shoulders together. “Softy.” Steve blushed. “Besides there is nothing in the world that says we can’t have it both ways. Have a quiet little ‘just us’ and then go full tilt when you come out. You don’t even have to tell anyone. Just a little comfort that I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve pressed a gentle kiss to Eddie’s cheek. “I’ll think about it.”

Eddie kissed him deeply and then tucked his head under his chin and they stayed like that until the ferry docked in Scotland.

God, Scotland and England were beautiful countries Eddie decided as he watched the rolling green hills from his train window. That was another thing he really liked about Europe in general, just all the different ways to travel that weren’t a car.

He looked over at Steve who had his glasses on and reading a book. He smiled at the title. His boyfriend wasn’t a fantasy fan or science fiction either, really, but put a clever mystery in his hands and you would have to pry to the book from his cold, dead fingers.

He glanced over at Chrissy and Robin who were playing Go Fish! They had asked him if he wanted to join them, but he passed. He rarely got time to just relax and watch the scenery go by when he was on tour. He was always doing something related to the band. Writing music, practicing, talking about the next venue, interview, or TV spot.

Him and his friends had fun, because of course they did. But it was nice to just let his mind wander. Currently he was sad that they were going to have to miss Wales this time. He really wanted to buy some Welsh gold jewelry. It’s super rare and absolutely gorgeous.

Maybe he would have to come back later and get something special for Steve. Just something simple like matching bands even if it wasn’t on the left hand. Or necklaces. Just something simple to prove they were it for each other.

“I made an appointment with a well-known tattoo artist in London,” Steve said nonchalant, but like he was reading Eddie’s thoughts.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to Steve. Robin nearly giving herself whiplash in her speed.

“As your friend, manager, and platonic soulmate,” she said darkly, “I advise against that. You can cover it up but someone, somewhere will see it.”

Steve looked up from his book and leveled her with his best bitchy glare. “Not if it’s on my ass.”

Chrissy and Eddie’s eyebrows shot up and they shared a shocked glance. Eddie always loved tattoos, he had a couple of stick and poke style ones from when he was young and stupid and couldn’t afford to pay for an artist to do the job, but there was one place, well technically two if you included his dick, which he absolutely did, that he refused to get a tattoo on and that was his ass. Not being able to sit down properly for what would probably be weeks was not his idea of a good time.

“Not really, though, right?” Chrissy asked with a grimace.

Steve took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Of course not really. Sheesh, you guys. But I hid fucking hickies from the both of you for a year and you never noticed, so I’m pretty sure I can hide one fucking tattoo.”

Robin and Chrissy shared their little ‘manager’ glance and Chrissy folded first.

“You’re right, Steve,” she said calmly. “Not once did you forget or slip up and you should be applauded for that. But is there a reason you’re deciding to get a tattoo now instead of waiting until we’re back in the States and you can use Eddie’s personal artist?”

He looked over at Robin and their little telepathy thing went off again and this time Robin folded first.

“It’s for Eddie,” she murmured. “They can’t be out as a couple and with Steve being the romantic that he is, wouldn’t want to get married without all his friends there, so this is his way of telling Eddie he isn’t going anywhere either.”

Eddie blinked for a moment. “Do you think they take walk-ins?”

“I booked it for both of us.” Steve smiled at him and took his hand. Eddie beamed back at him.

“They are so disgustingly cute,” Robin huffed, crossing her arms. “I bet Steve has this really sweet idea for a tattoo that even if people do notice it they won’t be able to tell the meaning but he and Eddie will know and be so sickeningly precious about it.”

Eddie gave him a huge kiss on the cheek. “I love my super clever boyfriend and can’t wait to see what this brilliant plan is.”

Steve’s brilliant plan was half of a white mask on Eddie’s inner wrist and half of guitar on Steve’s and when they held hands it formed almost heart.

The tattoo artist was really impressed with the idea and was more than happy to implement it. Steve walked out of there, completely smug as Chrissy pointed out. Deservedly so.

They were to stay in London for three days because of all the haunted places in London alone, there were so many worth visiting. They were going to start at Jack the Ripper tour and move onto the tour of London.

The tour they learned with deep dismay had accidentally been scheduled at 2pm and not 2am like Eddie had thought it said. It was so boring and their tour guide so dull, Eddie accidentally tripped of one of those concrete pillars they had in the middle of the sidewalk to prevent cars from driving up on it.

“Oof!” Eddie wheezed as he straightened up. “Why do they even put those things here?”

“Chrissy Cunningham,” a nasally voice said from behind them. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

They all turned slowly to see a weaselly little bald man with thick horn-rimmed glass.

“Holy shit,” Chrissy said slowly. “Murray Bauman, as I live and breath. What the hell are you doing in London?”

He shrugged. “Eking out a living doing tours for bored tourists. When the biggest metal band in the world drops you, so does everyone else.”

Chrissy and Eddie shared a grimace. Corroded Coffin had deliberately did that to Nancy after the shit she pulled with Steve and trying to be The Fallen’s agent. But this one was a complete accident.

“Oh fuck off,” Robin said with a grin. “You love it. I can tell. You have actual notes written down, you have a map marked with all the spots the murders take place. I bet you have all the great stories.”

Murray flushed and cocked his head to the side. “I mean I didn’t want to brag. But yeah, certainly better than Molly over there.” He jutted his thumb at their tour guide. “Most of the good ones are from tour companies and then you get people like Molly who make it look legit online and trick people into taking day tours.”

“God, I was so bored,” Eddie huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I felt jet lagged.”

Murray’s eyes instantly narrowed and cocked his head to the side and instantly everyone else tensed up. He took in their reactions and mimed zipping his mouth shut.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if you’re still in town tomorrow, meet me here at 9pm and I’ll give you a proper tour.”

Chrissy licked her lips slowly. “Or what?”

“Huh?” He was confused for a moment before he smacked his forehead. “Oh! No, no. I’m not going to blackmail you. Holy shit. If people want to enjoy a vacation without all the publicity, good on them.” He looked Eddie up and down. “Looks good on you kid.”

Eddie was suddenly glad for the large sunglasses and beard because it hid the blush on his cheeks.

“No, I’m just saying,” Murray continued, “that if you wanted to experience a proper Jack the Ripper tour, I’m willing to do it. I don’t have a tour currently booked and beside I like her.” He pointed at Robin, who grinned back him.

The four them all shared glances at each other.

“I’m down,” Steve said with a shrug. “If you’re as good as you say you are and aren’t trying to actively ‘get back’ at Chrissy for taking your job, I know I’d be interested in seeing what Whitechapel has to offer after dark.”

“I like him too,” Murray said brightly, rubbing his hands together. “So what do the rest of you say?”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” Steve’s three menaces said together.

He just smiled fondly and shook his head.

Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence

3- @goodolefashionedloverboi @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @irregular-child @blondie1006

4- @yikes-a-bee @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten

5- @genderless-spoon @y4r3luv @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt

6- @disrespectedgoatman @dawners @thespaceantwhowrites @tinyplanet95 @garden-of-gay

7- @iamthehybrid @croatoan-like-its-hot @papergrenade @cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars

8- @ravenfrog @w1ll0wtr33 @child-of-cthulhu @kultiras @dreamercec

9- @machete-inventory-manager @useless-nb-bisexual @stripey82 @dotdot-wierdlife @kal-ology

10- @sadisticaltarts @urkadop @chameleonhair @clockworkballerina

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #rockstar eddie munson #rockstar steve harrington #rockstar au

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mudwerks · 1 year ago

Photo

(via The Burryman – Edinburgh, Scotland - Atlas Obscura)

FOR ONE DAY IN AUGUST, the residents and visitors of South Queensferry in Edinburgh, Scotland, are treated to a rather unusual display. A man is dressed from head to toe in burrs, a prickly part of a plant that is similar to thistles, and paraded around this port town along the Firth of Forth estuary. The exact origins of this spectacle have been lost to the mists of time, but there is speculation that is deeply rooted in folklore traditions.

It has been suggested that the Burryman is associated with pagan rituals involving the cycles of death and rebirth, often linked to harvest celebrations. The Burryman’s presence is said to ward off evil and promote good fortune to all those who pay him homage either in monies or alcohol. His appearance happens in conjunction with the town’s Ferry Fair Festival.

good morning

#scotland #burryman #folklore #ward off evil #head to toe in burrs

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darth-mortem · 10 months ago

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Here is my another one fix-it COD fanfic translated by @g8se.

ATTENTION: This fic contains COD MW3 spoilers.

After Johnny's death, Simon loses his desire to live. Having avenged Makarov, he leaves the army but doesn't know where to go. It's then that Captain Price shows him the way. A long journey leads Simon to a remote island where he rediscovers the purpose of his life. 3455 words.

Post-canon, fix-it, angst, fluff, Ghost/Soap, love

I advise you to turn on this and this music while reading.

Simon stood at the deck of the ferry, leaning on the railing with his elbows, watching as ahead, through the dense morning fog hovering over the strait, emerged the outlines of his final destination - the isle of Islay. The cold wind stirred the waves, crashing against the ferry's blunt steel nose, seeping through clothing, making tears well in his eyes and leaving a salty taste on his lips. Seagulls circled above the ferry, their desperate, piercing cries making his heart squeeze in an indescribable yearning.

Simon smoked, with the edge of his ever-present balaclava lifted over his nose. He hadn't approved of this foolish habit before, but had picked it up after Johnny's death. At first, cigarettes disgusted him, but eventually he got hooked. The bitter smoke filling his lungs triggered memories of times when he could still feel happiness, when he could feel something other than the dull, oppressive pain that had now become his constant companion.

You can read on Ao3 or here:

The outlines of the island became clearer. The wind blew the fog away, the white-capped waves repeatedly clashed against the ferry's sides. Simon felt a kinship with the ever-restless sea, as now, just like the sea, he will never find peace while his tormented heart is still beating. After finishing his cigarette, he tossed the stub overboard and immediately fetched another from the pack. He had no plan, no aim, nothing except the enigmatic words of Captain Price, spoken during their, probably, last encounter.

...”I'm leaving,” Lieutenant Riley said, placing his resignation report on the captain's table.

Price took it, silently glanced over the papers, then raised his head to see Ghost, standing still and staring blankly somewhere past him.

It was over. Vengeance had been achieved; Makarov and all his henchmen were dead. Yet, it brought Simon no solace. He was utterly hollow, dead inside, and he no longer wanted nor could continue his service because he saw no sense in it.

“Where will you go?” Price asked, puffing on his cigar.

“I don't know,” Simon replied indifferently, shrugging his shoulders.

“Then allow me to give you a piece of advice,” the captain nodded towards the chair, and the lieutenant obediently sat down, putting his hands on his knees. “Head to Scotland. There's an island, Islay. Go there, to a small village on the coast, Port Ellen. There's a little pub right on the beach called 'Slice of Peace.' Find it, but don't rush. Observe before entering. Perhaps there, at last, you'll find peace for your soul. At least, that's what I would truly wish for.”...

The ferry arrived to Port Askaig right on schedule, but Simon didn't linger there. Port Ellen was situated almost on the other side of the island, about nineteen miles away. This distance could be covered by car in about forty minutes, but Simon didn't have a car. He had practically nothing except a small backpack with his belongings. Without much appetite, he ate a sandwich at the gas station, then left Port Askaig and, without any hurry, began walking along the road toward Port Ellen. Nineteen miles is a considerable distance for an average person, but not for a retired lieutenant. He understood that the journey would take him five to six hours, but that didn't daunt him. He was capable of walking without stopping for much longer if necessary, and right now, it was more necessary than ever.

About two hours into his journey, near Bridgend Woods, a farmer picked Simon up in a small truck. The truck bed was filled with sheep, and the driver was heading to Laggan Farm, but he offered to drop this strange, silent man in a balaclava off almost at Glendale. The good-natured and compassionate farmer could see that his passenger was consumed by profound sorrow, so he didn't pry into anything. As they bid farewell, he left his address and phone number, offering a visit if Mr. Riley needed a place to stay. Simon thanked him, but as soon as the truck disappeared from sight, he crumpled the piece of paper with the address and threw it away before continuing his way to Port Ellen.

Arriving at Port Ellen, Simon did as Captain Price had instructed him. Not because the retired lieutenant wanted to fulfil his commander's final order, no. Just on his first evening in Port Ellen, upon finding the pub mentioned, Simon saw Johnny there. He was as beautifully fit as ever but had let his hair grow a bit; now he had to tie back his mohawk to keep it from getting in the way when he’s working. John no longer wore military uniform or heavy gear. He was wearing jeans, a high-necked knitted sweater, and a bartender's apron with large pockets. The tattoo he got in the SAS were no longer on his hand, but he had visible scars on his temples.

For nearly a week Simon observed him from early morning until late at night. He didn't stay in the local hotel or anywhere else, spending the cold nights in the docks or in someone's unlocked barn. Simon watched and listened, and after a few days, he knew that John MacTavish had showed up around a year ago with a strange story of awakening in a hospital with no memories of his past life, but with documents and a certain sum of money in his account. After treatment and rehabilitation in Glasgow, MacTavish moved to the Isle of Islay, bought a small house on the coast. He opened a pub on the ground floor and arranged his dwelling on the first floor. Being a Scot, John was eventually accepted into the local community after a couple of months.

Of course, Simon Riley wasn't credulous. He observed and noted any matching characteristic - gestures, expressions, words, and body language that resembled Johnny's usual mannerisms. The retired lieutenant watched how MacTavish worked, solved work-related issues, and interacted with his pub's customers.

Simon really wanted to believe that this man was indeed Johnny. His Johnny, the one who once restored his ability to feel joy, happiness, love; his Johnny, with whom it was easy to work and spend leisure time; his Johnny, who managed to see beyond Ghost in his skull-faced mask, not just a soldier, a killing machine, but a human being. Injured, scarred, broken, but nonetheless - a human being. Simon Riley.

The final straw of these observations was an incident that occurred one evening at one of the tables by the pub, standing right on the sandy shore. John, as always, smiling, full of energy and life, brought four pints of beer to some grey-bearded fishermen. One of them was in the middle of telling a joke, and the cheerful pub owner naturally stopped to listen and laugh along with them.

“ Hey, John, how aboot sharin' a joke wi' us?” one of the fishermen asked, tipping his beer.

“Why no’?” MacTavish's lips lit up with his dazzling smile. “Well, for example... dae ye know what haes two legs an’ bleeds?”

“Mebe it's Lars whan he stabbed himsel' wi' the fishin' huke straicht in...” one of the fishermen started, but another one, the infamous Lars, jabbed him in the side with his fist.

“ Or mebbe it's yer wife on certain days o' the month?” he exclaimed in offense.

“Easy, lads,” the eldest among them thumped the table with his fist and looked at MacTavish. “Sae, whit's the craic, John?”

“Half a dog!” cheerfully replied the man and chuckled, but quickly fell silent, noticing no one echoed his response.

“That's a braw odd joke,” Lars said, shaking his head. “Whaur did ye hear that, John?”

“I... I don't know,” MacTavish said, bewildered, raising his hands. “Maybe it's somethin' from my past life that I don't remember.”

“Maybe it's fer the best tha ye dinnae remember,” the eldest fisherman shook his head. “ It's chilblaining tae picture how it wis wi these jokes.”

That evening, Simon quietly entered the empty pub just before closing. The bell above the door announced his arrival, and John peeked out from the kitchen - no longer wearing his apron, with his hair down, surprise in his remarkably bright blue eyes.

“We're ‘bout to close, sir,” he started, but then suddenly fell silent, catching the look of unspeakably sad brown eyes surrounded by long and blonde lashes. “But, ye know what? Come on in! Ye're not a local, right? Yer lookin' like ye seriously need to doon a few glasses o’ whiskey. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Simon hesitantly approached the bar counter and added, “I’d kill for some whiskey.”

Most of the lights in the room were already off, but the lamps over the bar were still lit, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise as he peered under the hood at the stranger with the skull-printed balaclava.

“What's the getup, sir?” he asked and cheerfully, amiably smiled. “Are you ugly?”

“Quite the opposite,” Simon replied automatically, and they both suddenly froze, looking at each other.

“I'm sorry,” John finally spoke, slowly pouring two glasses of whiskey; he placed one in front of the peculiar visitor and took the other one. “Have we met before? What's your name, sir?”

“Simon,” he replied, and in his hollow dead eyes, for perhaps the first time in a year, flickered faint sparks of hope. “Simon Riley.”

John looked curiously at the late visitor's face as he lifted the edge of his balaclava to take a sip of whiskey but averted his gaze upon realizing his curiosity was noticed. Swirling the glass in his hand, he took a sip and quietly asked:

“Ye're military, Simon Riley?”

“Retired,” he replied, tilting his head slightly. “Why do you think so?”

“I don't know,” John said, puzzled, and gave a shy smile, “it was just the first thing that came to mind.”

They sat in the dimly lit pub till the late hours of the night. Simon saw that Johnny was at ease in his company, feeling a sense of trust, although a person who didn’t remember anything from his past life would typically cast suspicion on the stranger in the skull mask. Eventually, the bottle was emptied. The pub owner poured the last drops of whiskey into their glasses and looked at Simon with a tinge of regret.

“So, where are you staying?” he asked, wanting to prolong the parting in every possible way.

“Nowhere, really,” Simon shrugged and let out a quiet yet deeply mournful sigh.

“Ye know,” Johnny spoke slowly, “ye might think I'm mad, but I have a comfortable sofa at home.”

“You're very kind, but I have no money at all,” Simon shook his head and smiled bitterly. “I can only hope what little I have left will cover paying you for this bottle.”

“Oh, no, leave tha’!” John protested, even his hair stood on end. “Ye've been great company, tae be honest, I havenae had a conversation like this with anyone for a long time... not like with you. So, I'm repeatin’ my offer, and as for the money... I wouldnae mind a hand in the pub. What do ye say?”

And Simon agreed.

Over the next few weeks, the retired lieutenant was learning how to live a civilian life. He quickly adapted to his new responsibilities and managed not only to assist John in the pub but also took care of him - preparing breakfast and coffee, tidying the house, buying groceries from local stores. However, Simon did all of this automatically, almost without thinking. The most important thing was that he was once again close to Johnny. Yes, the latter didn't remember him at all, but they spent a lot of time together, discussing everything under the sun. The only thing the retired lieutenant refused to talk about was his military service. However, John didn't insist. He saw the terrible scars on Simon's neck and face when he lifted the edge of his balaclava, perfectly understanding why he didn't want to talk about it.

One misty, cold morning before the pub opened, Simon and Johnny stood on the beach, smoking, watching the restless sea. Somewhere in the sky, seagulls circled, and their cries remained piercing and desperate, but they no longer held power over Simon Riley's soul. Johnny had just leaned against him, and Simon, in a familiar gesture, put his arm around his shoulders, shielding him from the gusts of cold wind that pierced to the bone, leaving a salty taste of the sea on their lips.

“Simon,” the retired lieutenant heard a quiet, bewildered voice and turned his head towards it, looking closely at Johnny, “We've met before, haven't we?”

Riley looked down, took a drag from his cigarette, and remained silent for almost a minute before replying:

“Yes.”

“I've thought so,” Johnny's voice held no anger or offense. “Ye knew what I liked for breakfast, what coffee I drink, which cigarettes I smoke. Ye knew I like my whiskey neat. Ye knew... a lo’ of things that I didn't notice right away.”

Simon fell silent, looking out to the sea once more. Johnny slowly rested his head on Simon's shoulder and felt his fingers rake through his mohawk, tousled by the wind. Raising his hand, MacTavish slowly touched the scar on his temple and spoke again.

“Was I military too?” He asked. “Did we serve together? Were we friends?”

Simon remained silent. The wind snatched the cigarette butt from his fingers, but he remained absolutely still, stare fixed straight ahead, and seemingly not even blinking. John lifted his head from Simon's shoulder, took a step forward to face him, and held his shoulders. His other hand rested on Simon's chest. Simon finally lowered his gaze, looking into MacTavish's eyes.

“Will ye be surprised if I tell ye I seem tae have fallen for you?” John said. “Tis madness ‘cause I've only known ye for a few weeks, but... I'm drawn to ye. From our very first meeting when ye walked into my pub. That's why I’ve invited ye over, not because I pure needed an assistant. Please, Simon, tell me something!”

“Let's go inside,” Simon finally spoke and very gently, carefully touched John's cheek with his fingers.

The pub should have opened by now, but at this hour there never were any customers, so MacTavish didn't change the sign “Closed” to “Open.” They sat at the bar facing each other, just as on that first night when Simon finally mustered the courage to enter. Johnny poured them a whiskey each, carefully and unsurely covering Simon's hand, laying on the counter, with his.

The retired lieutenant gulped down his drink and then reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out two photographs. In one of them was Johnny in his uniform and gear, with a rifle in hand and his ever-present smile. It was his last photo taken before that fateful day when, as Simon thought, Johnny was killed. The second photo was a group shot, displaying all members of Task Force 141. Gaz and Soap were smiling, the captain looked stern, and Ghost, as always, was in the background wearing his skull mask. Johnny stared at these photos for a long, intense moment before looking back at Simon.

“I never stopped loving you, Johnny,” he said quietly. “I was with you when you were shot in the head. I held you and saw the life fade from your eyes. I don't know anything about how you survived, where you were treated, or what happened to you after that day. I remained in service only as long as it took to find your killer and seek revenge. Then, when I brought the captain the report of my discharge, he told me how to find you. He didn't give any specifics, and I came here not knowing what to expect.”

“Why didn't ye tell me this straight away?” Johnny asked, gently stroking Simon's arm.

“You were so happy, not remembering the past,” Riley replied in the same quiet tone, wrapping his wrist around Johnny's fingers. “I didn't have the courage to tell you about our service. About everything we had to go through. About how that scumbag shot you in the stomach and head while you were trying to protect our captain.”

“But that's not all that happened,” MacTavish shook his head and looked into Simon's eyes again. “There was us, not just comrades-in-arms or friends, right?”

“Yes,” nodded the retired lieutenant. “Not just that.”

Johnny lowered his gaze back to the photographs, trying to comprehend that the tough guy in the bulletproof vest covered in gear was himself; trying to recall the features of the other two fighters. That one in the hat with fancy sideburns was probably Captain Price. The name of the young and cheerful black guy in the cap was not mentioned by Simon, but they were probably friends with Johnny at some point. MacTavish frowned, trying to remember something, trying to find even the smallest breadcrumbs of memories that could lead him to the rest of them, but... In vain.

Doctors told him that with such brain damage, especially in the frontal lobe, memory loss was the least of all possible consequences. They said that MacTavish was lucky to remain functional and mentally stable. Memories might eventually return, but it was more likely that they wouldn't. Johnny accepted all of this. He had started a new life and believed he was completely happy until a mysterious stranger in a skull-print balaclava appeared on the threshold of his pub.

“I can't remember,” Johnny finally said, sadly looking at Simon. “Those people in the photo... We were probably close, bu’ I don't remember. All I can say is that even without remembering ye, I've fallen in love with ye again. And I don't want ye to sleep on the couch or go somewhere... I don't know, where your home is?”

“My home is where you are,” Simon replied, lifting Johnny's hand and lightly kissing his knuckles. “So if you still need an assistant...”

“Actually, I need more of a partner,” Johnny said, openly and warmly smiling at the man he didn't remember but loved with all his heart.

Simon spent several more weeks delving into the intricacies of managing the pub - learning how to plan and manage purchases, make cocktails, froth milk, cook simple dishes from the menu, work the till, and more. The pub closed on Mondays, and on those days, they would head out to the sea on Johnny's boat - they would fish or just circle around the island. Simon no longer slept on the couch or was a guest in MacTavish's house; he became its rightful owner. Johnny felt completely happy, falling asleep in his strong and warm embrace, resting his head comfortably on his chest.

Simon was happy too. It was evident how he gradually became less reserved, started to communicate more with the pub's customers, and increasingly more wore his balaclava raised to his nose. This allowed a glimpse that the retired lieutenant began to smile, doing so more and more often.

On a cold morning when the first snowfall covered the island with a white blanket, Simon and Johnny stood on the beach, smoking, watching the restless sea. Wrapped in a single blanket over their shoulders, they embraced each other, their lips displaying serene and happy smiles.

“I wanted to propose to you,” Simon broke the silence, stating this as casually as if it were something utterly inconsequential.

Johnny coughed, choking on cigarette smoke, and looked at him in astonishment.

“Yes, I wanted to,” Simon confirmed, continuing to gaze at the sea. “I even bought a ring for you, but... I never dared to. I thought we would have more time. When you, as I thought then, passed away, I left the ring on your grave. The cemetery worker who found it was probably happy; it was quite expensive.”

“Simon,” Johnny started, but Simon shook his head, turned to him, and, discarding the cigarette, covered his lips with his fingers.

“I can't afford to buy you the ring you deserve,” continued the retired lieutenant. “But maybe you'll agree to this?”

He pulled a ring from the inner pocket of his jacket—not golden or silver, but clearly antique, finely crafted. Johnny raised his hand, and Simon put the ring on his finger. He then kissed Johnny, lowering his head, and the piercing salty wind no longer had power over them because their hearts burned with a fire hotter than the epicentre of a nuclear explosion.

“I still couldn't remember anything,” Johnny said as they returned to the pub and prepared for opening. “You must be sad because of it.”

Simon looked at him, then pulled off his balaclava, smiled openly and sincerely, and replied:

“Quite the opposite.”

#call of duty #fix it fic #they deserved better #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost cod #john soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #soap cod #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #soap x ghost #ghoap

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raindrop-21 · 8 months ago

Text

Scarred Love - Chapter Eight: Do You Wanna Know?

a/n: Took a long bit of writer's block, but I got it done!

Word count: 1,359

Cw: Ghoap x f!reader, soulmates, Simon's family, small mention of murder, a bit of angst with comfort(Tell me if I missed any)

Ch1, Ch2, Ch3, Ch4, Ch5, Ch6, Ch7, Ch8 ~ Masterlist

You laugh at Simon’s chiding. Your friends might be a bit over-the-top sometimes, but you still love them and their protectiveness of you.

“So, uh, when will I be meeting your guys’ parents?” You say as a way to try and bring the conversation back to what it was originally, “We’re already here in England, so why wait?”

“Well… You were given two papers right?” Johnny Questions.

“Yeap, one for England and one for Scotland. Figured I'd at least meet whoever's parents that are in England while I'm here.”

Simon looks away for a second, “... My Ma's no longer with us…” You see the sadness in his eyes and the sympathy given from Johnny.

“Could I still visit her? Let her know her boy's in a second set of good hands?”

“That's a good idea, Luv.”

Some of Simon's sadness disappeared and is replaced by something softer, something sweeter.

~The next day~

You've been riding in Simon's car for two hours now. It's an older car, one with a full row of seating in the front seat. You're seated in between Simon and Johnny. You half expected both men to place a hand on your thigh during the ride, but to your surprise they've both been really respectful to you, unlike men in the past. The radio is softly playing and you think you hear Take On Me by a-ha playing and Johnny humming to it.

Johnny taps you on the knee to get your attention.

“Lass, we’ve got about another two hours before we get to the ferry, if ye want ye can take a wee nap.”

“Got it.”

You nod and lean in closer to him, your side closer pressed into his. Johnny’s quiet humming is quite relaxing, the reverberations of his voice against your side makes you somewhat sleepy. You don’t think you’ve fallen asleep, but you’re awoken by a gentle hand on your shoulder lightly shaking you awake.

“C’mon Luv, wake up, we’re here.”

Simon’s voice, gruff, opposite of his touch, wakes you up.

“Hm?” You hum as you rub your eyes.

Once you’re fully awake, you grab the flowers you wanted to bring and your other items that you need. Johnny offers to hold the flowers for you, but you decline. You hold the flowers in one hand, and the other hand, well more like your pinky on that hand, is being held by Simon. You can tell it means a lot to him.

You go on a nice hike up the mountain, to a beautiful clearing, bare except for a singular tree in the middle and some flowers in the grass. Under the tree are four gravestones, the tallest one says “Liliana Riley, Loving wife and mother.”, the next on says “Tomas “Tommy” Riley, loving son, husband, father and brother.”, the one next to it says “Beth Riley, loving wife and mother.”, the last one has small picture of toddler on it and says “Joseph Riley, loving son and grandson.”.

“S'my mom, brother, sister-in-law, and nephew.”

Your heart breaks for Simon. His whole family is here, but gone. You hug Simon, the raw emotion flooding off the two of you. Simon wraps both his arms around you, its gentle yet strong; like he doesn't want to hurt you, but thinks you're going to get taken away from him.

It feels like forever goes by before the hug ends. When it does the two of you walk over to where Johnny has already set down the blanket you guys brought in front of the tree and graves. You divide the flowers and set some on each of the graves. Johnny places a little toy car on Joseph's grave, there's already around three there, it must be a tradition. You look at the dates on the gravestones, all on the same day.

The realization that they were most likely murdered saddens you even more. Tears prick at your waterline, threatening to spill over, to betray the calm facade you wanted to portray today. Your hands instinctively search for Johnny and Simon's, you grasp their hands in yours, not wanting to let go.

“S'okay Bonnie,” Johnny coos at you, “I wasn't much calmer.”

You lean into Simon and the hand that was holding yours wraps around your shoulders and pulls you closer to him. You want to ask what exactly happened to all of them, but you don’t. You leave it to him to tell you. The three of you spend a while just enjoying the slight breeze and quietness of the mountain top.

“I bet yer Ma’s happy tha ye brought us both, Si.” Simon nods in response to Johnny's comment.

~Simon’s POV~

I’m nervous. So, so nervous. Not even Johnny was this quick to ask to see my family, but then again he knew me before we knew we were soulmates. It took a while before I offered for him to ‘meet’ them. But now I’m driving to the ferry to let her meet them. It’s nerve-wracking, it truly is. What will she think when she sees the graves? Sees the date on the graves? Will she ask why my father isn’t there too?

I’m barely pulled from my thoughts when Johnny tells her to take a nap for the rest of the drive. I get fully pulled from them when I hear Johnny call for me.

“Si. Simon? Hon? Luv? Honey-boo-boo-bear?”

“Don’t call me that.” I say in annoyance, hating the overly sickly sweet way he said it just to annoy me.

“Whatcha thinking abou’?”

“I know he’s worried, I’ve been silent, more silent than usual, “Nothin’ hun.”

He clicks his tongue, “It’s not nothin’. Yer bein’ deadly silent over there. The only time you’re like that is if yer lost in yer own thoughts. So, what’s weighin’ on ye Si?”

I sigh knowing I can’t win when he’s onto me, “I’m just worried s’all.” I say as I reach for my pack of cigarettes.

Johnny’s hand stops me.

“Two things; We dinnae ken if she’s okay wit cigarettes, and just tell me, dinnae keep it do yourself.”

I groan and stop my movements of reaching for the cigarettes.

“Just what I thought when I brought you ta meet them, ya know? The date on the graves, the graves themselves, the absence of my father’s grave.”

“Oh Si.” He says as he reaches over and grabs my hand before placing a soft kiss on it, “If she asks, ye can answer or say yer not ready to, I’m sure she’d understand.”

She probably would. I think she would. I hope she does. Johnny’s made me at least somewhat calm.

~A bit later~

She’s still asleep… I should wake her up. I decide to wake her up by gently placing my hand on her shoulder and lightly shaking her awake.

“C’mon Luv, wake up, we’re here.”

My voice, a bit gruff, opposite of my touch, wakes her up.

“Hm?” She hums as she rubs her eyes.

She grabs the flowers she brought for them and we head to the ferry. The whole time I want to hold her hand, but we haven’t discussed boundaries yet, maybe just holding part of her hand will be okay. I link my pinkie in hers. I can feel her jolt in surprise, did I make a mistake? Then I feel her relax and curl her pinkie around mine… thank god.

Once we get there she looks over the scenery… And the gravestones. After a minute or two, she turns around and faces me, there are… Tears in her eyes? What surprises me more than the tears is when she hugs me; it’s tight, and warm… And needed. So, so needed. I hug her back, just as tightly, but a bit gentler so as not to accidentally hurt her; one arm around her waist, and the other holding her head. I look at Johnny and he gives me a sweet smile and a thumbs up as he sets down the blanket, once the two of us are done hugging, we sit on the blanket and I explain a small bit to her, all the while she hasn’t let go of my hand.

Maybe everything will be alright.

Taglist:

@under-the-dirt @littlebluespoon @actuallyhiswife @cassiecasluciluce @darling006 @cdej6 @whynotbad @kaoyamamegami @oooof-ifellforyou @aldis-nuts @fanngirl19 @zealouspursecowboydeputy @inarabee

#ghoap x reader #ghost x soap #ghost x soap x reader #soap x reader #soap x fem reader #ghost x female reader #soulmates #Scarred Love #rain writes

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ficmashup · 10 months ago

Text

A Trip to Scotland

Summary: You join TF141 after something happened on your last deployment. They take you in and while it takes some time, you find yourself warming up to them, and them to you. Perhaps especially to the Captain.

A/N: Sort of sequel to Taken, but this is the trip to Scotland (obviously, given the title) but I'm gonna let it stand along as it's own thing. Nearly panicked this week because my laptop charger died on me and had to immediately order another, but so relieved to have my writing back again. So this is a bit of a celebration. Don't think I'm quite done with G and Price yet, but I might write for someone else soon. Still thinking on it. ;)

Warnings: Hm, language? Fluff. Not many warnings this go round. Not beta'd.

Word Count: 4.5K

Masterlist

“So what exactly should I be preparing myself for?” I ask as I tuck away a few folded clothes into my duffel with a glance to John sitting on the chest at the end of the bed. We’re back home and I’m packing a few last-minute things before heading out for my flight. It took the entire few days to convince Soap that I didn’t need him at my side 24/7 to ferry me home, then to Scotland. So he’s already there eagerly awaiting the time to pick me up from the airport. At least according to the dozen text messages he’s already sent me today.

John smiles and shakes his head. “Soap’s family is alright. A bit much all at once, but they’re good people and I’ve little doubt you’ll get along.” There’s laughter in his voice that makes me raise a brow at him, but I let it slide. I’m sure I’ll find out what he means soon enough. I zip up my bag and he’s instantly on his feet to take it before I even touch the handles. My eyes roll even as I smile and begrudgingly take my crutch to shuffle into the kitchen.

“Three older sisters, right?” I ask as I settle on a stool and John sets my bag by the door.

He nods and moves towards me. “Three older sisters. He’s the baby, which explains a lot.” I smirk as he stops next to me and I reach out, pulling him closer by the hem of his shirt. His smile sweetens and his hand lifts, pushing my hair back as his thumb brushes over my cheek. “I’ll miss this.” He says softly, almost unintentionally, and I smile as I lean into his touch.

“Mm. The feeling is mutual.” This thing between us is still so new and shiny, I’d be happy sitting and staring at him do literally anything. Which is another reason why this little separation is a good idea. If I get any sappier, then I’m going to make myself sick. “I’ll text you updates and call you when I can?” I say the last part a bit hesitantly, not sure if it’s too much too soon.

“Sounds good. Good luck finding a moment alone in that house though.” He says with a smirk and once again I’m struck by the notion that he’s not telling me all that he could. My mouth opens to ask when there’s a knock at the door. My brows furrow and I become even more suspicious when John’s smile widens. “I’ll get it.” He presses a kiss to my lips and lingers a bit as my fingers curl into his shirt. He hums softly against my mouth and the pressure of the kiss increases before he pulls away, his hand kneading my skin lightly before he reluctantly walks to the door. I watch with a smirk before the door opens and surprise makes my expression go blank.

Simon shakes Price’s hand before looking at me with smug humor in his eyes. “Ready for our flight, G?”

I raise a brow as my eyes go wide. “Our flight? You’re shitting me.” I look between both men who simply smirk. My accusing gaze settles heavy on John. “Who was it that decided that I needed babysitting on a fucking hour long flight?” There’s no heat in my tone, but it gives me some pleasure to see Price shift his weight onto his back foot.

“Majority vote, G. Aren’t you glad for my company?” Simon teases flatly and it’s at least a treat to see his eyes sparkling so brightly. Even if it is at my expense.

“Mm. It’s nice having a pack mule, I suppose.” I tease him right back as he grabs my bag and easily heaves it over his shoulder with a roll of his eyes. My gaze goes back to John. “Suppose you can walk us out then, Captain.” I emphasize his title, letting him know that with Simon here, that’s the only goodbye that he’s going to get. He chuckles and ducks out next to Simon while I lock the door behind me.

“Go on, we’ll go slow and meet you outside.” Price pats Simon on the shoulder and he doesn’t pause, happy to keep moving on a mission as he slips down the stairs. My head shakes even as I smile and tuck my keys away as we move slowly down the hall.

“You realize that out of everyone, he probably already knows.” I say quietly and wrap my arm around his, letting him support me more than the crutch as we take our time walking down the hall.

John smiles and half-shrugs a shoulder. “Probably, yes. But he’s the least likely to say something as long as he knows we want things quiet.” He reaches forward and presses the button for the lift, his smile widening when he hears my impatient sigh at having to wait for the tiny box. If I could walk, I’d be headed for the stairs after Simon.

“You’re still happy with that?” I glance up at him as there’s a little ding and we step onto the lift.

He meets my gaze. “I am. But I’m glad to talk it through if you’ve changed your mind.”

My head shakes and I take the time to let my fingers rub over the inside of his arm, taking in the feeling of his skin. “No, I like the way things are. Though we should talk about what we’ll say…eventually.” There’s little doubt in my mind that they’ll figure things out sooner rather than later. Although we might last a little longer if Simon decides to work with us and throw the others off the scent.

“Something to think about while we’re apart.” He sounds a touch disgruntled this time and even though I feel the same, I do get a little thrill at knowing he’ll miss me.

“So…are you going to kiss me before the lift stops?” I relish the surprise that widens his eyes, then the cute crinkling of his eyes as he turns towards me. He reaches out and presses the buttons for the last few floors so we’ll make a stop at each one.

He turns towards me and I can’t help smiling as he tilts my chin up. “Do you want me to?”

“What do you think?” I keep my voice low and cloying, unable to help teasing him as he stoops a bit so his lips are an inch from mine. We take small, slow steps back until I can feel the wall behind me and my hand claims the handrail to keep me steady on one foot.

“Like hearing you tell me yes.” He murmurs and I breathe in that distinct scent of cigars as he practically speaks onto my lips.

“Pretty sure you hear me chirp ‘yes sir’ almost every day at work.” I whisper back, smirking as my other hand rests on his side to pull him closer, feeling his heat searing my hand through his shirt.

His head shakes, his nose almost brushing mine with each movement. “Not the same. Like hearing you ask me for things. Like giving you what you want.” Warmth fills my chest at the simple, sweet sentiment. I know the words will loop in my head later when I’m alone in bed, wandering if he’s the same way in other areas.

“And I like making you wait.” I tease again and my toes curl at the deep, rumbling laugh that makes his chest vibrate.

“You’re about to make both of us wait for two weeks. Can’t take it easy on me this once?” He raises a brow and I grin, pulling him in and pressing my lips to his. As always, his mouth is soft and warm on mine and fills me with slow heat with every touch. It’s easy and slow and I like that he takes his time making me melt into his hands. My head tilts to give him permission to deepen the kiss and he pauses for a moment, making sure I mean it, then pushes in again.

His hands frame my face and my stomach flips when I feel his calluses sliding against my skin. My lips part as I feel nothing but the wall behind me and the intense heat of him in front of me. His tongue tentatively glides over my bottom lip and I melt even further against him, pulling on his shirt as a silent plea for more. I’m only vaguely aware of the first ding of the lift as it stops and the door opens, but John treats this as a warning that our time is becoming shorter. This is new territory for us and it makes me think I may have underestimated how he might feel about being apart for two weeks. “So sweet f’me.” He mumbles into my mouth before giving me another firm kiss.

I huff softly, making a fist in his shirt as the doors close and the lift moves again. “Mean to tease like this before I leave.”

He smiles and I like tasting it. “You asked for it.”

“I asked for a kiss.”

“And I gave you one.”

“That was…more than a kiss.”

“Are you disapproving?”

The doors ding before opening again and I know the next time they open, we’ll have to get off. “No. I am debating on what it might take for Simon to let us do this in the back of the car on the way to the airport.” His eyes widen for a moment, then he’s laughing and I’m soaking in the sound.

“Hm, don’t think he’d put up with that, sugar. Tempting as it is.” His thumbs brush over my cheeks before reluctantly stepping back after making sure I’m steady on my feet.

“Pity.” I sigh and straighten out his shirt with a smirk as we come to the bottom floor and walk out. Simon has already tossed my back in the back and has a hand on the passenger side door. My head shakes, but I walk over and let him open my door, pretending not to notice his hand hovering over the small of my back as I slide in the seat. He and Price shake hands and pat each other’s shoulders before he continues to walk around to the driver’s side. My eyes soften as I look out at Price and give him a playful salute to see him smile before we pull out.

* * *

It becomes clear to me almost immediately that Simon isn’t a fan of public flights. It’s not a surprise given the cramped space filled with people, my head is on a swivel too, but we quickly fall into an easy pattern of covering for the other. If one of us needs to talk to someone, then the other moves behind and watches their back. It affords the both of us a little extra comfort and it’s easy letting him carry our bags. I think he likes having the added weight to steady him and it does make it easier for me to walk.

As we settle into our seats and my hand slides over his arm to try and leech out some of the stiffness, I’m not sure whether he was actually sent to help me or for me to help him. I reach into my carry on and immediately perk up when I find a little bag of hard candies inside. John or Kyle slipped them in there no doubt. I take one for myself, then offer the bag to Simon. He laxes a bit and smirks, accepting the offering and popping it into his mouth.

“You’ve been here before, yeah?” I ask softly, incredibly thankful that there’s no one else in our row.

He nods and moves the candy into his cheek. “Scotland or the MacTavish’s?”

My eyes roll. “Pretty sure you’d have to have been to Scotland in order to have been to the MacTavish’s.”

“Mm. There a question in there?” He shifts in his seat, frowning at the lack of space for his broad body.

“What do you think of them?” I fish for a little information, maybe what John didn’t want to tell me, and also just to keep his discomfort level low.

The frown on his face fades as the corner of his mouth twitches and amusement glimmers in his eyes. “They’re good people. A lot like Soap in all the best ways. A bit noisy when you first meet all of them, especially if they bring their families and little ones, but eventually it becomes a pleasant buzz in the background.”

My brows furrow. “How many people are going to be there?”

His smile widens a touch. “The entire family gets together on the weekends, so you’ll meet everyone.” I breathe out, long and slow, promising myself that John will be getting an earful about leaving out that particular detail. Especially since it’s Saturday, so I’m really being shoved into the lion’s den.

* * *

Simon knocks on the front door before deftly moving behind me as it swings open to reveal a grinning Soap. “G! Glad you finally—”

“Is that the famous G we’ve heard so much about?” A voice cuts him off and she sounds like an older woman, probably his mother. My eyebrows raise at hearing that I’m apparently famous. I’m not sure whether to be worried or flattered.

“Get her in here! I’ve been dying to meet her!”

“JJ, you’re blocking the entire doorframe with your fat head. Move over!”

I’m assaulted by a chorus of women’s voices before someone slides over and bumps Soap with her hip while holding a baby on the other side. She’s probably in her upper thirties. “Well, let her in! Thought the military was supposed to teach you manners?” Her smile is wide and pretty, like Soap’s, and her dark curly hair is wild even though it’s cut at her jaw. Just out of reach from the baby in her arms. “Come on in, G, we’ve heard so much about you. Glad you made it too, Simon.” She practically shoves Soap out of the way to make room for Simon and I to step in. He keeps to my back and I’m not sure if it’s to make sure that I don’t fall over or to make sure I don’t turn right back around.

“Thanks for havin’ me.” Simon says and the woman shakes her head as if he says this every time and it isn’t necessary. Decorations from the winter holidays are still up and most every other surface is covered with a toy, a child, or another family member. I release a long breath and feel Simon brace a hand high on my back as if reminding me I have back-up.

“I’m Shiloh.” The woman with wild curls introduces herself while easily holding her kid with an arm and offering her free hand to me. I shake it with what I hope is a smile. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

“Pleasure meeting you all as well.” I manage to respond as another woman pops up from sitting on the floor amongst the kids. She has wild curls too, but her hair has a red tint and she’s a touch shorter. Probably mid-thirties.

“Sorry, we know it’s a lot when you first come in, but we’re so happy you’re here!” She shakes my hand with a bit more vigor, her smile bright and wide with sparkling eyes. “You were all JJ talked about when you joined the team and we’re glad you turned out to have a brain.” She gives Simon a pointed look and I’m pretty sure he smothers a chuckle at the firm look. “I’m Shaye, by the way.”

“Let the woman sit, she shouldn’t be on her leg!” An older woman with greying russet hair and round curves waves everyone away as she walks over to me and my eyes go wide as she frames my face with her hands. She’s short and I have to lean down a bit as she draws me close. “It’s so good to have you here with us, lass. So good.” And I can tell she means the sentiment as her eyes crinkle at the sides as she appraises me. She plants a firm kiss to my cheek before reaching behind me and patting Simon’s cheek, then stepping back. “I’m John’s mother. Call me Grace. His father is out back with the rest of the riff raff, but they’ll be in a little later. Go on, pick a place to settle and we’ll kick out whoever is sitting there.”

“Good luck getting Uncle Mick out of his seat.” Soap mutters to Shaye and she grins while looking over at a man snoring softly in an armchair. I’m only half aware of walking over to what seems like the least obtrusive seat, a stool at the counter overlooking the kitchen, and Simon settles next to me. He immediately pulls my foot into his lap to make sure I keep it elevated while I give him a sharp look that only makes him smirk.

“My youngest girl is out trying to wrangle the men into actually cookin’ things on time, but the meal’ll be done soon enough. Just make yourself at home.” Grace says warmly before flitting around the kitchen once again.

“Smells good as always.” Simon says and earns a wide smile from her and an eyeroll from Soap standing beside him. The room is filled with soft conversation and it’s a relief that no one tries to pull me into any for a while. I’m allowed to sit and survey while my mind sorts through the faces, the sounds, and the comforting mess accompanying a large family. There are two toddlers on the floor and a baby passed between the few milling around the room. Apparently, there are more kids out back with their dads and another baby only a few months old, but I’m content letting them come to me rather than seeking them out.

Eventually everyone filters inside and I get to meet Soap’s youngest sister, Siobhan, whose cheeks are rosy from the chill outside. Her eyes light up the second she sees me and she rushes over, stopping just a second before crashing into me to shake my hand. She’s got to be close to Soap’s age. “You must be G! Thanks for keeping my brother in one piece out there.” She winks at me, her bubbly attitude sobering a touch. “It’s a real comfort for all of us knowing he’s got another person watching his back.” Her hand squeezes my arm before she’s called away and I stare after her, feeling warm and surprised.

I feel Ghost’s eyes on me and glance at him to see his eyes crinkled slightly with a soft smile. He nods once. It was like this for him too, then. “I’m gonna give you all such shit for not warning me about all this sooner.” I mutter under my breath, obviously not meaning a word, and he chuckles softly.

“Looking forward to it.” He returns with a twinkle in his eye.

Soap walks over with a fussing baby swaddled up in his arms, this must be the one that had been outside, and slaps Simon’s shoulder. “Dad wants you for a minute.” Simon nods and gently gets up to his feet as Soap takes his place on the stool holding my ankle. I huff.

“Pretty sure there are plenty of children here for you to babysit. I’m fine here.” They glance at one another before shrugging and doing exactly the same thing that they were doing. My head shakes, but I don’t bother objecting more.

“John, can you grab that for me?” His mother asks from the kitchen and he hesitates, looking at me.

I wave him on with a little roll of my eyes. “Promise I won’t move from this spot.” I swear and he smirks before hopping up and setting my foot slowly on the stool so I’m not jostled. He pauses another second and my stomach swirls at seeing the mischief building in his eyes as he steps close and ever so gently lowers the baby into my stiff arms. My head instantly starts shaking as she squawks and her face pinches at the exchange. “Johnny, don’t you dare—”

“Only for a minute, G. Just don’t stand up because you have poor balance right now. Wouldn’t want to risk the bearn.” He grins at me and slides into the kitchen while I stare down at the tiny human now in my arms. I…I’m actually not sure if I’ve ever held a baby in my life. I shift her a bit and pull her close with my arms firm but not too tight around her. She coos and I instinctively start swaying a little in my seat.

“I know, I’m sorry your mean Uncle Soap gave you to some strange lady. A very not cool uncle thing of him to do.” I whisper softly, feeling her weight and warmth sink into my chest. Her blinks get a little slower and I can’t help smiling down at her. Maybe this isn’t too bad. “Must be pretty nice getting held and rocked all the time. Take advantage of it while you can.” I relax a little more and lean back in my seat while continuing to bounce her a little until her eyes are shut and her little mouth is left open. I wonder briefly if this is how Johnny looked as a baby and my smile widens at the thought.

Soap comes back over, but doesn’t reach for her so I don’t make a move to give her back. “Seems you’ve got the special touch. She usually fights sleep a bit harder.”

“Mm. Bet you weren’t this cute when you were a baby.” I tease and he grins, shaking his head.

“Agreed. Especially with the tiny mohawk. Probably stuck up all over the place.” I laugh softly, careful not to move or make too much noise.

Shiloh comes over and Soap makes space for her as she sighs with relief. “Thank god you got her down. We were a few minutes off from full screamin’.” Still, she smiles softly as she looks down at the little bundle.

“Why don’t you head up early tonight? The bearns’ll be looked after.” Soap encourages softly and the warmth in my chest only spreads when I recognize the same tone he used with me to get me to go to bed after a hard mission.

She smiles and sways into him. “You and my husband, I swear. But I know you’re just trying to get me away from G before I tell her what an idiot you were when you were younger.” Her hand musses his hair and he ducks away with a small groan.

“More of an idiot than now?” I ask with a brow lifting and Soap gives me a disapproving look that I grin at.

Shiloh nods. “Oh yeah. We once convinced him that we could all fly but him and he jumped off the roof to try and prove that he could too. Broke his arm.” She giggles while my eyes go wide and I choke while trying swallow my laughter. Soap sighs and tosses his arms in the air, subtly showing her his middle finger out of sight from his mother as he walks away.

The evening goes on and eventually I’m relieved of my babysitting duties only to find Simon across the room with a plastic screwdriver in his hand being instructed by one of the young boys. He’s utterly patient and seems to be taking his task quite seriously. I might snap a picture or two to show John later and for Simon to keep. I think he’d like having them.

Dinner is as raucous as I expected it to be, but I’m a bit more used to it now. The noise is joyous and the room is filled with loud voices and laughter. This isn’t something I’ve ever had and it helps to have Simon beside me as a steady, familiar anchor. But it’s nice. I like the way they argue with grins on their faces, how they laugh without restraint, how warm and welcoming everyone is.

Afterward, I manage to slip outside and I’m greeted by the cool night air. I hadn’t realized how hot the house had gotten with all the people inside. I pull out my phone as I sit on the front porch and call John, smiling when it only rings once before he picks up. “Hey, sugar. How’s it going?” Just the sound of his voice makes me feel a little fuzzy inside.

“It’s good. They’re a lot like I thought they’d be, but…more.”

He chuckles and I imagine him stretching out on his couch, leaned back against the cushions with his hands resting on his spread thighs. “That describes the MacTavish’s pretty well, I think. Never could do anything half-heartedly.”

“Mm. I haven’t been around a family like this in a long time. Since before I joined the military. It’s a little jarring being around so many kids all at once.” I lean against the step behind me, resting an elbow on the cold wood while staring up at the starry sky. It is beautiful out here.

“Simon said the same thing the first time he went.” He hums with amusement. “A bit less nicely though. Think it went something like ‘so many fuckin’ kids.’” We both chuckle while I nod. Yeah, that sounds about right.

“I like seeing him with them. He could use more playtime in his life.” I grin at the thought of buying him a little plastic toolkit to carry around with him. “I might’ve snuck a few pictures without him seeing.”

“Oh yeah? Don’t think you’re the only one.” There’s a little ding from my phone and I put him on speaker as I look at my messages. There’s a picture waiting there of me holding the baby, a soft smile on my face as I stare down at her. Soap is in the kitchen, so Simon must’ve taken it. Cheeky bastard. “Look pretty comfy in that picture, sugar.”

I smile and shrug as if he can see me. “Not sure if I’ve ever held a baby before. Don’t think I have and Soap was only using her as a reason to keep me sitting. But I liked holding her. I think I like it here, actually. Only thing missing is you.” My cheeks get a little hot when I realize what I said, but I only hear John’s soft hum of approval.

“Wish I was there too, sugar. But I like hearing that you’re enjoying yourself and getting some rest. It’s well-deserved.”

“You deserve rest too. Better not neglect yourself while I’m away.”

He laughs softly and I let the sound fill me with warmth. “Yes, ma’am. Call me again tomorrow?”

“I will. Night.”

“Night, sugar.”

We hang up and I stay outside for a few moments longer, breathing in the crisp air and appreciating the stars. It’s only when Soap comes to get me that I shuffle inside straight into a fire warmed blanket that Simon instantly swaddles me in before sitting me in an armchair close to the flickering fireplace. Yeah, I could really learn to like this place.

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