#WAY LESS GRAPHIC obviously but i mean
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You are a reaper, and every day you harvest the souls of the unwilling. Those who have died of illness or in accidents or otherwise had their lives woefully cut short—these are your duty. You reach for their souls even as their bitterness and sorrow and fury rolls off of them in waves. Even as they direct said bitterness and sorrow and fury at you. Some of them scream and cry and beg you not to take them. Some of them scream that they hate you. And at first you tried to explain it, tried to help them see that it wasn’t you who dealt them this blow. “For what reason would you hate me?” you would ask them. “I am merely a reaper. I have done nothing.”
“You have come to take me away from here,” they would answer, inevitably. “That is why I would hate you.”
Thus it did not take long before you realised that it truly didn’t matter to humans whether you’d done something or not—they’d hate you still. You may not be the Pale Rider, the String-Cutter, the Ultimate Arbiter, but you are their implement. You are the Hand of Death, the Keeper of their Order, and you are received as such.
So you deal with it. You do your job. You shoulder their hatred, you drag their souls to heaven or hell, and then you do it all over again. You are a reaper, and you are thankless.
There comes a day where you receive your latest assignment, and already something is different. There’s some poor miserable bastard, Death tells you, about to take his own life. And of course, you knew this day would come. There were only so many reapers, after all. Eventually, you were going to receive an assignment for a death that you could not understand.
Sudden deaths, accidents, terminal illness—these you recognise. Such is simply fate, the order of things. And when your memories swirl with so many agonised faces, souls who would have done anything, anything not to leave their world behind, it is nearly impossible to conceive of a soul that wished for death enough to deliberately hurry it to them.
You ask Death why a human would ever want such a thing, but they cannot tell you. All they can tell you is his name, his location, and that his soul is bound for hell.
You find him sitting at a desk in a workshop, surrounded by sheets of fabric and half-finished dresses. He’s pale-skinned, fairly dressed, and his flame-coloured hair is pulled back into a low ponytail that falls between his shoulder blades. His face is emotionless. The flickering lantern-light glints across his glasses, obscuring his eyes. He’s spinning a flintlock on the surface of the desk with one finger.
You watch him. You don’t know for how long. You’re not sure how much time it takes before the spinning stops. You watch him lift the flintlock from the desk and you watch him fall from his chair afterward.
His soul sees you, then, as his spectral form sits up from the floor. He doesn’t ask who you are, or what’s happened. He doesn’t gawk at his corpse. He doesn’t panic or shout or beg. And so things are unusually silent as you reach out your hand. Things are usually calm as he gives you his. And he looks up at you from his knees with his misery-stricken face and death-shattered gaze, and it’s nothing you haven’t seen before until you place his broken expression as not misery, but relief. A relief so palpable you swear you can feel it too. You stare at him as though he were some alien creature as he breathes two words: “Tapadh leibh.” Thank you.
He’s thanking you.
For a moment you can’t even react, even as he rises from his knees. In theory you knew of these words, of this sentiment, but not once have you ever heard them yourself. Not once, not ever, have they been spoken to you, much less in absolute sincerity.
“For what reason would you thank me?” you finally ask. “I am merely a reaper. I have done nothing.”
“You have come to take me away from here,” he answers simply. “That is why I would thank you.”
Such a statement only brings you more questions than it does answer the one you asked. Should you ask why he wished so badly for death? Does he not know where he is headed? You aren’t sure if such inquiries are even appropriate—you have never had cause to wonder before. Never have you met a human soul quite so perplexing as this one.
“You are not saved, Fergus MacLeod,” you remind him. “I am have come to take your soul to hell.”
“Tha fios ’am,” he replies. I know.
And so you lead his soul from the mortal plane toward the Gates of Hell, and he goes willingly alongside you. The further you get him from his old life, the more he starts to open up—and talk. (“Do you fancy yourself a lad or a lass?” he asks. “I am a reaper,” you tell him. “What’s it like, hell?” he asks. “Worse than you could ever hope to comprehend,” you tell him. “Hell won’t make me into a demon, will it?” he asks. “Only if they break you,” you tell him. “Who’s they?” he asks. “The demons,” you tell him. He sets his jaw at that, and falls silent thereafter.)
When the Gates come into sight is when he starts to balk somewhat. That’s something you’re not surprised by. The mere sight of the Gates did this to every hell-bound soul you ever reaped, and even he was no exception.
“This is where I leave you,” you explain. “I will not enter the Gates. You must proceed by your own will, or the demons will come and drag you in—whichever happens first.”
“Aye, alright,” he answers with what sounds like barely restrained horror. You watch him face the gates and visibly steel himself for just a moment, before falling back to his initial posture and turning to you. “Just—before I go. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I am a reaper,” you answer plainly. “I have no name.”
“Well, that won’t do. I need at least a name to give you a proper farewell,” he insists. “Er… what about Agnes? That’s something of a nice name.” He squints at you from behind the spectral manifestation of the glasses he’d been wearing. “If you don’t happen to mind a lass’s name, that is. Maybe you’d prefer… I don’t know, William…?”
You stare at him. Once again you have no idea what he’s doing or why he’s doing it.
“Is it too formal for you? William, I mean,” he adds. “Billy? How’s Billy? I kind of like the sound of that—Billy. I could see you as a Billy.”
Could you see yourself as a Billy?
The thought comes before you can stop it, but you effectively push it from your mind before you can say something unbecoming about it. “I am a reaper,” you reiterate. “But… you may call me whatever you’d like.”
“Then… until next time, Billy,” he says, with something of a smile.
“We will not meet again,” you point out. “You will never leave hell, and I will never enter.”
“…I see,” he replies. “Well then.” He glances into hell and back to you again. He keeps his smile on. “Let’s just hope they torture me so senseless I start to enjoy it.”
You don’t particularly know how he can say that while smiling. You don’t particularly know why he came here willingly at all. Why he did what he did. Why he would ever give up what all those souls before him would have killed for. He starts to walk away and finally you can’t take the confusion anymore.
“Fergus MacLeod,” you say, and he turns back to you. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“This was not the order of things,” you say. “You would always end up here, that much was written, but you had time left. Years. I want to know why you did what you did.”
He looks you dead in the eye, backlit by the flames of the pit, and says, “Because least in hell, I’ll feel something other than my own misery. At least in hell, maybe the new pain can distract me from the old pain. At least in hell, I can simply let myself wither away until I’m nothing, and dear god—” He gives a harsh laugh. “The sooner the better.”
With that he turns away and vanishes into the Gates and for a moment all you do is stand there. You are a reaper, and you are not created to feel. But you would swear his words had chilled you to the bone.
And you didn’t know it then, but this was not the end of something. It was a beginning.
#Billie spn#Crowley spn#??? This came literally out of nowhere#Well not strictly nowhere because this is just more or less what would form the prologue of my Billie and Crowley besties fic#I just didn’t mean to sit down and spew it all out in like 2 hours#So like. This is VERY much a rough draft but whatever send post#My posts#My writing#Tw suicide#<— please mind that. It isn’t graphic but it happens#Obviously this is a VERY young version of Billie. She’s missing 300 years of character development here#And of learning to be more comfortable with her own budding identity and interacting with humans in other ways than just reaping their souls#And of course changing the spelling of their name
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Pirate/Mermaid Steddie One
There is way more mermaid culture world-building than I intended, but that's the fun part lmao
This part discusses injuries, has a mention of mutilation in passing, and involves stitching up a large wound. Nothing is graphic, but there are some descriptions of pain
Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future parts!
As always, if you see any typos no you didn't
----
There were a few things Eddie expected from this raid. Gold, of course. Supplies like food, obviously. Some new weapons, surely.
A fucking mermaid? Nowhere near that list of expected things.
And yet, here he stands in the doorway of the raided ship captain's cabin, caught in a staring contest with a merman that's definitely seen better days.
He's stuck in a tiny wooden tub, his tail forced against his chest as the rest of it flops over the edge and trails the floor. His blue-and-green with inexplicable hints of orange scales are dull, too dull, and Eddie is trying really hard to control the sheer rage he feels at the jagged cut that drags down the middle of the tail and through the fin at the bottom. The edges of the wound have crusted over, but it still looks painful, and Eddie knows it was meant to keep the merman from using his tail to escape.
Eddie takes a step into the cabin, ready to just scoop the merman up and take him back to his ship. But he stops when the merman tenses, his entire body somehow becoming more rigid. His hands on the edge of the tub tighten, his sharp nails digging into the slowly rotting wood. He's staring at Eddie like he's some new threat, which seriously is not gonna help with the whole "take the gorgeous merman with incredible hair and alluring brown eyes back to his ship and nurse him back to health" thing.
Eddie freezes and holds his hands up. "Sorry," he says, keeping his voice low and soothing. The merman doesn't relax much, but his nails are no longer digging into the wood. Eddie figures that's a tiny win.
"I'm Captain Eddie of the Corroded Coffin. We didn't expect to find you here, sweetheart."
The nickname just slips out, an unthinking attempt to butter the merman up and an admission of his own thoughts. The merman's eyes narrow, slowly looking Eddie over as though sizing him up.
Eddie lets him, perfectly content with standing still if it means the merman will give him even one iota more of his trust. "That doesn't look very comfortable," he says, nodding to the tub. "Would you like some help?"
The merman relaxes a little more, and Eddie has no clue what he did to cause that. Before he can think too much about it, the merman points to a dresser on the other side of the room, looking at Eddie expectantly.
"You want something from there?"
The merman nods, which tells Eddie he at least understands human language. That doesn't give him any idea if the merman can speak it, though.
He walks over to the dresser and looks at the merman, pointing to each drawer in turn until the merman nods. The fourth drawer is, apparently, the correct one. When Eddie opens it, he finds a small treasure trove. It must be a collection of trophies from the ship captain's previous raids.
A quick glance reveals a gold crown with rubies, several diamond rings, a few silver bracelets with various gemstones along the bands, and a pearl and seashell necklace thrown on top. Eddie knows the merman probably wants that necklace most, but he can't help thinking of a rumor that mermaids like shiny things.
The drawer is full of shiny things.
He hesitates for less than a second before pulling out the entire drawer itself and turning around. "I'm not sure what you want from here," he lies, smiling apologetically at the merman. "Can I come close enough to show you?"
The merman stares at him before slowly nodding once, suspicion practically radiating off of him. Eddie flashes a more genuine smile and slowly approaches, giving the merman enough time to reject his presence. When he's a few steps away, Eddie crouches and tilts the drawer so the merman can see what's inside.
Immediately, the merman reaches out and snatches the pearl and seashell necklace. The gills on the side of his neck flutter slightly as he puts it on, and Eddie wonders if that's a sign of relief. "Was that everything you wanted?" he asks.
The merman glances at him, one hand still lingering on the necklace. He glances down at the drawer again, seeming to argue with himself before reaching out and removing the crown and every bracelet. He carefully slips the bracelets on and clutches the crown in his hands.
"Anything else?" Eddie asks, his tone indulgent. It must be reassuring, though, because the merman looks at him with curiosity more than anything else. It's like he's trying to figure out what he can get away with.
A few seconds pass before the merman glances down at the drawer. His gaze lingers at the edges, and Eddie starts to wonder what could possibly be there when the merman points at one of his rings.
Eddie blinks, following the merman's finger to a chunky ring. It's shaped like a bat with emeralds for eyes and diamonds for teeth. It's one of Eddie's favorites; he found it on his first raid, took it right off the captain's hand himself. Nobody has ever dared ask to touch it, let alone have it.
Without a second thought, Eddie puts the drawer down, slips the ring off his finger, and offers it to the merman. It sits in the palm of his hand, meaning they'd have to touch if the merman really wants it that badly.
Slowly, the merman reaches for the ring, his nails tickling against Eddie's palm as he takes it. From the light brush against Eddie's fingers, the merman's skin is cool, exactly like jumping into the ocean on a hot day.
----
Steve is a firm believer in the power of small comforts, especially as it relates to the growth of his guppies. Dustin has long outgrown his baby tail belt, but he still wraps it around his wrist every morning. El and Will no longer need the seaweed and coral dolls Steve made for them when they were barely able to swim a straight line, but they still tuck them in every night.
So, when the human (Eddie, Steve reminds himself) offers up a drawer filled with shiny jewelry, Steve doesn't hold himself back. The bracelets make him feel grounded, the crown gives him something to clutch without the risk of breaking it, and the ring...
Well, the ring was more to see if Eddie's actions would match his tone. And because Steve thought it was fascinatingly grotesque. What kind of creature would have wings without feathers? Sure, the gulls he sometimes sees near the surface are confusing, but the ring depicts something even further beyond his imagination. What's up with the sharp teeth? Why must the eyes be green? Does it know it's a freak of nature?
Anyway, the jewelry helps. Steve uses it to distract himself from the sheer agony screaming from his tail when Eddie lifts him out of the cramped tub. He thinks about which bracelet he'll give to which guppy (Robin will get the crown) when the edges of his tailfin graze against Eddie's legs as he confidently walks across a plank connecting the two ships. He closely studies the featherless wings on the ring to avoid thinking about what's to come when Eddie sets him down on a large, surprisingly comfortable bed in another private cabin and starts gathering a needle and thread.
There's not much left to distract him when Eddie kneels next to the bed and looks up at him, his eyes reminding Steve of his guppies when they've done something bad and need him to clean up the mess.
"This is gonna hurt," Eddie tells him, his voice soft and gentle and full of regret as he grabs a bottle from the table next to the bed.
The liquid inside is clear, and Steve would think it was water if his nose hadn't been hit with such an astringent scent when Eddie opened it. Before he can fully process the smell, Eddie tips the bottle and pours the liquid onto Steve's tail.
An involuntary screech rips out of his throat, a burning sensation clawing along the cut and making his scales buzz. Without thinking, Steve grabs Eddie's wrist and yanks it away, his lips pulled back in a snarl that reveals sharp teeth. Despite the physical pain, Steve thinks the worst part is that he let himself get distracted by small comforts and warm brown eyes and Eddie's soft voice.
He should know better.
"Shit," Eddie mutters, quickly dropping the now-empty bottle to the floor. It cracks but doesn't break, and he looks up at Steve. "I should've explained that better. Holy fuck, I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I had to clean it. If I sewed it up without doing so, it might get infected."
Steve narrows his eyes, his grip tightening briefly as he studies Eddie's face. He seems genuinely apologetic, and Steve understands his intentions once he's processed Eddie's words. Steve had to do something similar when Mike and Lucas bothered a shark too much. Their wounds weren't nearly as bad as Steve's, but they'd still cried and shouted when Steve and Robin had to pull teeth and bits of coral out of their wounds before wrapping them in seaweed.
"I'm done with that part, though," Eddie says, his voice practically desperate for Steve to understand. "You can squeeze my shoulder or something while I sew it up."
A few seconds pass before Steve nods once, slowly letting go of Eddie's wrist. As Eddie starts threading the needle, Steve places his hand on his shoulder, bracing himself for the upcoming pain by squeezing the crown in his other hand.
Eddie takes a deep breath as he glances up at Steve. He licks his lips, looking back at the top of the cut. "Okay, I'm starting now," he says, waiting long enough to see Steve nod before starting the first stitch.
The alcohol hurt. The stitching is a fucking bitch. But, honestly, none of it is as bad as when that first disgusting human dragged a dagger through Steve's tail. He still hisses, gripping Eddie's shoulder tighter and unable to stop his nails from digging into his skin. Despite how it must hurt, Eddie doesn't flinch, and Steve feels a little better.
"You know," Eddie says, mostly focused on keeping his hand steady and his stitches even, "I wish I knew your name. I can't keep calling you sweetheart."
He could. Steve wouldn't mind it. But he also knows it isn't entirely fair that Eddie doesn't know he can speak. They'll need to be able to talk, Steve thinks, if they're going to be around each other for a while longer.
And Eddie has been kind enough that Steve wouldn't mind being around him for however long it takes his tail to heal.
"Steve," he says.
To his credit, Eddie doesn't drop the needle. He does tense for a moment, his hand pausing as he looks up. "What?" he asks.
"My name. It's Steve."
"You can talk."
"Why wouldn't I?"
Eddie hums, looking back at the cut as he starts stitching again. "You didn't say anything before," Eddie says.
"The last human who saw me mutilated my tail," Steve replies.
"Fair. Is, uh, is your name really Steve?"
"That's the closest translation to your language."
"What's your name in your language?"
Steve hesitates for a moment before clearing his throat. He feels his gills flutter, trying to create the bubble pattern that accompanies his name as he lets out a rhythmic series of squeaks and clicks with a short hiss at the end.
A few seconds pass after he's done. And then Eddie nods once and says, "Steve it is. How'd you get caught, Stevie?"
Ignoring the slight urge to point out that Eddie said his name wrong, Steve frowns slightly. "One of my guppies got caught in that ship's net. I got them out but was caught myself."
"One of your...guppies?"
"Yes. You would call them...children, I think?"
Eddie has nearly reached the middle of Steve's tail by now, and his hand falters once more. "Children? Aren't you...a little young?"
Steve bristles, glaring at Eddie. He's heard that same question plenty of times from members of other pods before, and he's tired of it. "What does it matter if they are happy and healthy?" he asks.
"Sorry," Eddie whispers, glancing up at Steve. There's something he can't quite read in Eddie's eyes. "Do you raise them alone?"
"What? No, of course not. My partner, Robin, raises them with me. We have seven guppies, with an eighth on the way."
"An eighth?!" Eddie asks, sounding strained as he pauses his stitching once more to look up at Steve. "Shit, man, shouldn't you give Robin a break?"
Steve blinks, tilting his head slightly. "Why would she need a break?" he asks.
"She's already popped out seven!"
Suddenly, Steve realizes what the disconnect is. He blinks once more and dissolves into laughter. "Oh!" he says, the exclamation broken by a giggle as he tries to calm himself down. "No, no, she is my partner, not my mate. Besides, she doesn't even like mermen."
Eddie seems to relax at Steve's explanation, his shoulders dropping and his voice significantly lighter as he starts stitching again and says, "Oh, I see. Then whose kids are they?"
"Technically, they belong to the pod," Steve explains, gritting his teeth as Eddie reaches the tailfin. He feels warm all over, his nerves jumping and his scales feeling half-ready to just fall off. "Each pod has at least two caretakers. Mates have a guppy and let caretakers raise them while they focus on their own roles within the pod."
"Do you like being a caretaker?"
"Yeah," Steve says, managing a shaky smile despite the tugging on his tailfin and Eddie's fingers pressing against his scales. "They're my guppies. I'd drain the oceans for them."
"And, uh, what about your mate? Do they mind you being so...devoted to the guppies?"
It's not at all subtle, but Steve finds it oddly endearing nonetheless. He slowly exhales, forcing himself to loosen his grip on Eddie's shoulder. "I don't have one."
Just like before, Eddie seems to relax some at the answer. He also finishes stitching, tying off the thread with a secure knot before carefully cutting away the excess. "Well, uh, we'll get you healed up and back to your guppies as soon as possible," he says, looking up at Steve.
"It needs to be wrapped in kelp. And, uh, I'll need a tub. You know, with seawater."
Eddie nods along, flashing a reassuring grin. "Don't worry, Stevie, I'll get you anything you want," he promises.
"Anything?" Steve asks, leaning forward some as he tilts his head.
"I already gave you my favorite ring, sweetheart."
Steve glances down at said ring, wondering what about it could possibly make it Eddie's favorite. He can't immediately figure it out, but that doesn't change the sweet warmth and anticipation for the time he'll spend with Eddie that he suddenly feels.
#steddie#steddie fic#high seas steddie#that's gonna be the fic tag for this series btw#steve harrington#eddie munson#stranger things#steddie fluff#my writing
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2 a.m. visit: Jason Todd x reader
link to the photo in the description, my mouth is foaming....
Summary: Y/N wakes up in the middle of the night to some disturbingly familiar sounds coming from her neighbour apartment.
Warnings: a bit of smut, but nothing too graphic (still MDNI), swearing, and possibly messed up ending.
***
It was 2 a.m. and she was fairly annoyed, knocking on her neighbour’s door.
God damn Jason Todd and his stupidly stupid habits of waking people in the middle of the night!
God damn Jason Todd who was apparently too busy making noises to open up!
“Todd!” she cried out, her rapping becoming more exasperated by a second. “TODD!” she couldn’t care less about the rest of the neighbours, who (with no hard feelings) were probably too old or too deaf to hear her calling. “Open up or I swear I’ll kick those doors”.
Obviously there was something around zero chances of her fulfilling that threat but what else was she supposed to do.
“TODD!!”
“What the hell?!” the door finally opened and the culprit himself stood up in front of her, wearing nothing but his boxers, his upper body exposed, his hair tousled in a perfect mess, his eyes a bit blurry. Clearly, it took him a second to realise that it was Y/N standing at his doorframe, but once he did, his eyes grew wide, he blushed a little and quickly grabbed one of his shirt hanging by the door and put it on it. “Y/N... I…. um….” He stuttered.
“Oh, stop with the fake modesty, Jason. I’ve patched you up too many times to care about you being covered or not.” She almost rolled her eyes at his actions.
“What…. I mean.. um... did something happened?” he mumbled looking at the floor. If only she knew what he was doing merely seconds ago she would probably understand why he was trying to cover himself up so desperately. Thank god, she was clueless, standing within arm’s reach of him, so cute and innocent in that pyjamas and without makeup.
“could you please moan quieter?” she asked, being as straight-forward and blunt as always.
“Wh-what -?” he could swear he had a mini heart attack the second those words left her lips. Oh, god…. “You-- ?”
“Thin walls.” She muttered.
“I…”
“Hey, it’s okay Jay. Don’t be embarrassed. We all have needs, I get that. But it’s not like I want to be up all night with that soundtrack in the background. However…” she trailed biting on her bottom lip to hide the amused smile showing on her face.
“What…?” Jason was both pale as a wall and red as a tomato.
“It’s quite a progress that I only hear one voice.”
His eyes grew wide once again, looking like a mill wheels. Oh shit, shit, shit….
“Y/N….”
“Sh. Told you, it’s okay. Apparently you got a way for girls to agree with you all the time. Yeah, I heard all those times too.” She winked at him. “But you’re alone tonight, aren’t you? Hope I didn’t ruin a perfectly good orgasm for another woman?”
“Y/N!!”
“What?”
“Stop it!” Shit, shit, shit.
“Why? Those are completely normal things, Jason. We are both adults and everyone else here is deep asleep, so what’s the problem?”
“YOU are my problem!” he cried out, pulling the shirt closer to his body, trying to hide something that was becoming terrifyingly visible. Fuck, she had no idea …
“Me?” Y/N frowned “Why me? Don’t be silly we are friends, I won’t give away which girl caught your attention. Besides, I didn’t hear you groaning any names so…” her casual shrugging almost made him yell in frustration. How could she possibly be so cool about everything, unfazed by the strangeness of the situation, while he was almost crawling out of his skin due to the mixed feelings?
“Fuck that!” he finally hissed and much to Y/N’s surprise grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside the apartment in the accompaniment of a single surprised cry.
“Hey! What’s with the passive aggression? I didn’t lock my flat!” poor girl tried to bypass him, but apparently Jason was dead set on making it impossible for her, standing in her way, his muscular frame blocking the exit.
“shut up!” he hissed, clenching his fists and it took her by surprise. Yes, she saw him pissed off before. Yes, she knew he was short-tempered and had anger management issues, but this? This was something different. Like he was walking on the edge, barely controlling himself but still fighting against blowing up in her face. Key word being barely.
“Jason….?” She stuttered taking a step back, bumping into table and almost throwing down the lamp. “Calm down… please…”
“Calm down?! The fuck am I supposed to calm down when you come here saying things like that to me, acting all innocent and pretending that you don’t see what you do to me!” he shouted taking as many steps forward as she was taking back.
“What I do to you?” she repeated, being completely oblivious to everything that was happening inside and outside Jason.
“Don’t pretend to be stupid!”
“HEY!”
“You do this on purpose!”
“Do what?! I don’t….holy shit!”
Mhm. Yes. You guessed it. She finally saw what she had been doing to him. And it was both exciting and disgusting. Jason was her friend! Her neighbour for god’s sake! A man who had different girl in his bed almost every night. Or every other night. And now… now he was clearly ready to make her one of his booty.
“Oh, no. No. No!” she scoffed “No way in hell.”
“Y/N…” Jason hissed, the way his body was reacting on having her so close was becoming painful. He took another step forward but she stopped him with putting a single finger up.
“Don’t! You dare move an inch. Why on earth do you have a hard on while …” she didn’t finish the sentence, her face dropping. “Oh… fuck… please tell me you didn’t …”
“Y/N….” he tried again, this time way more desperately.
“Oh my god… you did.” She gasped, her mind going into overdrive. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Please, just listen to me…” Jason Todd was whimpering like a dog, feeling like a total looser, embarrassed, humiliated, ready to crawl back to his grave and die because of the look she was giving him at the moment. It was never supposed to happen. She was never supposed to know or – god forbid – experience. It was supposed to be a secret. Closely guarded. To put it lightly, Jason was cursing himself for opening that stupid door in the first place. He foolishly believed that one round with imaginations in his head would be enough, but clearly it was not.
“Just say it! Come on, just admit it!”
“Fine! Fuck! Fine! I was thinking about you! Happy now?! I was thinking how it would be like to have you! To touch you, to kiss you, to hold you, to take you! Is that what you wanted to know?!”
“Damn Todd…”
“I can’t control it, even I wanted to! And the reason you didn’t hear any names through that fucking wall is…”
“No! No, don’t you dare saying it!” she rushed at him, putting her hand on his mouth, shutting him up.
The sudden contact, given the context of situation, was probably a mistake, since her touch sent shivers through Jason’s body and his eyes flashed dangerously with desire. Y/N was playing with fire now. The fire she was capable of starting so easily but unable to put out. And she knew it. And, being the perfect contrast to Jason’s burning, she froze at the spot.
They were standing in front of each other, in a dark apartment, Jason in boxers and shirt hanging loose from his body, doing nothing to hide those tons of muscles and Y/N in her pyjama, which was doing pretty much as little.
Slowly, mindful of every single muscle twitch she put her hand down, her eyes never leaving his. It was almost as if she was hypnotised. Or shocked. Or both. Her mind was screaming at her that Jason was her friend. Her friend. And it was unwise to ruin years of knowing each other just because she had the sudden urge of feeling the weight of his body on hers. Because for some unknowing reason, despite the fact that she saw those muscles and those scars so many times before, helping him with his injures, he never found him hotter than at that moment. Because the picture and imagination of his hands on her, his mouth on hers, kissing, biting, licking, tasting and exploring every inch of her skin, was doing so many things to her, she had to bite her bottom lip to stop the moan, arising inside her. Y/N heard a lot of girls through that wall and she knew Jason was more than skilled in the art of love making and pleasuring a woman. And despite all her morals and inhibitions the craving of him giving her a little demonstration was becoming unbearable.
That was not the plan.
That was definitely not the plan.
But she was just a woman, who hasn’t been touched in a while and her neighbour/ best friend, was apparently (and visibly) more than ready to help fight that touch starvation.
Shit.
Her gaze landed on those perfectly sculpted abs, chiselled chest, strong arms… Her mind started wondering of what it would be like to be gripped by them so tight it would leave hand shaped bruises, what it would feel like to be left breathless due to the pressure of his body pushing her into the mattress, to lose her voice while calling his name, feeling him in the most intimate way possible.
Shit.
She tried to not look at his face, to avoid those green eyes filled with lust. For her, for her body, for her moans, the taste of her lips, the feeling of her skin under his fingertips.
Oh, yes, she tried so hard.
To the best of her abilities and her obviously unwavering values.
She even tried to move back to run away from her own needs, which, ironically, she called normal a few minutes ago, while standing at his doorframe.
Funny how the tables turned, cause now she was all hot and bothered, feeling like a freaking prey while Jason was the hunter. And given all his Red Hood skills, he was not going to let go before getting the bunny he’s been chasing.
“I want you.” He whispered with that hoarse, low voice, making her take a sharp breath, almost catching in her throat. “I want you…” he repeated, appearing right next to her in a split second, grabbing her by the waist, pulling her to him, one of those perfectly thick thighs pressing between her legs in a way that made her buck her hips forward, wetness soaked her pyjama pants, her core craving friction. “Babygirl…” Jason whispered in her ear, brushing lips over her earlobe, and cheek, his breath burning her skin as he moved to nibble and lick the soft spot on her neck with his obviously trained tongue. Y/N could only fantasise what it would do in some other place.
“Jason…” she moaned.
“Yes, princess….” This was not a question. He didn’t have to ask what she wanted cause he already knew, probably even better than she herself could express. “Say yes… come on, sunshine. Let me make you feel good. Let me show you the pleasure you never knew before.” He kept caressing her, hands finding a way under her pyjama shirt, travelling up, feeling her soft skin, moving up to her breasts, not covered by bra, almost touching them, but leaving her wanting and needing.
“how are you so cocky now…?” she gasped, her body squirming when he pressed her into a wall. “you weren’t so self-assured a minute ago.”
“I must be doing something wrong if you can still think logically…” he smirked, reaching fingers up under her shirt, brushing over her boobs, causing another shudder. “Say yes…” he grabbed her tighter, showing all the man attitude. “Just say yes, baby…”
“Fuck… shit…” his thigh was pressing into her core invitingly and she wanted nothing more than to brush against it, but he was effectively preventing her from doing so. Little bastard wanted to be in control and to break her.
“Not even close, baby…” he nuzzled his nose in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with the smell of her skin. “I want you… you want me… you can make it easy with just one word. Come on…” he started tracing the letters of said word on her waist, scratching gently, adding to her arousal “Y-E…”
“YES! Ok, fuck, yes, yes! I – mhp!”
She didn’t get to finish the sentence when his lips finally crashed on hers, hands grabbing her waist lifting her up and holding tightly against him, her back pressing into a wall, her legs wrapping around him. Each of Jason’s caress and movement was an entire declaration of the feeling that he had kept hidden for months, trying to suppress his affection for Y/N with multiple one night stands.
In a blink of an eye, his shirt was gone and Y/N was tracing over his skin, seemingly in the same way she’s been doing while cleaning him after patrols, but in fact, completely differently.
This whole situations was completely different, emotions and hormones running high and wild, out of any control, not that either of them wanted it.
No.
No, fuck the control. All they needed was the release, the sweet feeling of being with each other in that perfect, unfiltered, unadulterated way. No hesitation, no inhibitions just all the feels, even if they had no idea what they were doing, but also at the same time, moved with purpose, heading towards a specific goal.
Hands, lips, tongues, teeth, muscles.
Fingers tangling in hairs, hot, ragged breaths, mouth whispering love letters on skin, the urge to be even closer than physically possible.
Just them two in their bubble in dark room in a dark apartment.
Full desire.
Full pleasure.
The warmth of the other’s body, shivers of lust and excitement all over.
“Jason…” she whispered, letting go of him for a second to allow him to take her sleepwear off.
“Y/N… Y/N… oh, mine, mine…” Jason might have read hundredths of books in his life and had a vast vocabulary range but at his moment, he was only using body language, the only word on his mind was her name. HER name.
“Please…” she whispered, grabbing him tighter, running nails down his back. “Please…” she begged for the release, craving the feeling she’s been missing for such a long time, grinding on him, aching.
“Oh, princess, I’ll give you everything you want. But I want you in my bed first.” He smirked, pressing his lips to hers again, tasting her, while carrying her to bedroom, kicking the doors shut the second they reached the destination. “you’re the queen, I’m not taking you against the wall, baby.” he threw her on the bed, immediately climbing on top of her, spreading her legs and diving into her core perfectly, without even trying.
It was like they were made for each other.
“More…oh, more…”
“Yes.. yes, more… everything you want, baby. Everything you need from me. Everything.” He whispered into her ear, giving justice to all her fantasies from before. “Sing for me, my angel.”
Heaven is not a place. Heaven is a person.
And Jason was hers as much as she was his.
***
When she woke up next morning at first she couldn’t recognise the place she was in. But the sheets smelled like him and she smiled to herself, remembering the last night, what they did, how many times and in how many ways they explored their bodies, breaking the laws of biomechanics and flexibility in the process. Who would have thought that you can fit as many things in such little amount of time.
There was still this pleasurable tingling on her skin in the places where he kissed and touched and devoured her. Hopefully he felt the same given all the crazy things she did for him.
And speak of the devil, her night-time hero walked right through the door with a sleepy expression on his face and with the perfect bedhead, curls falling into his face.
“No breakfast?” she teased, noticing his empty hands “what happened to treating me like a queen?”
“Hm…” Jason muttered in response, blushing ever so slightly “are you asking for more of it? I’m more than ready for it, but figured you’d still like to walk…”
She laughed a little when he jumped on the bed next to her, resting head on arms, looking at her lovingly, melting her heart.
“Hey Jason….”
“Hey yourself, pretty one…”
“Look, I…” she sighed not sure what to do now and how to figure out her own feelings. Jason was clearly head over heels for her and slowly, the guilt and remorse that she had only used him in the moment of weakness and body talk, started creeping in.
“Sh. You don’t need to say a thing.”
“But…”
“Not a thing, Y/N.” he said again, propping himself up and kissing her temple “I’m just glad you’re here with me. I don’t really need much more…”
Liar.
Of course he wanted more. He wanted her to love him back, to be his one and only, to have her exclusively, to be her boyfriend, with the tiniest amount of luck. But on the other hand he was also desperate and would settle for any scrap of her affection that was more than friend-like. Hoping that with the right amount of patience (which he lacked), stubbornness (which he had in excess) and caring he would get the same confession out of her in the future.
@lightwing-s
#jason todd x reader#red hood x reader#jason todd smut#red hood smut#jason todd x y/n#red hood x y/n#jason todd x you#red hood x you#jason todd fanfiction#red hood fanfiction#dc smut#neighbour!jason todd
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waking up and seeing dream’s rip off project just breaks my heart man what the hell qsmp barely had two weeks to shine and now he’s introducing a VERY similar project in larger scale and uglier graphics and its just “the two are allowed to co-exist?” be fucking serious for a second dude why are you doing this NOW at the height of a project spearheaded by someone that used to call you a friend? like just . logistically speaking comercially speaking when you see how obviously similar these concepts are Why would you announce it now when you know someone else is getting the spotlight for once.
its hard not to call it spite or jealousy or anything of the sort when we cant confirm the timelines of this new project’s development but it REALLY, really feels like something unkind. not only that but it feels really gross to see most aspects of quackity’s passion project warped into something worse.. like LIVE TRANSLATION? really? bc dream of course wouldnt expect people to try and learn the different languages to communicate. he probably doesnt understand how redundant and ultimately hindering it will be to rely 100% on automated translation because 1) he’s not bilingual nor does he make any effort to understand the bilingual experience 2) he has no actual interest in the learning process of foreign languages or the different linguistic communities on twitch and in content creation in general . which makes me wonder WHY he is leading this and very likely profitting off of it when there’s no real reason for him to associate himself with this kind of cultural project other than . wanting to be relevant i guess.
during squidcraft, i didnt see him attempt a single word in spanish. i saw dream use google translate or straight up speak english (fast, idiomatic english at that) to spanish speakers and otherwise not try to meet a communicative middle-ground in any way. if this is how he intends to take on “united SMP” i cant wait to see it fail.
quackity’s project is successful because he cares. its modeled after his own experience and thrives because he as a bilingual host is able to cater to both communities within it and work as a linguistic bridge when need be. which, as we have watched day after day on qsmp streams, becomes less and less necessary because the environment quackity is fostering is actually very concrete INCENTIVE FOR LANGUAGE LEARNING. people are actually interacting and having meaningful linguistic/cultural exchanges that actually LEAD TO LANGUAGE KNOWLEDGE AND UNDERSTANDING. how the fuck is that supposed to happen if theres live translation? ill tell you now, it won’t.
when we study linguistics in college one of the first things we learn in regards to foreign language teaching is that translation methods rarely fuckjng work. by doing that youre limiting human interaction and actually DISTURBING the learning possibilities because youre taking away Real, varied input. dream doesnt know what he’s doing and its so upsetting to watch. dont even get me started on “language rankings” or whatever the fuck the competitive aspect is supposed to be
the project is just so flawed and the timing couldnt be worse. quackity is doing such a great job and? you just try to hijack his idea like this even though you clearly lack both the heart and the knowledge to make something like this work? to me it just appears so sour. so mean-spirited and uninspired. i dont even know man i just dont like it
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Omg you're backkkk<3 I hope uni's going well for you!
Maybe the Hunting Dogs with a s/o who's kind of mean/petty?
Hunting Dogs with a mean S/O
♡ pairing: Fukuchi Ouchi, Jouno Saigiku, Tecchou Suehiro, Teruko Okura (platonic), Tachihara Michizou x gn!Reader
♡ synopsis: How are the Hunting Dogs with a mean and petty S/O?
♡ cw: Swearing, u r a BULLY >:((, dw it's pretty chill though, non-graphic NSFW with Jouno, teensy bit of NSFW with Tachihara, mentions of violence, crime and torture
note: ahhh hello yes i'm back! uni's pretty great actually. i love being able to tell people i go to law school lmao, it makes me feel smarter than i am. uhh but i've been swamped and a bit busy, and i'm going back home for a week so i might not be super active over the next couple weeks, i'm so sorry my babies </3 but i'll still be lurking in case you wanna chat! as always, apologies for errors and i hope you enjoy x
Fukuchi:
Mf you think he cares?? He hired Jouno and Tachihara because they committed crimes, and he's more than happy to keep Teruko around. Bro doesn't give a FUCK that you're mean
If you're dating Fukuchi you clearly do give a shit about the welfare of society and world peace, so your individual quirks are just that. Quirks
He will fully let you just be a dickhead sometimes, because...like, why not?
I feel like Fukuchi is obviously often a very intimidating individual who strikes fear and commands respect from everyone else. But you? You just walk all over him
In some ways for him it's probably kind of refreshing to have someone around him who doesn't idolise him at all, or look up to him as a superior. It gets exhausting, for sure. Sometimes he just wants to be humbled and that's so okay Fukuchi, you deserve it actually /mean-spirited and condescending
Don't get me wrong it's not like you're an abusive partner! You're still obviously nice to your partner and you love him, but you definitely don't go out of your way to sugarcoat things or try to avoid any necessary confrontations
And Fukuchi genuinely really respects that about you. He's pretty similar like that, though still definitely goofier than you
I mean he won't want you sitting around with an RBF when he's at formal events and whatnot, because that really wouldn't have the best impression, but he's usually very gung ho about letting you be yourself
You're lucky he loves you man...lmao
Jouno:
He loves it. Full stop.
You two are just sadist central over here. Like he'll be torturing a suspect and you're just watching. Bored. Not a care in the world
(Jouno, I don't think you're legally allowed to invite your partner to watch you do your job- much less one like this, but...eh...)
You two are always just talking shit about people to each other, and like when you're out in public on dates you're just whispering to each other and judging people T-T
Lowkey kinda gets turned on when you guys argue. He thinks it's hot when you get heated and angry. Usually it ends in rough "passionate hugging", and the pillowtalk is when you both actually resolve the issue (dumbasses)
He might even purposefully rile you up sometimes because mf is just THAT much of a horny degenerate. You guys can call him classy and gentlemanly all you want, but we all know he's secretly deranged
Like an angry, horny goblin with a knife...someone stop him
Tbh you should probably bully him a little bit every now and then. I think he needs to be taken down a peg sometimes
Hey, he's more likely to listen to you than Tecchou, isn't he? Besides, it's nothing genuinely malicious. Just couple's banter
Oh, you guys are fucking LEGENDS at the couple's banter. Though you never do it in public, because a lot of the times the things you both tell each other as jokes can come off as really cruel jabs
Nah your senses of humour are just not family-friendly (violent and malicious)
You guys have very strange ways of showing your love and affection. But, hey, it works for you and that's what's important :)
Tecchou:
Ah yes, arguably the least meanie of all of the Hunting Dogs. Yeah uh he doesn't really like you at first
Tecchou doesn't understand being mean just for the sake of it. I mean like, for Teruko, she uses it in her career, and Jouno is sadistic and weird and also uses it in his career. You're just petty because you can be
But the more time you spend together the more he realises that you're really not that bad- you're really just more of the loveable asshole type
An acquired taste, yes, but this is Tecchou we're talking about! That's his thing!
He learns to appreciate the things about you that many others would probably consider flaws. He influences you for the better definitely...
...BUT you also kinda make him worse
He will adopt your 'deal with it bitch' attitude sometimes, but it doesn't hinder his relationships or work so it's fiiiiine
(Jouno isn't a huge fan of it though...but at the same time he kind of respects you)
Tecchou probably won't admit it but he really likes to listen to you rant and bitch about people you don't like. He just likes to listen to you be angry about trivial things, he finds it equal parts endearing and entertaining
If you're mean to someone who deserves it? Well I mean...who is he to stop you?
At the end of the day you're definitely emotionally self-sufficient, so that's one less part of you for him to fret over. All's well that ends well or some shit idk
Teruko (platonic):
You guys are literally the best of friends
She's the loud fiery kind of mean and you are the 'I will straight up meticulously ruin your life' kind of mean
You on some r/nuclearrevenge type shit and she fucking loves that for you
Like she's fully willing to plot and scheme with you and do whatever mean shit you suggest. You two are menaces and she should absolutely not be a military soldier
Teruko WILL smite your enemies. And by smite your enemies I mean she will actively do what she can to ruin the lives of people you don't like, with absolutely no remorse (pretty sure she actually commits crimes to do this)
She LIVES for your cruel one-liners and clever insults. Every time she hears one she absolutely hollers
Teruko enjoys it when you're mean to the other Hunting Dogs (except Fukuchi). They can handle a couple bitchy words so it's not a huge deal, but she's just extra amused by it
For the record you're not *mean* mean, you're just...humbling them (which let's be real they could use from time to time (Jouno, again, looking at you))
Nobody is surprised by your guys' friendship really
You're a dangerous pair. Please stop
Teruko kinda likes that you hold grudges so frequently because she'll never tire of hearing you shittalk the same exact people and events over and over again
She'll shittalk them too
Dia doesn't approve of this friendship
Tachihara:
You guys know that scene in B99 where Jake says that he can't decide if he's scared of Amy or turned on by her and then decides that he's both? Yea, that's Tachihara with you
He is a good person at heart, and outside of his mafia gangster persona he's really not that mean, and as such he does not encourage mean behaviour. But like, when you do it? Mm...
Bro is WHIPPED
Lowkey he probably gets some of his mafia persona ideas from you 💀
His mafia coworkers have no questions about how you two get along, and they generally like you. The other Hunting Dogs have a few more questions
Tachihara isn't some shy, quiet introvert, but he is generally pretty chill and a nice person. They like to playfully tease him about how different the two of you are (though if it gets too far he knows he can count on you to rip them a new one with no issue)
Dw they still like you though! Especially Teruko
He has absolutely no problems with you for being cold and blunt. It's nothing he himself can't handle, and in some ways it actually makes talking to you easier
Again, I'll stress that you're not mean to him, you're just not the most lovey-dovey person out there. But you DO put effort in and that's what Tachihara cares about, even if it isn't in a stereotypical way
If anything else, you're certainly loyal!
Tachihara loves you for all of your different eccentricities, and he's also kinda turned on by them. Win-win? Win-win.
taglist~ ♡
@gettinshiggywithit, @fyodorhatr, @flower-of-darkness, @bejeweledgirl, @kokoenjiandco, @pinkiipeachiikeen
#bsd#bungo stray dogs#bungou stray dogs#bsd fanfic#bsd fanfiction#bsd headcanons#bsd hcs#fanfiction#bsd fluff#headcanons#bungo stray dogs headcanons#bungo stray dogs fanfic#bsd x reader#gn reader#bsd x gn reader#bsd fukuchi#fukuchi ouchi#fukuchi x reader#bsd jouno#jouno saigiku#jouno x reader#bsd tecchou#tecchou suehiro#tecchou x reader#bsd teruko#teruko okura#bsd tachihara#tachihara michizou#tachihara x reader
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Just Say You Love Me
Summary: Dean is trying to embrace his emotions and look to the future. Part 3 of 3. Part 2 - The Right Guy On Paper.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: fluff, mentions of cheating.
W/C: 4,901.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Mentioned: Jody Mills.
Pairing: Dean x fem!reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).
Bingo: @jacklesversebingo Square Filled: ”Would you please, shut up, I’m trying to confess my love for you.”
A/N: Obviously this was supposed to posted on a certain day (you'll get what I mean when you read) but it just wasn't where I wanted it to be at the time so I waited. Two-ish weeks later ain't bad though.
Graphics: made by be on canva. Dividers by @talesmaniac89
Master Lists: JAcklesVerseBingo / Dean Winchester / Main
Pulling off the highway, Dean grumbles, “This is stupid,” to himself again. Yet, he had called Jody to make sure you weren’t working, made the two-hour drive, and hadn't veered off route to the nearest bar.
It’s been a few weeks since he saw you at Jody’s cabin. You’ve spoken on the phone a few times and met him halfway to Kentucky to give him a lore book Claire had borrowed. But no in-depth conversations have been had, which he’s okay with because one, it’s a conversation to be had in person and not while he is neck deep in a case, and B, he doesn’t know what to say or how to tell you what he wants because he’s still not sure himself.
So, in the safe confines of Baby, he asks himself again why is he driving to your house on Unattached Drifter Christmas or ‘Valentine’s Day’ for the schmucks?
Before he can do a little soul-searching and find the answer, his cell phone rings.
“Hey Sam, what’s up?” he answers.
“Why are you in Sioux Falls? Something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine. Wait, how do you know where I am?”
“You were way too vague about where you were going. You always have a plan for today,” Sam explains, “figured you were up to no good and better keep an eye on you in case you get into trouble like last time.”
“Last time was almost five years ago, and for the hundredth time, I didn’t know she was married,” Dean snarks.
“Plus, you didn’t turn off your GPS,” Sam says as if he hadn’t heard Dean’s argument. “So why are you in Sioux Falls on Unattached Drifter Christmas?”
He falters for a second, thinking of an excuse, and before his pause becomes suspicious, he blurts, “There’s a new bar opened up. Wanna try it out.”
“This bar called Y/N’s, by any chance?”
“What? No!”
Sam laughs, and that all-knowing chuckle reminds Dean that Sam is onto him and there’s no point in denying anything. “It’s a good thing, Dean,” his brother assures him. “You may not have told her outright, but she’s smart. She’ll recognize you showing up today, of all days, is your way of telling her you want…” Dean waits, hoping that Sam will impart the answer that eludes him, but huffs in defeat when his brother adds, “Whatever it is you want.”
“This is stupid,” Dean grumbles, “I’m being stupid.”
“No, it's not,” Sam scolds. “I’m sure today will be tough for her. So, just being there for her is a good thing. It doesn’t have to be deep conversations. Showing up and supporting her is enough.”
Dean considers that Sam is probably right, but it doesn’t make him feel any less insecure. “Maybe.”
“Have fun,” Sam says before hanging up.
Five minutes from his final destination, his phone chimes, alerting him to a text message.
Jody: She’s at Lucky Shots, fifth wheeling it.
“Dammit, Sam!” he snarls, but he’s not really mad, saves him a trip to her empty house.
The break at Jody’s cabin was revitalizing, and the feeling has stuck for the few weeks you’ve been back in your routine. It probably helps that you removed every trace of Luke from your life the moment you got home. The confrontation with Dean was cathartic, too. You’ve analyzed what he’d said about not wanting you to meet someone new and that he missed you, and asked Jody for her opinion, too. She’d wistfully smiled as if aware of something you weren’t, “Maybe you gave up on him too quickly.”
You didn’t want to admit that Jody was probably right. Yet you had made assumptions, choosing to believe that he didn’t want anything serious, and after admitting to yourself that you wanted something more, you had decided to go out and find it somewhere else.
That realization turned out to be at the forefront of your mind today. You're thankful to your friends, Laura and Sara, for the invitation and for not allowing you to stay home and eat your emotions. Being the fifth wheel isn’t the issue. It doesn’t bother you, even on Valentine’s Day. They chose a lowkey, casual games bar, not some romantic, candlelit restaurant, and for that, you are eternally grateful. The issue is Luke is there. It could be worse. He could be with her, but fortunately, he’s with two of his buddies.
The bar has darts, beer pong, pool, skee ball, knock down a clown, and a few other amusements. You're locked into a tight game of girls versus boys beer pong - the beer having been replaced with tequila shots - and you can feel Luke’s every glance as if he’s waiting for an opportunity to approach.
It’s the last thing you want, and your friends were kind enough to offer to leave when he arrived, but you stubbornly refused. You had no reason to leave. He should be filled with so much shame and regret that he can’t bear to face you, but he has the audacity to look like a wounded puppy, and that makes you angry.
The game is down to the wire, and the final ball is down to Chris and Dylan, your friends' partners. Dylan massages Chris’ shoulders, “Come on, buddy, you got this. For the win!”
You all hold your breath as Chris releases the ball, and the boys celebrate the victory with loud cheers as it lands in the cup, having barely touched the sides. You, Laura, and Sara shoot another round of tequila. The sourness of the lemon you suck on adds to the disapproving look you catch Luke throwing your way.
Asshole. How dare he judge you!
“I demand a rematch!” Laura declares.
You agree. “My turn to buy the drinks.”
Sara escorts you to the bar. Though she masks it as helping you carry the drinks back to the table, you know she’s doing it to protect you from an unwanted visitor.
“I need the bathroom, but I’ll meet you back here,” Sara tells you, “if he comes over before I make it back, stomp on his foot and poke him in the eye.”
You laugh, really belly laugh, because she’s totally serious, and it’s also hilarious to think he’d have the balls to actually approach you.
“Who’re we looking out for, honey?” the elderly woman beside you asks, lips pursed and looking sassy.
Sara tells her, “Other end of the bar, tall white guy, blond hair.”
“Green shirt?” she asks for confirmation.
“That’s the one.”
“Uh-huh,” she tuts, “I know the type, handsome as an angel, spirit of the devil. You go on to the bathroom. I’ve got your friend until you get back.”
You don’t doubt the lady’s confidence. You wouldn’t mess with her.
“Thank you, Miss…”
“Call me Beverly,” she introduces, and Sara shakes her hand before skittering off to the bathroom.
You wait your turn to be served, listening to your protector tell you all about her first husband, “the devil incarnate.”
If only she knew.
You face forward, not even side-glancing in Luke’s direction, not wanting to give him any inclination you may want to talk. You don’t. Beverly turns and rests her back against the bar to see the whole room without looking over her shoulder.
“Oh, sweetie,” your new friend says, “there’s another one of those handsome-as-an-angel men walking this way, and I think he’s looking for you.”
You still don’t turn, but look up into the mirror behind the bar and see him. Dean maneuvering around people and tables, coming straight toward you.
Unintentionally, you gasp, a sheepish smile creeping in as you lock eyes with him in the mirror.
“From that reaction, I don’t think you need help with this one,” Beverly says, sweetly taking a step to the left to make room for Dean.
“Hey,” he says, a half smile making him look a little awkward.
“Hey,” you say as he leans in to kiss your cheek, and when he’s close, you whisper, “Everything okay?”
He pulls back, nodding with a slight frown as if the question was offensive or something. “Yeah, everything is fine, just passing through and wanted to say hi.”
“Passing through?” you ask, suspicion clear in your tone.
His frown deepens, clearly trying to sell the lie, pretending to be confused by the suspicion.
You smirk. “Just happen to be passing through on Unattached Drifter Christmas?”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “How much do you and Sam talk?”
“A lot,” you confess, “emails, phone calls, memes, and then there’s the weekly newsletter.”
“Busted.” He laughs, and it shakes off whatever anxiety he was feeling.
The bartender comes over and takes your order. You add on whatever Beverly is drinking for the rest of the night, which reminds you Sara has been gone a while. You turn around to look for her, and Dean looks over his shoulder. Sara’s back at the table. All of them are staring at you but quickly and comically turn around as if they weren’t when Dean finds them.
“Sorry,” you chuckle, “they’re just looking out for me cause Deputy Dick is here.”
“Shit,” he grumbles. “Is me being here going to be a problem?”
“Probably, but that's his problem.”
Dean laughs, and you really have missed it. The easy relationship you had seems to be a thing of the past, but you want it back. Maybe not the sex because you’ve realized that's where the problem lies. You want more from him than you'll ever get, but at least the friendship could be mended.
“But don’t waste your Christmas on me, Dean,” you say. It's subtle but enough to tell him that hooking up is off the table.
That disgruntled frown appears again, and he looks genuinely offended. “I’m not here ‘cause I think I’m gonna get laid.” He explains, shrugging. “Running into you isn’t a coincidence. I was on my way to your place because I didn’t want you to be alone tonight. Jody told me where you were.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to take from that?”
“Take it for what it is,” Dean suggests. “I’m trying.”
You can work with that. Trying to be friends sounds like just what you need. No pressure or expectations from either side, so you quickly squash the thought that it means something deeper that he’s choosing to spend time with you instead of finding a warm body to lie with.
“Okay.” You smile, trying to look as sweet as possible. “Well, can part of that trying be helping us win at beer pong?”
“Girls versus boys?”
“Obviously.”
He scoffs, “Absolutely not! And you get an extra shot for asking me to rig a sacred game.” He hands you a shot off the tray of drinks, and you knock it back.
He watches you, grinning the whole time, and you shake your head as if it will shake away the taste. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, leaning down to kiss your cheek.
“Don’t try and soften me up, Winchester,” you warn, “I’m not gonna take it easy on you.”
He shrugs, “Was worth a shot,” and walks away with the tray of drinks.
Chris and Dylan merrily call his name as he approaches, and you follow, smiling fondly.
“Now the odds are even. Prepare to go down, ladies,” Dean says, taking off his jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbow.
The games continued; the boys won at Beer Pong, but the girls won two rounds of darts. Once Chris and Dylan had gushed over the Impala, you said your goodbyes in the parking lot. Each of your friends hugged you. Dean got a kiss on the cheek from the ladies, and the guys gave him a firm handshake before pulling each other into a one-armed hug. It looked natural and easy, and you love how well Dean slots into the group.
You realize you’re staring as he drives, and he glances over when he feels your eyes on him. “Are we still social distancing or something?” he jokes, reaching a hand over to tug on your leg, requesting you get closer.
You oblige, sliding over the leather seat, and he slips an arm behind your shoulders to rest on the seat back. “Thank you for that,” you say, kissing his cheek.
“For what?” he asks.
“Pretending like you couldn’t hit that bullseye with your eyes closed.”
“Well, I’m supposed to be a mechanic, right? Not sure a mechanic would have perfect marksmanship.”
“If you’re not sold on the mechanic thing, you can always tell them you’ve changed your profession,” you suggest, and with a teasing wink, add, “but they all already know you’re good with your hands.”
“Would you, for once, get your mind out of the gutter?” Dean jests, “I already told you, no sex for you.”
“Sorry, Mr Winchester, sir,” you joke, “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
He laughs but looks out at the road. His fingers lightly brush your neck. You aren’t sure he realizes he’s doing it. When you were sleeping together, it became a thing - absentmindedly, he’d lightly stroke your skin while watching a movie or falling asleep. It's familiar and comforting, and you lay your head on his shoulder the rest of the ride home.
Dean follows you up your path, and while you search your bag for your keys, you notice him looking to the left, eyes squinting, trying to see something too far away.
“Wanna come in?” you ask, distracting him from whatever has caught his attention.
“It’s not a good idea,” he says, giving you his full focus, “I meant what I said, Y/N. I didn’t show up cause I was expecting to get laid.”
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t considered throwing caution to the wind and jumping into old habits. And you're surprised by Dean’s rejection. He could have followed your lead and taken you to bed without any objections.
“Presumptuous much?” you counter, smirking.
He smiles, all charm and smug joy, because he knows he’s right. “Don’t try and pretend you weren’t thinking about it.” He steps closer, crowding your space and gripping your hips to pull you against him. “You’ve been flirting with me all night.”
“I can stop,” you threaten, but it falls flat as you wrap your arms around his neck.
He grins, “No, you can’t,” against your lips, kissing you before you can claim otherwise.
The kiss is not hesitant; it’s deep and long, but you feel him holding back. His hands don’t roam, remaining wrapped around your waist, but he takes his time, savoring the shared warmth, each brush of your tongues, every breath shared.
Dean is the first to pull back. “I gotta go,” he swiftly kisses you again. “I told Jody I’d be there before midnight.”
“Gonna turn into a pumpkin, Winchester?”
He laughs, pecking your lips again, but then his features soften, something close to pleading, “I’m trying,” he grumbles, but you're not sure if it's to remind you or himself.
He doesn’t say exactly what it is that he’s trying, but you know he means he’s trying to do things the right way, and that’s enough. “You're doing great,” you assure.
He kisses you harder, tongue sweeping over your bottom lip, and you let him in. He walks you backward until your back hits your door, and he groans when he presses himself into you. “Nope,” he scolds himself, pulling back and comically jogging away down the path, but while you're still laughing at him, he turns back. “Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow?”
You smile, and it widens to a knowing grin. You spare him the OMG shock when the realization hits you, but you do ask, “Are we dating?”
“Only if you say yes?”
“Pick me up at ten.”
He winks, unable to contain the boyish grin, and just as he opens his mouth to say something, a siren blasts, and a sheriff’s car pulls up to Baby’s bumper.
You walk a few feet to stand beside Dean as Travis, the rookie, and Luke, in plain clothes, step out of the vehicle.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean says.
Luke and Travis stand beside each other on the sidewalk but don’t approach you.
“Ten out of ten for dramatic flair,” you snark, clapping once.
“But should have done it while I was kissing her,” Dean adds, “would have been way more dramatic.”
“I think you meant douchier,” you suggest with a confused frown.
“You’re right,” Dean clicks his fingers as if you're right on the money, “I meant douchier.”
“Funny,” Luke says. “Travis, this man has been driving under the influence. Please breathalyze him.”
You put a hand on Dean’s arm to keep him in place should he decide Luke deserves another punch to the face. After all, he’s not in uniform. Travis is wise enough not to move. You're his boss. Luke has seniority over him but not over you.
“Really?” Dean sneers. “That's all you got?”
“Go home, Luke,” you tell him, “you’re making a fool of yourself.”
“So what if I am,” he says, “I just wanna talk.”
“We’ve talked,” you remind him. “You talked, I listened to your piss poor excuses, and it changed nothing.”
“We were going to get married.”
You raise your voice, “That was a reaction to your cheating! You only asked me because you felt guilty, and I only said yes because…” you cut yourself off, but Dean looks at you, knowing what you had been about to say.
“We were good together,” Luke says, seemingly oblivious to the silent conversation that passed between you and Dean. “He’s just a,” Luke sneers at Dean. “What did you call it? A situationship.”
Dean tenses under your grip, and you know the comment had the intended effect. You’ll have to address it later.
Clenching his jaw, he briefly looks away before leveling a glare and taunting, “Dude, have some dignity. She’s already told you it’s over.” He practically growls his next words. “So leave.”
Luke ignores Dean, looking directly at you. “You're angry, I get it. But don’t make any rash decisions, please.” he implores.
“I was angry,” you agree, “I was furious, but now I’m indifferent. You were a rash decision, Luke, and I’m not saying that to be cruel or get back at you. It’s the truth.”
Saying those words aloud drives home your previous thoughts of why you started dating Luke. Getting engaged was a reaction to your feelings of rejection from Dean’s honesty about commitment. You release a breath as Luke’s face drops, finally seeming to understand.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
He shakes his head, blasting out a breath filled with disbelief. “We were never going to work out,” Luke realizes aloud, “you were too hung up on him.”
“Travis, I’m sorry you were dragged into this,” you sigh, “but please take Luke home.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Luke stares for a second longer, but chooses not to say anything further, allowing Travis to usher him into the car.
Dean doesn’t move, watching the car disappear from view at the end of the street. Your heart pounds in your chest; you’ve just gotten to a good place, and now that might have all been unraveled.
Though you suspect not a lot of it is surprising to Dean. The day you told him about Luke, he’d begged you not to tell him you loved him and he was right for the assumption that you did - or do or might. You can not say it even reject the idea if anyone suggests it, but you can’t deny it to yourself. You sought out Luke to replace the emotions you felt weren’t reciprocated by Dean.
“Maybe I should take you to breakfast,” you suggest, with a nervous chuckle, “to make up for that. I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, giving you a small smile. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he assures you, but he’s looking you over like he’s trying to read the emotions behind the words. “You okay?”
Quickly, you reply, “Yeah, of course.”
“You sure? You look like a bit of ‘deer caught in headlights’.”
“I’m okay,” you sigh, taking a deep breath. “Just a little worried that's undone all the progress we’ve made.”
“It hasn’t,” he tells you, slipping a hand on your hip and pulling you into him. “This situationship can handle an ex-situationship.”
You grimace, “I’m sorry.”
He laughs, nonplussed, “Don’t be. I’ve been called worse.”
He silences your next apology with a deep kiss and slowly, seemingly reluctantly, pulls back. “I’ll pick you up at ten for breakfast.”
You're rambling again. Since Valentine’s Day, it’s been happening a lot. Dean knows why you're doing it. He can see it in your expression every time you catch yourself and stutter over the words, changing it to something else and hoping he doesn’t notice.
The first time it happened, a few weeks ago, Dean thought he misheard you. You were both breathing heavily, your thighs pressed against his ears, holding him in place, writhing while you rode his tongue. He watched your face as much as he could, eyes rolling to the back of your head. Your body twitched, and your climax coated his tongue and wet the sheets, “I love yo…when you do that.”
Three days ago, after a double date with Sara and Dylan, Dean woke you up in bed with coffee and French toast. Still in the haze of sleep, you smiled contentedly, and it almost slipped out. “I love…” you coughed to cut yourself off, correcting it as you sat up, “I love French toast.” But he could see it in eyes, the adoration tainted with the fear of saying it aloud.
‘I love you’ is on the tip of your tongue, and it almost escaped a moment ago.
A car accident had kept you late at work, so the dinner reservations had to be canceled, but Dean wouldn’t let it ruin the night. He’d ordered pizza, knowing you’d be starving when you got home, run a bubble bath (with the ulterior motive of joining you), popped open a bottle of your favorite wine - he hated it, thought it tasted like vinegar - and was waiting in the middle of the living room for you with the glass in hand.
Taking the glass from him, you lazily kissed him. He could feel how tired you were. Listlessly, you mumbled, “Oh god, I love yo…” but had stifled it so quickly that the rim of the glass clinked against your teeth.
Clearly unable to think of an alternative, you began rambling about your day while unnecessarily blitzing around the already clean kitchen with a dishcloth.
He wants you to say it. He figured out how he felt about you when it finally sunk in after you’d told him you’d met someone else. It was more than physical, and it always had been. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have hurt so damn much when you told him about Luke.
He hasn’t said the words to you, but you have to know that’s how he feels. He told you he’s trying. Although, there haven’t been any conversations about exactly what that entails. He’s been more communicative. He’s made future plans - okay, only a week or so ahead at any given time, but that tells you all you need to know, right?
But the way you keep avoiding the phrase sets off a little ripple in his heart. Maybe you don’t know. Maybe you’re afraid he’ll hightail it out the door like last time if you say it aloud. Maybe he needs to expand his communication skills. He says your name softly, but you either don’t hear him or pretend not to, afraid of what comes after.
“I should get you a key cut,” you blabber in. “Save you having to pick the lock next time I’m not home. Don’t want the neighbors calling it in. Mrs Brooks next door is always twitching her curtains.”
He tries again, “Y/N,” louder this time.
“I need to put a load of laundry in,” you say, striding into the laundry room.
“I did it already,” he calls after you.
“I’ll put it in the dryer then.”
He follows, trapping you inside the smaller space so you have no choice but to turn and face him.
“The laundry is done and folded in the basket in your room.” he continues, speaking to your back. “The kitchen is clean. Pizza is on the way. The bath should still be hot.”
You finally look up at him, and there’s that apprehensive smile again, but your eyes are aglow with the words you chew your lip to suppress.
“Just say it,” he sighs, trying to hide his smile.
“Say what?”
He steps closer, crowding your space and using a gentle touch to tilt your head up to keep your eyes on his. “You know what.” He smirks, teasing, “You can’t bite your tongue forever. So just say you love me.”
“I wasn’t biting…” you stammer, “I never…I only meant I was going to get a key cut for you. I didn’t mean anything….”
“Would you please, shut up?” He silences your rambling with a hard kiss, grabbing your hips and hoisting you to sit on top of the dryer. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you sigh placidly, but he pulls back and grins, “I’m trying to confess my love for you.”
You drop your gaze, avoiding eye contact. “Please don’t.”
He notes your avoidance of looking at him, and panic sets in that maybe he’s got it wrong, again. But he hopes he’s right, so he chuckles, “giving me a taste of my own medicine.”
You shake your head, “No. I don’t need to hear it, and you don’t have to say it ‘cause you think it's what I want to hear.”
“That’s not what…” he tries, but you raise your voice to speak over him.
“Dean, please!” you wait for him to close his mouth. “I like how things are now, and I don’t want to jinx it or have to watch your ass run for the door again.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, “it will be different this time.”
“We’ve been through this already. I don’t want promises, and we don’t need to open old wounds.”
“I get why you’re…”
The doorbell interrupts him, and you use the excuse to push him aside as you jump down and scurry out of the room.
He leans against the doorframe facing into the kitchen and listens to you thank the delivery guy. You must have given a generous tip because he thanks you multiple times as you say goodbye to him.
The click of the door closing echoes, and he waits for you to appear, but you don’t. He imagines you standing in the hallway, trying to calm yourself.
He waits, counting the seconds in his head with the promise that he’ll go find you if he reaches thirty.
At fifteen, you enter, eyes glued to the floor, pizza balanced like a cocktail waitress. “I’m gonna go take that bath,” you tell him. “Hopefully, it's still warm.”
You’re assuming the conversation is over. Only it isn’t. At least, not for him. He hasn’t been working up to it. He’s never had a grand plan for the first time he says it, but now he knows he needs to say it so you understand and believe him.
Silently, he watches you put a few slices of pizza on a plate - so he presumes he’s not invited to the bubble bath. The stopper gives an audible pop when you pull it from the wine bottle, like an exclamation point on his thoughts.
He clears his throat and proclaims, “I love you.”
The only indication that you heard him is your frozen state, bottle tipped, ready to pour into your glass.
“It took me too long to figure that out, but I do. And saying it or not saying it out loud isn’t going to change a damn thing.”
You continue to pour the wine into your glass but don’t turn to face him, recorking the bottle and resting against the countertop.
You haven’t run away, so he continues, “I always knew we were good together, but now I see that we have a whole future of being good together, not just the here and now.”
Hesitantly, he stalks closer to you, watching you take a large gulp of the red liquid. You must hear his approach because you turn around but jump slightly at his proximity.
“I’m ready to move forward,” he confesses, “and I want to do it with you.”
“Are you done?” you ask, finally looking up at him with a teasing but joyful smirk under a shy gaze. “You’re on a roll there. I just want to be sure before I say anything.”
He laughs but shakes his head once, “Nope.” He takes the glass from your hand and puts it beside the bottle. “One more thing,” he leans in closer, tilting your chin up, lips whispering over yours, “I love you.”
You chase his lips as he pulls back, “C’mon, you know you want to,” he teases, making no attempt to hide his smugness. He’s got you right where he wants you. “Just say you love me.”
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lamb to the slaughter
summary: Recently injured, discharged, and desperate for money, Johnny manages to find a job at a local prison by calling in a favor. What seems like just the blessing he needs to get himself back on his feet quickly becomes his worst nightmare when one of the prisoners fixates on him in the worst way possible. (or: dark ghoap prison au. mind the tags!)
word count: 26.3k
cw: GRAPHIC NONCON SEX, trans soap, victim blaming, transphobia, watersports, forced feminization, drugged sex, use of the word "faggot" during sex, prisoner ghost/prison guard soap
author's note: many many endless thanks to ceilidh, who served this plot on a silver platter to me when i was complaining pathetcially about being incapable of thinking. also lumi for listening to me scream ily <3 two quick disclaimers: (1) i do not know how prisons work, and i did not google anything about them for this fic bc i knew i’d get bogged down in research lmaoo. this fic goes by my rules, which means everything that happens works for plot convenience and not by any real world logic. (2) this plot is held together by duct tape and sex scenes, pls do not come here looking for a rich story
read on ao3 - see the pinterest board
The man in front of Johnny is familiar. Not because they’ve met before, but because he’d spent nearly a decade surrounded by men just like Herschel Shepherd - tall, broad, commanding assholes like him had been his least favorite part of being enlisted.
Johnny spent his entire military career being doubted and underestimated by mirror images of the man in front of him. He sees the doubt now in the way Shepherd looks at him, the way his eyes linger on Johnny’s middle and the quick expression of shock when he’d walked in the door and stood eye-level with the ex-General.
It makes him want to let his lip curl, to bite out something insulting, but this is his only worthwhile job prospect so he holds his tongue and shifts in the uncomfortable chair set in front of the dark wood desk.
“Well,” Shepherd sighs, folding his hands over his stomach and leaning back in his seat. His shirt is tugged tight over his abdomen, almost pulled out from where it’s tucked in his pants. Johnny wonders if he’ll try and get in shape again when he realizes, or if he’ll fully let himself go and embrace the beer-belly he’s halfway to. “I’ll be honest with you, MacTavish - if you didn’t come highly recommended, I wouldn’t consider you for a second.”
Johnny barely keeps from snorting. That’s certainly an interesting way to say if I didn’t owe John Price a near unrepayable favor I’d laugh you out of the building .
“I know, sir.”
“We’ve never hired someone with your…” Shepherd pauses, bites his tongue like he’s tasting something nasty. “ Condition .”
Johnny resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I know, sir.”
Shepherd looks like he wants to say something about Johnny’s tone, and he probably would have were they still in the military. But in the concrete walls of his office, he only sighs and sits forward, forehead creasing. “I suppose you’re lucky you’re so tall. The inmates might not even notice.”
Johnny wants to say obviously, you wanker, I’ve been injecting hormones into myself for over a decade and I’m taller than you are .But he can’t say that, or anything like it. The fact of the matter is that it doesn’t matter how tall he is, or how long he’s been on testosterone, or how muscular he is - because Shepherd already knows what he was born as, and nothing else will matter to a man stuck so firmly in the past.
That had been one of the only things Johnny was looking forward to outside of the military - the chance to meet people who didn’t know he was transgender before he could even introduce himself. In the service, every superior he’d ever served under knew he had transitioned before they knew anything else about him. It had never mattered that he could hardly look less like a woman, they were going to treat him differently because of something he never could have controlled. The thought of his first boss as a civilian only seeing the M on his ID, of not dealing with the shock and confusion and inevitable prejudice that come with being trans, was one of the sole bright spots he’d thought of after being discharged.
He grits his teeth now, sitting in a shitty chair with cracking vinyl in a superior officer’s barren office. Somehow, thousands of miles away from any military base he was ever stationed at, Johnny feels like he never fucking left the service. His knee twinges in pain and he barely manages to keep from shifting to try and ease it.
“Folks usually cannae tell,” he finally replies. “Not unless someone tells them.”
Shepherd catches the implication in his tone and nods to himself, letting his head roll to the side. “You’re a surprise hire, so the other guards won’t know of course. It’s probably for the best if you keep it that way.”
“Probably,” Johnny agrees, just barely keeping the sarcasm from his voice. He tacks on a, “Sir,” for good measure.
Shepherd eyes him again, scanning him head to toe like he can see all of Johnny’s weak spots. It takes effort not to shift in place and stretch his stiffening knee. The damn thing hasn’t stopped aching since he was let out of the hospital, even with the painkillers he takes daily. He worries about how much worse it’ll be when he runs out.
Finally, Shepherd grunts and stands, leaning his weight against palms laid flat on the desk. “You’re dismissed, MacTavish. Officer Garrick will be waiting for you just down the hall. He’ll give you a tour and help you get settled”
Johnny nods and stands, finding himself grateful when Shepherd doesn’t offer a hand to shake. Neither of them are under any illusions that the other wants them there, and Johnny’s glad he’s not expected to pretend this is anything but his final resort. There’s no coming up with a lie about how he wants this job, no pretending his strengths and weaknesses fit into this career - just a silent acknowledgment of an owed favor and a contract with his name signed on the dotted line.
He lets Shepherd’s office door close behind him and takes a deep, stabilizing breath, a modicum of tension melting from his shoulders.
The air in the prison is warm and stale, and Johnny feels like he can’t quite get a full breath in because of it. The halls are suspiciously silent, and if he were still a betting man he’d say the air conditioning has gone out and left the whole building just past the point of comfortably warm.
His steps are near silent as he walks back the way he came, his old training keeping the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It’s a conscious effort to keep from limping at all, and his right knee screams at him for it.
Johnny’s determined not to show any weakness, though. He can sit on his ass as much as wants to give his bum knee a break - after work. But here in this building, he knows he can’t can’t show such an obvious weak point.
The man waiting for him at the end of the hall strikes the same chord in Johnny’s mind as Shepherd had - they both look like men straight out of the military. Garrick is a few inches taller than Johnny, with buzzed black hair and a dark complexion.
“Hey,” the man smiles, standing from his relaxed position against the wall once Johnny gets within a few feet of him. “Officer MacTavish, right?”
“That’s me,” Johnny confirms, holding a hand out for a quick but firm shake. “You’re Garrick, then?”
“Call me Gaz.” Garrick smiles, wide and easy, showing off teeth just slightly crooked in his mouth. Johnny smiles back, almost surprising himself with how easy it comes. “It’s my callsign, from when I was enlisted. Nothing else ever quite feels as natural, least not when I’m armed like this.” He laughs, open and light, and Johnny finds more of his tension easing away.
“You can call me Soap, then,” he says, falling into step beside Gaz as the man leads him down the hall.
“Alright, Soap, I’ll be showing you around and giving you a quick rundown of everything you’ll be expected to do. You ready?”
“Course. Lead the way, Officer.”
———————————————————————
The job ends up being easier than Johnny expected. He almost wants to turn to Gaz and say that’s it? You just want me to babysit these killers all day? Is that really all you do? But even Johnny’s rusty - and that’s being kind - social skills tell him that would be a step too far on his first day.
Gaz tells him that the first few weeks will be easy, that Johnny will mostly just be expected to travel with a pack of other guards and act as an extra set of eyes. He’s to go where his CO tells him to go, watch who his CO tells him to watch, and do what his CO tells him to do. Really, it’s nothing too different than he’s been doing for the last decade - except here there are no targets , only prisoners, and his objective is to keep them alive instead of killing them.
Quite frankly, it all sounds boring to him. The thought of standing around for hours on end and watching prisoners just go about their day-to-day lives sounds like hell on both his bad knee and his attention span, and Johnny’s far from eager to start his new job.
But it’s the only place he’s found that’ll pay him nearly enough. Anywhere else, and he’d have to stop sending money to Nan, and it’s not like any of his cousins would be decent enough to pick up the slack - they’ve long since proved that they’ll smoke or gamble any spare change away before taking care of anyone else. So if he wants to keep the lights on for his family, he’s not getting out of here before any of the prisoners.
“We really don’t have much of a behavior issue here,” Gaz says on their way out, the sun just beginning to set as they stop just outside the door. “The prisoners have their own hierarchy, and they tend to keep themselves in line. But when they don’t-” Here he smirks, sending a conspiratorial look Johnny’s way. “Well, that’s what the baton and taser are for. Don’t be afraid to use them if you need to, alright?”
“I’m not worried,” Johnny says, waving the other man off. “Plenty of the men I was deployed with probably shoulda been locked up, same as these blokes. If I can’t handle them, I’m worse off than I could’ve thought.”
They share a laugh, and Johnny can physically feel some of the weight lifting off his shoulders when he realizes he doesn’t have to force it. Maybe the new job won’t be so bad if he can make some real friends.
The thought tugs him to a stop, stalling his laughter. Friends. It’s been nearly a decade since he’d had a friend. His fellow soldiers were brothers in arms at best, despised acquaintances at worst. The prospect of having a coworker he’s truly amicable with, someone he’d maybe go out for drinks with, gives him more hope for life as a civilian than any mandated therapy session ever had.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gaz says, once they’ve both stopped laughing. “Where you parked?”
“Oh, uh- I’m takin’ the bus for a bit. Car’s in the shop,” Johnny explains, wincing internally at the lie. He’ll have to come up with something a little more permanent before long, but the explanation is satisfactory enough for now.
“You sure?” Gaz’s brows furrow a bit, in what reads to Johnny as genuine concern. “I don’t mind giving you a ride, the bus is quite a walk.”
“I’ll be fine, mate,” he reassures, clapping Gaz on the shoulder and turning away, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, yeah? See you then.”
He doesn’t wait for the other man’s response, just wraps his jacket tight around himself and tucks his hands beneath his arms. It’s just cool enough for him to shiver, and to wish he’d worn boots instead of runners.
The prison yard is full of inmates as Johnny walks by it - a good distance away from the fence, but still easily visible. He knows they’ll be out for another ten minutes or so after he’s officially off the clock, which means they’ll be locked back in their cells before long.
As soon as one of them catches sight of Johnny - and his ugly khaki uniform - they start howling and shouting through the fence.
“‘Ey, where you goin’ Officer? Headin’ home to your nice mansion?”
“Goin’ back to fuckin’ suburbia, pig?”
“Don’t you come back, damn polis! I see you tomorrow, I’ll make you my bitch!”
Johnny’s lip curls at the insults, and he has to force himself not to shout something back. His pride chafes against his silence, but he knows instigating will only make things worse. Still, he’s tense as he walks, jaw clenched tight enough to give himself a headache when he hears a wolf-whistle as he turns the corner.
Jackasses, all of ‘em, he thinks, only relaxing when he knows he’s no longer within their sight. He can see the bus stop now, even though it’s a few blocks away.
His knee twinges just as the first drop of rain hits his nose and Johnny sighs, hustling as much as his aching leg will allow.
He’s soaked to the bone by the time he finally makes it to the bench.
———————————————————————
The next day, Johnny finds himself in surprisingly high spirits. The bus had been right on time that morning, instead of ten minutes late like it had been the day before, and it’s started to sink in that he’s finally got consistent work - and more importantly, a consistent paycheck. His walk to the bus, and then the prison, is clear and pleasant, not a cloud in the sky.
By the time he finally clocks in, he’s almost walking with a pep in his step. The only thing that clouds his mood is the pain in his right knee - he hadn’t walked as much as he had yesterday since finishing off his physical therapy, and he hasn’t been doing the best at keeping up with his exercises. The joint is stiff and tense today, and it’s harder to mask his limp. Not impossible, but something he has to focus on.
Still, the dull pain isn’t enough to fully cloud his spirits. He picks up his baton and taser from the staff room, clipping them to his belt and smiling at Officer Garrick when the other man steps in.
“Mornin’,” he calls, glad to see the other man step to a cubby right near his to start getting ready for their shift. He counts the keys on his keychain, making sure that they haven’t impossibly disappeared, and hooks it through a belt loop, tugging to check that it’s secure.
“Morning, Soap. I’m glad to see you’re in high spirits.”
“Aye. Got a good night’s sleep, got me ready to take on the day.” It’s a lie - Johnny hasn’t truly gotten a good night’s sleep since he came home. He’d heard similar things from other soldiers, something about a real bed being too comfortable, but he had managed to sleep decently the night before.
“I’m glad. You’re working under Officer Graves today, and… well, he’s not particularly popular with most of the guards.”
Johnny cocks an eyebrow at Gaz, leaning his hip against the counter as the other man readies himself. “Really? I figured I’d still be with you a few more days.”
“Neither of us are that lucky, I’m afraid.” Gaz smiles at him sardonically, then steps back and holds a hand toward the door. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
The walk to the lobby of the prison - a large room right before the entrance into the actual prison, but with thick windows to see in - together, both lingering at the back of the small crowd of guards.
Johnny’s boss - Graves, a man he hadn’t met yet but already had a sour opinion of, thanks to Gaz‘s description of him during their tour - stands at the front of the room, reading off job assignments from memory and sending guards into the prison to get ready for the day.
“Garrick, I want you in the yard today. Keep an eye on Vargas - he’s been gettin’ too cocky recently. And then… ah, our new guy.” Graves smiles at Johnny as he stands from his place against the wall. Gaz pats his back heavily as he heads off, and Johnny moves towards his new CO when the shorter man gestures him forward.
“I want you to take food to our guy in solitary,” Graves says, clapping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. He’s got to reach up, since he’s several inches shorter than Johnny, and something about that difference makes his spine straighten. “He’s a mean bastard, but he shouldn’t cause you too much trouble. You won’t get the easy assignments everyday though, rook, so don’t get used to it.”
Johnny just barely keeps from rolling his eyes. “Aye, I’ll manage. Where’s solitary?”
Graves claps him twice more, then steps away. “Read the maps on the wall, MacTavish, it’s not my job to hold your hand,” he says, turning away. “Parra! What’d I say about gettin’ close to the cells like that?”
Johnny grumbles under his breath as he turns to the faded map pinned to the wall. It’s not the easiest thing to read - one corner is unstuck from the wall, and the creases across the whole paper are so deep that certain words are unreadable. But Johnny’s read more confusing under worse circumstances, and it doesn’t take him long to find himself and the cafeteria on the map.
There are a few guards already in the large room when he arrives, most of them paired off among each other and lingering around the edges of the room. He doesn’t bother talking to any of them, and instead heads straight for the assembly-lines of cooks, eager to get his first task done and hopefully get assigned to something he can stand still for.
“Excuse me,” he calls, waving down the first woman to look towards him. “I’m supposed to be taking breakfast to a prisoner in solitary. Have you got that for me?”
The woman he’s speaking to - Rhonda, her name tag says - looks entirely unamused by Johnny’s presence, but she slides a tray of food across to him.
“Thanks,” he says, smiling at her. He’d always enjoyed getting the tougher soldiers to crack when he’d been assigned to their teams. Seeing a burly sniper’s lips finally twitch after days of joking around felt nearly as good as praise from a CO, and something about Rhonda makes Johnny think she’ll be ten times harder to amuse than even the most hardened soldier. “Should I just bring the tray back to you, then?”
She gives him a long look, scanning him head to toe. “You new, then? He’ll give the tray back to you when he’s finished, then you drop it off with the busboy.” She points over to an older man leaned against the counter, cigarette hanging loose from his lips despite the strict ‘no smoking’ policy Johnny had been warned of. He only notices a moment later that the fag is unlit, and the man seems more interested in rolling it between his teeth than smoking it.
“You’re a doll,” he says, winking at Rhonda as he picks up the tray and only grinning more fully when she rolls her eyes and turns away. “Back in a jiffy!”
He’s almost positive he can hear her curse at him under her breath, and that only makes his smile feel more real.
The walk from the cafeteria to solitary isn’t a long one, but it is lonely. Johnny occasionally passes or spots another employee making the rounds, but none of them bother to even acknowledge his presence. After such an open greeting from Gaz, he’d expected most of the guards to be somewhat like him, but he’s quickly finding that it seems to be the opposite. He can’t bring himself to be too disappointed, though - he’s content enough with just one friend for now. He tells himself that he never would have been able to keep up with more than that - he barely keeps contact with family, these days - and pretends he doesn’t feel just the slightest bit disappointed.
The solitary confinement hall has ten cells, five on each side, though only one of them is closed and locked. There’s a guard waiting at one end of the corridor, half-asleep and leaning most of his weight against the wall, but he jerks straight when Johnny clears his throat.
The man has to blink for a minute to clear the sleep from his eyes, and Johnny cocks a brow as he waits.
“Oh, are you here to take over? Good, good, my shift’s already run long and Shepherd’s been a bitch recently about overtime.” The man’s already straightened and several steps away by the time what he’s said clicks in Johnny’s brain.
“I’m not here to take over your shift, mate, I’m just here to give the inmate his…” he trails off as the man doesn’t turn around, fully disappearing around the corner before Johnny can finish his sentence. “...food.”
With a sigh, Johnny turns toward the cells. The doors are all nearly identical, the only thing differentiating them being their signs of wear and the light above their frame - one green, nine red.
Not fully sure what he’s meant to do, Johnny bends to slide the long and thin slot near the ground open, nudging the tray through and wincing when it clatters to the floor. After a moment of silence he stands back up, lingering unsurely.
When the silence stretches a full two minutes, he pulls open the small window at his eye-level, squinting to see into the dark room.
It’s empty.
For a moment, Johnny can do nothing but stare. But no matter how many times he runs his eyes over the same details of the room, they don’t change. Nothing moves, not even a shadow against the wall, and the room appears entirely empty.
“Anybody in there?” He calls, wincing internally at the choice in wording. He sounds like he’s asking if a bathrooms empty, not making sure a likely violent criminal hasn’t fucking escaped.
Unsurprisingly, there’s no response from the empty room.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Had something like this happened in the military, had someone else fucked up so massively that every person even tangentially involved was at risk for punishment, he’d have helped the idiot cover it up and then told everything to Price and let him worry about whether or not it needed to be taken any further.
But here, Johnny can’t put himself at risk. He doesn’t have Price’s reputation to fall back on, doesn’t have tenure or medals or broken records to cushion his fall. If he’s caught in any sort of crossfire here, he’ll lose everything.
He worries his tongue between his teeth, shifting to ease weight off his bad knee. He can’t make any decisions without knowing all the information, so he cautiously unhooks his keyring from his pants and finds the right key, unlocking the cell door.
The hinges are loud as the door eases open, and Johnny only just barely manages to keep from jumping at the broken silence. His palms are beginning to sweat just a bit, but his hands are steady as he just barely cracks the door and steps inside.
He’s hardly a full step into the cell when a hand grabs him by the collar, tugging him into a fist to his eye. Before he can do more than grunt at the burst of pain, he’s shoved face first into the rough cinder block wall, his arms yanked behind him and twisted painfully.
“Fuck!” Johnny hisses, tension lining his every muscle.
The man behind him is silent, but Johnny can feel the long line of him pressed against his spine. He’s a big fucker, not a bit of Johnny’s back isn’t being touched, and he can feel breath ghosting over his mohawk.
“You’re new,” the prisoner says after a long few beats of silence. Johnny bares his teeth against the wall, jerking in the man’s hold. “Ah, ah,” he scolds, tugging Johnny’s wrists back and pushing his shoulders forward with his free hand, tugging his arms uncomfortably in their sockets. “Stay still.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Johnny sneers, dropping his head a bit and allowing his face to twist in discomfort since he knows the prisoner can’t see him. “You’re gonna stay in this hellhole twice as long once Shepherd hears about this, I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again, ye bastard.”
“You a snitch?” There’s an amused tinge to the man’s voice, one that has Johnny growling and jerking in his hold again, damp forehead pressed to the wall. “You gonna go tattle on me, Officer? Tell them the big bad prisoner roughed you up a bit?”
“Get the fuck off of me,” Johnny hisses, kicking his good leg back to the prisoner’s knee. He doesn’t manage to hit him, but the man has to spread his legs a little further to dodge the blow. Before he can force Johnny into an even harsher hold, he kicks his leg back again with even more force. The prisoner makes a rough sound low in his throat when the heel of Johnny’s combat boot digs into his balls, his hold on Johnny’s wrists slackening immediately.
Had Johnny had any less experience in hand-to-hand combat, he wouldn’t have been able to jerk free before the prisoner got his bearings back. He can feel the man’s hold tightening just before her jerks away, turning quickly and landing a solid blow to the center of his chest.
The prisoner stumbles back just half a step, more out of surprise than anything he’d guess, but it creates more than enough space for Johnny to slide away from him and quickly throw himself out of the cell. Just before the door can slam closed, pale fingers lock around the corner.
It’s only Johnny’s momentum and his adrenaline that gives him enough strength to force the door closed anyway - were he not throwing his entire body weight backwards, he knows the prisoner would’ve been able to keep it open.
There’s a barely muffled curse as the man’s fingers are crushed in the door frame, and only Johnny pounding them with a closed fist gets him to fully let go. It only occurs to him a moment later that he has a baton on his hip for this exact moment, but he’s too busy trying to breathe through the adrenaline rush to care about his idiotic mistake.
He swallows thickly, working saliva back into his mouth, and takes another step further away from the door. He takes a long breath to make sure his voice is steady, then speaks loud enough for the prisoner to hear him.
“You know the routine. Eat your fuckin’ food, then slide the tray back out.” He tacks on a “Bastard,” his head already starting to pound. He’s not actually sure if that’s what the routine is, but he can’t imagine it’s anything else.
When the prisoner doesn’t respond, he takes another few steps away and leans where the other guard had been. He presses his fingers around his throbbing eye socket, hissing at the dull but growing pain. He’ll have a nice shiner, for sure, but as best he can tell there’s no further damage.
It only takes a few minutes for the prisoner to toss the tray back out, the plastic clattering loudly in the silent hall. It’s completely clean, just crumbs and a residual grease left smeared on the plate.
He crouches down to grab the tray and nearly jumps out of his skin when he glances up and sees the top half of a face glaring at him from the small opening.
“Steamin’ Jesus,” he hisses, jerking back and away before he can really manage a good look at the man. He sees pale skin and shadowed, deep-set eye sockets, but not much else.
Johnny curses as he slides the little door shut, scolding himself for having such a visceral reaction to a man. A man who can’t possibly be the worst thing he’s ever faced, a man who’s literally locked in a cage. It’s a blow to the ego to have gotten so worked up over an unarmed prisoner when Johnny has multiple weapons on him, easily within reach.
It’s pathetic, is what it is. Pathetic, and a sharp reminder that he’s not the same man as he was even a year ago. Sergeant Soap MacTavish and Officer John MacTavish aren’t the same, no matter how much he tries to tell himself nothing’s changed since he was before being discharged. Everything’s changed, and this is just salt rubbed in the wound of it all.
He’s just turning around to head back to the cafeteria when he hears a new voice call out. “Hey, what’re you doing here? Smith is supposed to be on duty right now.”
The man heading towards Johnny is around his height, with brown skin and dark hair. He wears a uniform identical to Johnny’s, except the nametag over his heart says PARRA instead of MACTAVISH.
“Brought breakfast for ‘im,” Johnny explains, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and unable to keep a scowl from twisting his lips. “The other officer - Smith, I guess - left before I could tell that to him.”
Parra rolls his eyes, stepping fully forward and glancing over at the locked cell door, checking for something Johnny can’t think to look for. “Sounds like him. He’s always trying to get off early, doesn’t care who he dumps his shift onto.” He gives Johnny a considering look and a small smile. “Thanks for waiting for someone else to show up. A lot of new guys would just leave the job to someone else.”
Johnny doesn’t bother to correct him, figuring it can’t hurt for Parra not to know he’d been about to leave.
“I’m Officer Parra,” the other man says, offering a hand. “But you can call me Rudy.”
“Officer MacTavish,” Johnny returns, shaking the man’s hand. “Johnny.”
“It’s good to meet you,” Rudy smiles. “You can head off now. Graves’ll want you assigned to something else soon, best not to keep him waiting on your first day.”
There’s something odd in Rudy’s tone that makes Johnny unsure of the man, something almost judgmental. He gives the other guard a stiff smile, and turns to leave with a, “Thanks, mate. I’ll be seeing you,” sent over his shoulder.
He only gets turned around once on his way back to the cafeteria, and it’s only because he can’t quite shake the feeling that someone’s watching him. There’s something keeping his arms covered in goosebumps despite the warm air, some instinct making him fight the urge to glance over his shoulder no less than five times.
It’s through sheer force of will that he doesn’t. He knows with absolute certainty that no one’s following him, because the hallway is dead silent besides his quick footsteps. But that feeling still doesn’t dissipate, and that puts Johnny on edge.
The cafeteria is packed full of prisoners when he finally arrives, but none of them pay him any attention as he skirts around the edges of the room to drop the empty tray on top of a pile of other dishes. The busboy doesn’t give him any attention, so Johnny turns to scan the room for Graves.
He’s standing near the main entrance to the cafeteria, not the side door Johnny had come through, and leans against the wall just a foot or two away from a group of guards. They’re laughing just loudly enough to be obnoxious and Graves taps his baton against his palm, somehow making a show of the simple motion.
Johnny tries not to feel too irritated before even speaking to the man again, but it’s difficult.
“Graves,” he calls as he steps to the man’s side. “Got the prisoner in solitary fed, what’d you-”
“It’s Officer Graves, MacTavish,” Graves corrects, his tone snappish but lips quirked in a grin. “I’m your boss, not your equal.”
Johnny expects him to barrel on and say something else, but Graves only raises a brow and waits for a response.
“Right,” he forces out, trying not to grind his teeth. “Officer Graves. I fed the bloke in solitary, where do you want me now?”
Graves gives him a long look, something sharpening in his gaze. “You can shadow Garrick for the rest of the day, learn the ropes a bit more.”
Johnny’s nodding and already turning away when Graves says, “Hey, what happened there?”
“What?”
Graves uses his baton to point to his own right eye, head tilting. “Got some swelling going on there, MacTavish. Anything we should know about?”
Johnny turns back, considering for a moment before deciding he’s got nothing to lose since the prisoner didn’t actually manage to escape.
“The cell looked empty when I shoved the tray through. Thought the prisoner must’ve escaped somehow, but I double checked before reporting anything. The bastard must’ve been hiding somewhere, he got a good blow in before I got him off me and locked him in.”
Graves laughs at that, a sharp and loud sound that makes Johnny’s shoulders inch towards his ears.
“Yeah, that’s Ghost for you. Seems like he hazed you for us, rook.”
Johnny cocks his head. “Ghost?”
Graves hums, nodding. “Sure. His real name is Simon Riley, but everyone here just calls him Ghost. Big bastard, mean too. He’s in solitary more often than not these days, but that’s perfectly fine with me. The men get real testy when he’s in genpop with the rest of ‘em, always trying to take his place.”
“Why’d they call him Ghost?”
Graves scoffs, and one of the men next to him snickers. “You joking? You met the man this morning - they call him Ghost because of the way he disappears. Then fools like you go looking, and he takes you out before you even realize he’s there.”
A part of Johnny wants to bite out something about how he wasn’t taken out, and he actually got the best of this Ghost, but he locks the words behind his teeth and lets Graves’ dig roll off his shoulders. He nods, and takes another step away. “Well, he won’t be gettin’ the drop on me like that again, I know that.”
Graves laughs again, like Johnny’s a fool, and it takes everything in him to turn and walk away instead of knocking him out.
———————————————————————
The rest of the day goes as he had expected. He and Gaz follow the prisoners from room to room like shepherds, watching them try to find anything to fill the time.
Gaz talks while they watch. He tells Johnny about certain inmates’ personalities, tells him who’s someone else’s bitch, tells him how to spot a conflict they actually need to step in and de-escelate. Johnny listens intently, even if his mind wanders during some of the more boring explanations.
Eventually, when Gaz’s voice has gone flat and Johnny has stopped asking clarifying questions, the conversation moves into stories about their military days.
Johnny learns that he and Gaz had just barely missed each other several times. He learns that the other man knows Price too - and that they’re closer than Soap had been to his captain - and that Gaz had left instead of being discharged, that he has a sick mother at home to take care of.
When Garrick asks why Johnny left, he hesitates. It would be nothing to explain that his knee has been blown to smithereens, that he’d been discharged because he could hardly walk for weeks, let alone be of any use in combat. Gaz has surely seen worse injuries, just like Johnny has, but there’s still something that makes him pause before explaining.
When he fumbles around an explanation involving his elderly Nan and deadbeat cousins, Gaz only tuts and gives him a sympathetic look, and the conversation moves on. But Johnny’s lie lingers at the back of his mind, like an itch he can’t quite reach between his shoulders.
The day passes… well, not quickly, but not necessarily slowly either, with Gaz by his side. Six-thirty rolls around, and Johnny feels satisfied with his first day.
He’s walking towards the staff room with Garrick and another officer, Keller, when Graves stops him.
“MacTavish, c’mere for a second.”
Johnny glances at Gaz to see if the man has any idea what their CO could want from him and receives an entirely useless shrug in return. With only a small amount of trepidation, Johnny turns towards Graves and steps into the adjoining hall the other man gestures him towards.
“I need you to stay a bit late,” Graves starts, his expression far from mocking like it had been this morning. “I’ve got an assignment for you. You’ll be paid overtime.”
“Alright,” Johnny says slowly, shifting his weight onto his good foot. He’s more than willing to stay for a little bit of extra money, but there’s something in Graves’ expression that makes him feel like he’s missing something. “What’s the assignment then?”
Graves runs his tongue over his top teeth, then sighs. “Ghost showers on his own - some deal he made with the warden, don’t ask. He can’t be in there with other prisoners, but someone has to watch him to make sure he’s not sharpening another knife from his toothbrush. He’s requested it be you.”
Johnny’s still stuck on toothbrush knife when Graves’ look goes from reluctant to expectant. Then, what he’s said clicks.
“He… requested me?”
“That’s what I said.”
Johnny can’t help but let the skepticism bleed into his expression. “So he gets to request whatever he wants? And he gets it?”
Graves sighs impatiently, like Johnny’s asked him the stupidest question possible. “Ghost makes requests like this for the same reason he showers alone. He’s got some sort of deal with Shepherd that gets whatever he wants, and today what he wants is you. God only knows why, but quite frankly, I have no interest in questioning the man. If you’re so curious, ask him yourself.”
Johnny scowls, not bothering to disguise his expression at all. Graves only manages to get more irritating everytime they speak, and Johnny’s got no patience for dealing with him. “Fine. Where are the showers, then?”
Graves gives him quick directions. “Oh, and you’ll have to stand in the showers with him. You stand just outside, he’ll get the best of you. We’ve lost enough guards that way, and I don’t want to deal with training another newbie.”
“Wait,” Johnny says, stopping Graves before he can walk away. “Did you say in the shower with him?”
Graves scowls at Johnny like he’s something rotten. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of the man already, rook?”
“You just said he’s taken out multiple guards!” Johnny defends.
Graves rolls his eyes. “You’ll be fine. Keep your baton and your taser on you, and don’t drop the soap. Simple.” He smirks, giving Johnny a patronizing look. “Don’t work yourself up about it.”
Graves walks away before Johnny can say something insulting back, which - as annoying as it is to not have the last word - is probably for the best. Johnny’s hands are already clenched into fists at his side, and even with his very limited job experience he knows punching your boss on your first day would be a mistake.
Still, the sight of Graves swaggering away before Johnny can say something equally rude to him is bitter, the implication that Johnny is a coward is even more so. He can’t wipe the scowl from his face as he heads to solitary confinement, the tension in his spine only growing.
Rudy is still on duty when he arrives, not looking any different than he had that morning, and not moved an inch from where Johnny had last seen him.
“Hey, what’re you doin’ back in this wing?” Parra asks, his lips lifting in a smile as he stands from the wall to greet Johnny.
“Graves sent me to take Riley to the shower,” Johnny explains, rolling his eyes in what he hopes comes off as more I-hate-extra-work than I-hate-our-boss.
“He’s got you on that now?” Rudy lifts his brows, glancing over at the cell door like he’s looking at Ghost. “Well, better you than me - truth be told, he always creeped me out a bit. You got your cuffs?”
Johnny dangles them from his pointer finger and Rudy nods, moving forward to unlock the cell door.
“Alright, you know the deal, Ghost. Back of the cell, facing the wall,” Rudy calls out, his tone not changed at all from the way he had spoken to Johnny. He watches through the eye-level window for a few long moments, then grunts, satisfied, and swings open the door.
Part of Johnny is still expecting to see an empty cell, even knowing that Parra had just watched Riley. But sure enough, there Simon Riley stands at the back, facing the wall.
The cell is smaller with him in it. Ghost is all filthy jumpsuit and broad back, nothing but a pale neck and buzzed blond hair from what Johnny can see. There’s hardly a foot between the top of his head and the ceiling, and if he were to lift both his arms he’d be able to touch each wall with the palms of his hands.
He holds perfectly still, hands tucked behind his back, and he’s still one of the most threatening people Johnny’s ever seen. The air around him feels rotted, like the very atoms of oxygen are saying stay away, this one’s dangerous.
Unfortunately, Johnny doesn’t have the luxury of listening to his instincts. He steps forward with feigned confidence and snaps the suddenly pathetic looking cuffs around wide wrists with as little hesitation as he can manage. When Johnny steps back, Ghost turns with him and takes a step forward.
If he was intimidating from the back, he’s terrifying from the front.
He’s got a wide jaw and a heavy brow, with a crooked nose and thin lips. He’s got stripes of nearly white skin across his cheeks and neck, little scars that are at all different stages of fading. His eyes are brown, and the dark lighting in the room combined with his deep-set eye sockets make him almost look like he doesn’t have any at all.
His face is flat, still, and unexpresive. Something about the complete lack of expression is more intimidating than the half a foot and hundred extra pounds of muscle he’s got compared to Johnny.
But Johnny’s far from inexperienced in putting on a brave front when facing something dangerous, and he doesn’t let Ghost see how shaken he is. He fixes a scowl on his face and steps out of the cell, unclipping his baton and using it to point down the hall. “You know the way.”
Riley’s head tilts, like he’s considering whether or not he should listen, and he gives Johnny’s body a long, invasive look. It takes every ounce of training he’s had not to flinch or try to adjust his stance.
A long, silent moment later, Ghost steps out of the cell and begins the walk to the showers. Johnny is close behind him, baton in his palm and muscles locked, ready for anything the prisoner might try.
Once he’s sure they’re far enough away that Parra won’t hear, Johnny says, “You pull some shit like you did this morning ever again and I’ll break your fuckin’ knees.”
Ghost is silent, his steps unfaltering. Johnny scowls behind his back, frustration quickly building. “Ye hear me? It won’t be your buddy Shepherd you deal with next time, it’ll be me. Whatever deal you’ve cut with him won’t matter then.”
Again, silence. Johnny scoffs when he realizes he’s not getting a response, poking the butt of his baton into the small of Ghost’s back to urge him on a little faster.
Johnny’s lip curls as he swings the door open, turning his body enough to allow Riley plenty of room through. The man still brushes his arm along Johnny’s chest, and it’s a conscious effort to keep his breath from hitching.
When Johnny follows Ghost into the showers, letting the door slam shut behind him, Ghost looks back at him and raises a brow. The look is distinctly unamused, and Johnny glares as he leans against the wall, trying to make himself seem confident and assured.
“I’m here to make sure you don’t kill yourself or plan to kill someone else. That means I’m not leavin’ this room while you’re in it,” he gripes, undoing Ghost’s cuffs with just a bit more roughness than strictly necessary. When Ghost’s look doesn’t change from that who the fuck do you think you are expression, Johnny smiles rudely up at him. “Get over it. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Ghost blows a sharp breath through his nose, maintaining his silence as he takes a step further into the room and begins to undress.
Somehow, Riley almost seems bigger without clothes. Every pale bit of skin exposed only serves to reassure the voice in the back of Johnny’s head screaming danger!. He’s muscular, but his entire body is covered in a layer of fat that only serves to make him seem bigger, stronger.
When he turns towards Johnny, every single part of the officer’s mind is screaming at him to run .
Ghost sets off Johnny’s flight reaction like nothing in life ever has before. He’d never once thought to run from a terrorist, or a bomb, or any sort of combat situation. Now, standing with a baton in hand in front of an unarmed man, he feels the distinct urge to fucking flee .
It only makes him more determined to plant his feet and stand strong. If he can face down crazed terrorists, he can sure as hell face one convict.
Johnny’s careful to avoid looking between his legs when he kicks his pants off. He very intentionally keeps his eyes locked on Ghost’s chest, unwilling to look away but equally unwilling to examine the larger man any more intently than he already has.
Ghost stands completely still, naked as the day he was born, for a few long seconds. Then he smirks, blows another sharp breath through his nose, and turns away.
Johnny doesn’t move from his spot by the entrance. He’s still firmly in the showers like Graves told him to be, but across the room from Ghost as he chooses the shower head furthest away from him. He faces the wall and because he’s so far away, Johnny gets a full view of his body. His back is as scarred as his face had been, but instead of clean and thin scars there are burns and gnarled marks he recognizes as gunshot wounds.
To Johnny’s relief, Ghost doesn’t take his time. He’s quick to cover his body in soap and rinse it off, hardly taking any time to scrub himself clean at all. Somehow it doesn’t surprise Johnny that this man doesn’t care much about his own hygiene.
He’s turning the old faucet off hardly five minutes after turning it on. When he turns around, Johnny quite can’t look away before he sees that his cock is half-hard, thick between his legs and almost curving upwards, but it’s almost like he’s too heavy for it to fully lift.
Ghost’s face is still set in that flat, deadpan expression as he begins to stride towards Johnny, completely ignoring his pile of clothes. Johnny scowls, standing up from the wall and straightening. “What do you think you’re-?”
Ghost’s hand is around his throat before he can finish, slamming him back into the tile wall. Johnny’s head cracks against it and his scalp presses into the grout..
“Why do you talk so fucking much?” Riley hisses, nose to nose. His body presses against Johnny’s, soaking the front of his uniform. “Didn’t anybody ever shut you up?”
Johnny can’t help but be offended as he raises the baton and slams it into Riley’s side - he hasn’t rambled nearly as much as he had on missions, here he’s downright quiet - but the bigger man just eats the blow. Johnny feels like he’s hit a punching bag, like Ghost won't be hurt no matter how hard he hits.
When Johnny slams the baton into his side again, Ghost’s free hand rips the taser from his belt. He can’t help but make an aborted growl, but one flex of Riley’s hand silences him completely.
Ghost holds the taser between them, letting it hover just a few inches from Johnny’s neck, and presses the trigger to let the electricity dance. Johnny doesn’t flinch, only struggles and glares. When Riley smiles, Johnny swings for his head.
It’s nothing short of humiliating, how quickly Riley has him fully trapped. It seems to take the same amount of effort for the prisoner to throw Johnny’s taser to the side and rip his baton from his hand as it had for him to shower - almost none.
“You gonna be good, or am I gonna have to get mean?” The larger man growls, tapping the baton against Johnny’s hip and bearing down on him. Like this, with the way Ghost towers over him, Johnny feels completely covered by the man. The overhead lights are blocked out by his body, and Johnny is completely in his shadow.
He strains back towards the wall, manages to get just enough pressure off of his throat to gasp, “Fuhck- yew-”.
Riley’s answering smile is sharp, cruel. “Beg me properly and you might just get what you want.”
Johnny’s face twists in rage, but before he can do anything in retaliation, Ghost slams the baton into his right knee and releases his throat.
Johnny’s vision whites out as he falls to the floor, the tile unforgiving against his knees. His ears are ringing when he can see again, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s from the echo of his own shout in the room.
He only manages to get one foot beneath him when Riley locks a hand in his mohawk, tightening his fingers and twisting until Johnny’s pulling away with a wince. He forces the smaller man’s head to the wall then steps closer, so his feet bracket either one of his knees. His neck is wrenched at an uncomfortable angle, Ghost pushing him down so he’s bent backwards with a sharp arch in his spine.
“Fuckin’ bastard,” Johnny hisses, face still screwed up in pain as Ghost presses his hips forward, his damp and quickly hardening cock sliding against Johnny’s cheek.
There’s a low chuckle from above him, and Johnny twists his head to the side, baring his teeth to bite-
The baton presses against his throat, just below his Adam's apple.
“Keep your teeth covered or I’ll knock ‘em out,” Ghost growls, pressing hard enough for Johnny to choke on his next breath of air. He closes his mouth tight, grimacing as he feels a few strands of hair pulled out of his scalp. “Good.”
The praise chafes against his skin and Johnny opens his eyes just enough to glare up at Ghost, hands pressed against his thighs.
Ghost grins down at him, all sharp teeth and malice. “You gonna put up a little fight? I got no problem knocking you out and using you when you’re all limp and quiet. That how you want your friends to find you? Want them to see you fuckin’ ruined?”
Johnny’s fingers flex around the muscle of Ghost’s thigh, but he doesn’t push him away. There’s no doubt which one of them is stronger, especially with Johnny’s knee screaming in pain beneath him.
If the military taught him anything, it taught him to endure. As much as it frustrates him to lean into the wall behind him, to not rip Riley’s balls right off his body and bite his dick off, Johnny knows that isn’t the right choice here.
“Good,” Ghost rumbles, the hand in Johnny’s hair loosening fractionally. Not enough to really relieve any pain, but enough to be noticeable. “Might keep you around. Fuck this pretty mouth whenever I want.”
“Just get it over with,” Johnny hisses, swallowing and wincing when the baton presses against his throat more harshly for a moment.
“Eager,” Ghost hums.
Luckily he doesn’t say anything else, just tugs Johnny’s head back a little more and presses the tip of his cock against his lips. Johnny can’t help the way he winces when Ghost pushes into his face. He can’t bring himself to let his lips part, can’t give even another inch when it already feels like Ghost has taken a mile.
There’s an annoyed huff from above him, and Ghost’s hand leaves his hair to pinch Johnny’s nose shut harshly. His eyes fly wide open, staring up at the man in shock, and his shoulders curve in an effort to let him pull away from the unexpected pain.
“Open up, c’mon.” Ghost’s hips move leisurely back and forth, sliding the ruddy head of his cock along Johnny’s lips and over his cheeks, covering him in sticky pre-cum. No matter how much he thrashes and tries to pull away, Ghost’s fingers only squeeze tighter and follow him.
Johnny holds out for as long as he can, but eventually the burning in his lungs gets to be too much and his lips part - hardly an inch - to let him breathe deeply. As soon as he hears the inhale, Ghost’s hand flies from Johnny’s nose back to his head, shoving his face forward until his mouth is stuffed.
He chokes immediately, eyes flying wide open. It’s not that Johnny’s unfamiliar with something in his mouth, it’s that Riley’s cock is so large he can barely open his jaw wide enough to let him in. He feels like a snake, except instead of swallowing his prey, his jaw is forced to unhinge for another man’s pleasure.
“That’s it,” Riley hisses, ignoring the sick gluck-gluck sounds as he pulls back and pushes his way in farther. “Fuckin’ take it.”
Johnny nearly chokes on bile, lungs heaving as he tries to breathe around the intrusion inside his throat. Ghost has no sympathy for his struggle, doesn’t give him any time to adjust as he lodges himself firmly inside the channel of Johnny’s throat.
Tears stream from Johnny’s eyes, from both humiliation and the strain of being face-fucked. Every time he tries to close his eyes, to let himself drift away even a bit, the hand in his hair tightens far past the point of pain. Ghost doesn’t speak to him again, but the heat in his eyes and the angry snarl of his lips tells Johnny exactly what he wants - eye contact and Johnny’s pain.
The only mercy is that Ghost doesn’t last long. Johnny isn’t fully cognizant enough to try and keep track of how long the violation lasts, but it can’t be more than a few minutes. Johnny can see the way Riley’s chest heaves as he gets closer, the way his shoulders hunch and the way his hips work in faster, shorter thrusts to get himself off.
He comes in long, thick spurts straight down Johnny’s throat. Another mercy - he doesn’t have to taste it, doesn’t have to do anything more than let his throat work in instinctive swallows to keep the foreign liquid from choking him.
Ghost isn’t quite panting when he finishes, but it’s a close thing. He’s leaning over Johnnt enough that every time he breathes in, the curve of his stomach covers the bottom part of his face from Johnny’s view.
Once he’s drained himself dry, he pulls his cock back enough that just the head of it rests behind Johnny’s teeth, the whole length of him softening.
Just as Johnny begins to wonder what the fuck he’s doing, why this nightmare hasn’t ended, Ghost sighs and rolls his head back on his neck, looking up at the ceiling. Another breath later, a sour taste begins to flood Johnny’s mouth.
He’s tearing away and sputtering as soon as he realizes what’s happening, throwing his head back against the tile so the warm stream of piss hits his neck instead, pouring down his chest instead of his mouth. He can’t throw himself to the side, only succeeding in hurting his neck when he tries because of the iron grip Ghost has on his mohawk.
“What-” he gasps, teary eyes wide as he stares up at Ghost. “What the fu- what the fuck is wrong with you?!”
Riley scowls down at him like he’s done something completely unreasonable, jerking his soft cock slowly as he continues to piss. The hand on Johnny’s head tries to force him down again, but he fights back this time and manages to only catch a few drops on his chin instead of having his mouth forced back onto the man’s dick.
“Fuckin’ brat,” Ghost scowls, pointing himself straight at the bit of chest exposed by Johnny’s shirt as he finishes. The rancid stench is heavy in the warm air, choking Johnny. “Figured you’d need a reminder of your place. Clearly I was right.”
Johnny’s seething, every muscle made tense from his anger as he flushes dark. “You evil fuckin’ bastard,” he hisses.
There’s a single, sharp laugh above him as Ghost finally - finally - steps away, beginning to pull his jumpsuit back on as if absolutely nothing is amiss. Johnny doesn’t shift from his spot on the floor but to move as much weight as possible off his right knee, wincing at the horrible pain of it.
Before he can work himself up to standing, Ghost is stepping closer to him and turning the faucet above his head. Immediately, a shower of cold water pours onto Johnny’s form.
His gasp is loud as he rockets up, stumbling back into the wall when his bad leg won’t take his weight. The water is freezing cold as it drenches him, and his fingertips go numb in seconds. His mohawk goes limp from the water, the gel he usually uses to keep it neat melting away and leaving his hair to fall in front of his eyes.
He’s panting when he finally lifts his head, body adjusting to the cold. He pushes his hair back and away from his face, cringing at the wet thud of it against the shaved sides of his head as he slams his other hand into the wall, desperately looking for the faucet.
When he finally finds it, he jerks it to off, nearly heaving as he shivers against the tile.
“What the hell,” he whispers, staring wide-eyed across the room. He can’t tell what’s real and not anymore, can’t tell if this is just one of his bad nightmares, or if an inmate really skull-fucked him, pissed in his mouth, then dumped water on his head.
He blinks slowly, dumbly, before he drags his eyes over to where Ghost stands a few steps away, arms crossed and handcuffs held loosely in one hand. When Johnny only stares at him silently, Ghost lifts an eyebrow. “Well?”
Johnny’s jaw drops, leaving him gaping like a fish. “What?”
“You want to see Parra still stinkin’ of piss? You’re fuckin’ welcome.”
Johnny can’t do anything but stare.
———————————————————————
The walk to the bus stop is long and miserable. Even though it’s not raining, Johnny is soaked to the bone just like the day before, and he limps down the cracked sidewalk at nearly a snail’s pace.
His leg hasn’t hurt this badly since he first got out of the hospital, and although his eyes won’t focus and he still feels off-kilter, he can’t help but be glad he’s late enough for all the prisoners to have left the rec yard. There’s no one to see his walk of shame.
His mind wanders from thought to thought, willing to land on anything that doesn’t make him think of what happened less than an hour ago. He flinches physically every time his thoughts shift in that direction, the reality of it too raw to examine.
His knee burns and feels like it must have tripled in size, his pant leg tight from the swelling. The sound of his shoe scraping on the concrete is like nails against a chalkboard.
He can still taste the piss in his mouth.
On the bus, the driver seems to go out of his way to hit every pothole and speed bump as roughly as he can. Every jerk of Johnny’s knee against the wall brings him a little closer to tears.
He hasn’t felt so out of control in a long time. He can’t control his pain, can’t control his body (his hands shake, his breath shakes, it feels like his goddamn heart shakes), and he can’t stop remembering how Ghost had blocked out all the light in the room, how he’d forced Johnny down and taken the reins, how he’d-
He’s not sure he’ll make it home without losing his lunch.
In the end, he only barely manages it. He stumbles near his trailer, nearly loses his balance and only keeps it because the idea of falling to his knees sounds worse than death, and retches into the overgrown grass.
He brushes his teeth more times than he can count. The last time he vomits, there’s nothing left to come up but stomach acid and spit.
———————————————————————
Gaz does a double take when he sees Johnny the next morning, eyes widening in what would be comical shock if Johnny felt any less like a dead man walking.
“Shit, what happened to you, mate?” Gaz attempts a smile as he stands at his cubby, but can’t quite keep the concern off his face. “Rough night out?”
Johnny’s cheek is almost bloody from how hard he’s biting it. “Something like that,” he manages to mutter, his voice gravelly and hoarse.
Gaz gives him a look, like he wants to push for more, but luckily he drops it. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re with me today. We’ll keep you in some quieter areas until that hangover goes, yeah?”
Johnny just grunts and follows Gaz out of the staff room, not bothering to correct his assumption.
———————————————————————
“MacTavish!” Graves calls, stepping between Gaz and Johnny while they’re both locking up their weapons for the night. “You’re on overtime again tonight,” he says, slapping Johnny’s shoulder with a forced familiarity before turning away, already moving on.
“No,” Johnny spits, the word flying from his mouth before he can even fully register what Graves has just told him. His lip curls at just the thought, and he feels the saliva in his mouth thickening.
Graves stops in his tracks, throwing a look of confusion and annoyance over his shoulder. “No? C’mon, Officer, I know you want to go home, but just suck up the extra hour-”
“No,” Johnny repeats, his voice a little too loud and a little too harsh in the otherwise silent room. “I’m clocking out. Find someone else.”
Graves turns fully towards them now, eyes narrowing when he sees Johnny’s resolve. He picks up on Gaz’s confusion beside him, but the other man shifts closer and Johnny knows he’s on his side.
“You don’t get to say no to something like this, MacTavish.” Graves’ voice has taken on a harsher edge, and it’s the most authoritative Johnny’s heard the man since he got the job. Still, it’s not anywhere near intimidating enough to convince him.
Johnny hikes his chin in the air a bit, glaring down his nose at his CO. “Overtime is optional, right? I’m not taking it. My shift ended ten minutes ago. I’m going home.”
Graves shakes his head before turning and stepping away. “I’ll have to tell the warden. Not a good impression to make in your first week, rook. You hated looking at Ghost’s ugly ass that much, huh?” He scoffs like Johnny’s a fool, and lets the door slam shut behind him.
Johnny ducks away from Gaz before they can walk out to the parking lot together and hugs the grimey toilet bowl in the staff bathroom, losing what little lunch he’d been able to stomach. The sky is dark with rain clouds when he steps outside.
———————————————————————
The next day, Johnny is stopped by the warden himself before he can even clock in.
“MacTavish,” Shepherd grunts, barely leaning out of his office. “Come see me.”
“I need to clock in, sir,” Johnny says, gesturing to the nearly broken machine set on an old folding table.
“See me first,” Shepherd says, ducking into his office without any other explanation.
Johnny’s knee is miles better than it had been the day before, but it’s still more difficult than it should be to cover his limp as he heads to Shepherd’s office. The brace he’s worn the last few days helps somewhat, but really only helps keep him from getting stiff or overextending.
“Close the door behind you, son,” Shepherd says when Johnny joins him, already settled behind his desk. He mimics the same position he had when Johnny had first sat in front of him - leaned back, hands folded over his stomach, chin tilted towards his chest.
“Am I in trouble, sir?” Johnny asks after shutting the door, lowering himself slowly into the uncomfortable chair. He can’t help but wonder if it would’ve been smarter to stay standing, if this is a we won’t need you here again sort of meeting that he’ll want to get out quickly.
“Not yet,” Shepherd says after a heavy silence, tilting his head to the side. “Graves tells me you refused overtime last night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why is that?”
He manages not to flinch, but just barely. “I was tired, sir. Just wanted to get home and get some rest.”
Shepherd’s expression stays flat, but there’s an unimpressed spark in his eye. “And it’s got absolutely nothing to do with what your overtime task was, then?”
Johnny wants to bristle, wants to bite back, but he keeps himself under control. “I find inmate Riley… unpleasant to be around. To put it lightly. Sir.”
Shepherd scoffs, rolling his eyes and leaning forward. “Every damn person in this prison is unpleasant to be around, boy. That doesn’t mean you blow off orders and come and go whenever you please.”
Now Johnny does sit a little straighter in his chair, insulted. “I’ve stayed for my entire shift every day I’ve worked for you.”
“That’s not much to brag about, MacTavish, you haven’t even been here half a week.”
Johnny takes a deep breath, reminding himself just how badly he needs this job. “I’m not required to take overtime, sir, and I believe my job performance has been satisfactory otherwise. Is that all?”
Shepherd’s eyes narrow, and Johnny knows they’re both thinking the same thing - were they still in the military, that kind of talk from a subordinate wouldn’t fly. But despite their shared past, they’re not in that environment any more - Johnny’s behavior isn’t insuboridnate here, and they both know it.
Shepherd takes a long moment to respond, setting his still-linked hands on his desk and leaning his weight onto them. “No. You’re right in saying that overtime isn’t required. But I’m looking for employees who show dedication to their job and an ambition to grow in this career. So far, I’m not getting either of those things from you. I need guards who are willing to go the extra mile, not guards who can’t stay an hour after their shift to watch one goddamn man shower.”
Johnny takes a deep, stabilizing breath. Shepherd's tone is harsh, mean, and damn near identical to every CO Johnny had in the service. Before he can argue his case, the warden speaks again.
“Listen, I understand that you’re still adjusting to civilian life. I’m not cruel.” He spreads his hads in front of him, open and inviting. “I’ll give you grace. But I need men who are willing to listen when I give them an order. If that’s not you, then I think it’s best you start looking for another job.”
Johnny’s eyes shut for a moment against his will, and the breath that’s punched out of him has a distinctly defeated air to it. “Alright. Alright, I understand what you’re saying, sir.” He swallows thickly, working the words past his throat. “It won’t happen again.”
Shepherd nods, something vaguely understanding in his expression. “Good. Overtime is time and a half pay, so you’ll be well-compensated.”
Well-compensated. The words sound vile in Johnny’s mind, and he wants to kick and scream and say nothing could compensate for what that man did to me .
“Is that all, sir?”
“Yes. Dismissed, Officer.”
Johnny nods, standing and taking quick steps to the door.
“MacTavish?” Shepherd calls out, just before his hand lands on the doorknob.
Johnny doesn’t turn before responding. “Yes, sir?”
“It’ll get easier, son.”
Now Johnny turns, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Shepherd is leaning back in his chair again, but now there’s something almost pitying in his expression. Something vaguely sympathetic.
Johnny leaves the office without responding. He worries if he opens his mouth, he’ll just start screaming.
———————————————————————
Overtime doesn’t get any easier. In fact, every day Johnny’s forced to watch Ghost shower it gets more and more difficult to ignore the voice inside his head screaming to run, regardless of all the arguments he’s made that tell him he has to stay.
The first day back, he’d tried to tase Ghost when the other man came toward him. He’d had his baton in one hand, the taser in the other, but he’d quickly learned that Ghost’s sheer size made him an almost impossible opponent to fight - the taser was knocked out of his hand before he could’ve even reached Ghost with it, and the baton went just as quickly.
Johnny had thrown a sloppy punch towards Ghost’s face and had only gotten a mean laugh in return.
“Got a little more fight in you today, huh?” Riley had hissed, their faces pressed so close together that Johnny could feel his breath. “You can kick and scream all you want, boy, but this still ends the same way.”
The second day, he’d thought about not going into the shower and instead standing in the hallway and getting the drop on Ghost. But he’d glanced up and seen a little blinking red light, a camera, in the corner between the wall and the ceiling and knew that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself were he to lose, and Ghost assaulted him on camera. So he followed the priosner into the showers, feeling like a man sent to the gallows.
He’d tried to bite Riley’s dick before he could choke on it that day. At the first scrape of teeth, Ghost had shoved his thumbs into Johnny’s mouth and hooked them between his molars, holding his head still like that instead of by the hair. Johnny had nearly choked on his own vomit, and his lips were numb for what felt like hours after.
The third day, Johnny kneels before Riley can knock him down. He’s already worried something is seriously wrong with his bad knee, and Ghost hadn’t spared it at all. Gaz had asked if he was alright that morning after seeing him limp, and had offered to bring a knee brace he kept at home - Johnny hadn’t bothered to tell him he was already weaing one. He can’t afford to take a day off because he can’t walk, so he kneels and pretends the small submission doesn’t choke him.
Defeat is bitter on his tongue as Johnny watches surprise mingle with satisfaction when Ghost watches him lower himself. He only stays on one knee, unwilling to put any weight whatsoever on his right knee, and Ghost - miraculously - allows it.
When he stands in front of Johnny and strokes himself to full hardness, he mutters quietly, “Knew you were a fuckin’ faggot.”
Johnny’s flinch is hidden by his reaction to Ghost’s cock being unceremoniously stuffed into his mouth. This time once he’s finished himself off and made sure to let every drop of his come drip down Johnny’s throat, he steps to the side to relieve himself instead of using him as a urinal. Johnny’s almost ashamed of how grateful he finds himself feeling.
On Sunday, his first day off, Johnny leaves his bed exactly once. He gets up, pisses, and lays right back down with a pillow elevating his leg. He sleeps fitfully for nearly 12 hours and wakes up nauseous, only just choking back bile before ruining his floors. His Nan calls twice and leaves two voicemails when he doesn’t answer.
On Monday, Ghost is let out of solitary confinement.
———————————————————————
A full day of rest has done Johnny’s knee a world full of good.
While still not fully recovered, he doesn’t feel sick when he tries to walk without a limp anymore. The brace helps him with that, and with Riley coming out of solitary Johnny can’t help but hope that he’ll have a chance to truly recover a bit.
He tells himself that he can put his hellish first week in the past now. Ghost is out of solitary, which means Johnny will have a better shot at avoiding him and sticking with the other guards.
Monday morning, Graves reassigns him from genpop to protective custody. It’s the first time he’ll be separated from Gaz for any length of time, but Johnny’s too high on his sudden distance from Ghost to care too much. If anything, this gives him a better chance to bond with other guards.
His hopes don’t quite come true - all the guards working in protective custody are quiet, with no interest in talking to each other, let alone a new guy. The silence isn’t unbearable for the first few hours, but Johnny already knows that multiple days spent with people so unwilling to respond to anything he says would drive him crazy.
It’s after lunch, when he leads ten prisoners from the cafeteria back to their cells with another guard tailing them, that everything goes wrong.
While Johnny almost has the layout for the prison memorized, there are still moments he gets turned around or confused. And having only been to the section of the prison with PC cells once - that same morning - Johnny’s not the most confident on how to get them back. He takes a left turn instead of a right, and for some godforsaken reason, the other guard doesn’t correct him.
Instead of turning into the large protective custody dayroom where prisoners spend their time when they’re not locked in their cells, Johnny turns into the general population dayroom.
He hardly has time to realize what a monumental mistake he’s made before he and every person following behind him is swarmed by prisoners.
Johnny’s knocked to the ground by one of the largest men as he dives for someone behind him, and his wrist is nearly crushed beneath a filthy white shoe when he reaches for his taser. The prisoners all but stampede him in an effort to swarm the men from protective custody, and Johnny can hardly see through the sea of legs.
Someone trips over his good knee and falls to the ground beside him. On instinct, Johnny lunges for him, trying to push himself up off the floor in the space the other man has created. But before he can get more than one foot under him, that same prisoner tackles him back to the ground and wraps a hand around his throat.
This time, when Johnny swings his baton at the man’s side full force, he falls to the ground and curls into a ball. The commotion around him is nearly deafening, and only growing louder and louder as guards get involved to try and pull the prisoners off of one another. He can see several men fall to the ground, shouting from the pain of being tased.
Johnny’s just barely managed to get to his feet when the prisoner in front of him throws himself to the side, and he only has a split second to register that the black blur swinging towards his head is a baton before everything goes black.
———————————————————————
Johnny wakes, hours later, to a dull pain in his head and a parched throat.
He groans as he rolls his head, tongue darting out to try and wet his lips as he squeezes his eyes tight against the pain. His mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and his tongue feels swollen. While his head feels like there’s a person trying to crack him open down the middle, there’s something soft around the edges of his consciousness, something that makes him feel like he’s floating on a cloud instead of laying on a thin mattress.
As more of his senses start coming back, he realizes where he recognizes the soft feeling from - his last stay in the hospital. The fuzzy feeling in his head, the total lack of any emotion that isn’t contentedness, the steady beeping to his side, and the way his bad knee feels completely normal all tell Johnny that he’s higher than a kite on pain meds.
His nose scrunches when he tries to open his eyes for the first time, some uncomfortable crust making them itchy and heavy. He lifts one hand to clumsily paw at his face, only making him itch more as he rubs the crust into his own skin.
Somewhere in the room, he hears a door open and close quietly. He blinks quickly to try and clear his vision, but can only recognize the man when he steps right to Johnny’s bedside.
“Ghost…?” He murmurs, his voice cracking.
The man above him hums quietly. He sets one hand on the railing of Johnny’s bed and leans in close, bringing his face into full focus as he hovers less than a foot above Johnny’s face. One of his big hands comes up to Johnny’s face, swiping roughly over his eyes and clearing the gunk from them.
“Well, look’it you,” he says, voice low and quiet. “High as a kite. Got yourself in some trouble, huh Officer?”
Johnny scowls - or well, he means too, but he can’t quite feel his face move into the expression - and clumsily bats Ghost away. The older man stands back up with a quiet laugh, reaching to the side and above Johnny for something.
“Not m’fault,” he slurs, trying to twist and follow Ghost’s arm. “Should’a… shouldn’ta… mmph.” His voice trails off, whatever defense he’d been about to use floating away from him. “‘S not m’fault.”
“Yeah, you said that already,” Ghost says. Johnny can see now that he’s holding a clipboard, scanning over the information and flipping between the top page and the one beneath it. “John MacTavish, hm? Johnny. Fits you.”
“Tha’s me,” Johnny says, and now he can really feel the way his lips tug up. “Only Nan calls me tha’ though.”
“What, Johnny?”
“Hmm.”
Ghost is silent for a long moment, and Johnny’s eyes begin to droop again. He feels obscenely comfortable, more comfortable than he even does in his own home these days. Even with Riley looming over him, he can’t bring himself to feel much more than tired .
He can hear Ghost rummaging around beside him, but doesn’t bother to look and see what’s going on. His eyelids flutter when a moment later the bed sinks with Ghost’s weight, but even that is hardly enough for Johnny to bother moving.
“Hey,” Ghost says, his voice a tad louder than it had been before. Johnny moans low in his throat, tossing his head on the pillow in a distinctly whiney way.
“Hey,” Ghost repeats again, and a moment later there’s a sharp tapping at the side of his face, a calloused palm clearly trying to get his attention.
“Whaaat?” Johnny groans, tilting his head away from the hand and only opening his eyes enough to glare at Ghost. He bats at the hand and manages to grip it loosely, tugging it away from his face. He hardly notices when it shifts to rest over his pec, fingertips resting high on his side.
“Don't pass out on me, now,” Ghost commands. “I think this’ll be more fun if you’re awake.”
“What’re ya…” Johnny slurs, trailing off when Ghost turns closer towards him and sets both hands on his hips. “What’re you… doin’?”
“Quiet.”
Johnny makes a pouty sound, but he doesn’t move to stop Riley as he hooks his hands in Johnny’s pants, tugging harshly a few times until they rest around his knees. He leaves his boxers on, takes a second to snap the elastic band against Johnny’s sensitive stomach and huff a laugh when Johnny squirms.
Ghost makes a small sound that Johnny doesn’t put any effort into identifying, and then suddenly cups his cunt with a large hand. The way Johnny squeaks would be embarrassing, if he still had the capacity to be embarrassed. Instead he only squirms in place, trying to wriggle up and getting nowhere.
“Don’t tell me…” Ghost trails off, his fingers burrowing between Johnny’s lips and feeling him up thoroughly. “No kiddin’. You’re not even a real faggot, Johnny?”
The sound that slips from Johnny’s lips is pathetic, and he shoots Ghost the best glare he can manage while the machine beside them slowly beeps more and more quickly. “D’nt call me tha’...”
Ghost raises an eyebrow, shifting up and to the side so he’s between Johnny’s legs. “You’re not a fag then? Got a nice fat cunt here, MacTavish, you tellin’ me you’re a woman?”
“Nooooo,” he moans, trying to shut his knees but only squeezing Ghost closer. “‘M not… ‘m not either….”
The sound that comes from Ghost is distinctly mocking, and Johnny’s chest tightens. “Really? I can feel you gettin’ all wet even through the boxers, you’re one of them.”
Johnny hums a negative, digging his head back into the pillow. Ghost ignores him completely, and tugs his hand away for only a second before stuffing it fully down the front of his boxers. “C’mon then, Johnny, you answer me - you a faggot, or a woman?”
Johnny’s breath grows heavier as Ghost grinds his palm against his t-cock, hips working in small motions as his body takes over. He moans a little, one hand lifting to grip Ghost’s forearm.
There’s another, sharper sensation in his face, the other cheek this time. It hardly registers as painful - more as rude - but it’s enough for Johnny to blink up at Ghost.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” he growls, flipping his hand to pinch Johnny’s cock between two of his knuckles, squeezing until Johnny wheezes.
“F-fag! A fag,” He gasps, just barely remembering what Ghost had asked. “Not-not a woman, y’can’t… can’t call me tha’...”
Ghost coos, lessening the pressure between his two fingers. “Cute, Johnny, but I’ll call you whatever I please.”
Before Johnny can gather enough focus to reply, Ghost twists his hand again and stuffs two of his thick fingers inside of Johnny’s leaking hole with no warning.
Johnny keens, just barely louder than the suddenly racing beep-beep-beep echoing in the room. When he tries to close his legs again, tries to hide from Ghost’s assault, the older man tugs one of his knees higher on his side, leaning forward and forcing Johnny to stay spread.
There’s no real discomfort or pain - either because he’s slick with his body’s betrayal or because of the painkillers, Johnny’s not sure - and when Ghost angles his palm the right way, fingers stroking just so inside of him, Johnny melts into the pillows with a whorish moan.
“Oh, is that it? That the spot?”
Johnny feels like there’s something he should be upset about, something in Ghost’s tone that scrapes at his mind, but he can’t think past the warmth slowly spreading through his abdomen. The best he manages is a quiet sound of agreement, hips working in lazy thrusts to try and get more more more. He hardly notices when Ghost slips a third finger inside him.
“Open your eyes, Johnny, c’mon.”
It’s only the sudden fourth finger, the slight hint of a burn at his center, that has Johnny blearily blinking up at Ghost. His fingers tighten only painfully in the sheets as he tries desperately to grind himself to orgasm. Riley hooks Johnny’s leg a little higher on his hip, pressing his hips to the back of his thighs.
“There y’are,” he grunts, leaning close so his face is all Johnny can see. “Fuck, you’re gone, aren’t ya? Bet you can’t even tell I’m stretchin’ you. Waste of my fuckin’ time then, huh?”
“N-” Johnny hiccups, his back arching as Ghost’s fingers slip from his hole, moving instead to undo his own belt. “No, please, y’can’t…”
“Can’t what?” Ghost asks sharply, snapping his belt off and pulling his fat cock out. “Y’don’t even know what you’re beggin’ for, little cock dumb slut. Not good for much else than bein’ my hole, huh?”
“Stop,” Johnny gasps, trying to coordinate his limbs enough to at least try and shove Ghost off, only really succeeding in resting his hands on the larger man’s biceps. “Tha’s… tha’s fuckin’ mean, y’can’t say that…”
Ghost laughs as he shoves himself inside of Johnny, no mercy and no sympathy. Johnny’s back arches high off the bed, his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut as Ghost’s hips press flush with Johnny’s thighs in just seconds.
He can’t feel anything but warmth and pressure. He’s reduced into nothing more than a writhing body and his fucked full cunt. His breaths shudder out of him in sharp bursts as his body reckons with something he can’t fully feel.
“Fuck,” Ghost hisses from above him. “Tight little bitch.”
Johnny keens high in his throat, tears springing to his eyes at the terrible mix of degradation pleasure. He feels like he’s drowning in sensation, like he’s desperately trying to keep his head above the water during a hurricane.
He fully stops breathing when Ghost pulls out the first time, struggles to get any air into his lungs when he’s slowly filled again. The tears drip down his temples, mixing with the sweat already dampening his skin.
“Bet you hate this, huh?” Riley pants, hips beginning to truly work against him now, the slap of it loud in the dark room. “You love your little fights, love hissin’ and spittin’ and tellin’ me how much you don’t want it.”
Johnny tries to lick his own lips and wet them, but doesn't manage to tuck his tongue back into his mouth. He’s left panting like a dog, drool dripping down his chin. Ghost nearly growl when he sees, his thumb landing solidly on Johnny’s tongue and holding it down.
“Almost had me convinced,” he says quietly, like a secret shared between just them. “Never saw you get hard. Thought you really might not be a fag, thought a little fuckin’ brat like you havin’ lips like this was just another cruel joke.”
He huffs, somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “But that wasn’t it, huh? Nah, whatever bastard made you just knew a whore like you would need three holes. Two wouldn’t have been enough, huh? No, whiney little sluts can’t have any less than three.”
Ghost’s words float in and out of Johnny’s head, dripping into his ears and his mouth and immediately melting away. He’s consumed with the burning pleasure in his center, able to think of nothing but reaching the crest of sensation he can practically see.
“Pleathe-!”
“Please what?” Ghost growls, shifting forward. His elbows rest on either side of Johnny’s neck, the smaller man’s knees hiked high on his side, and he starts to really drill into Johnny. “Need it harder, huh Johnny? Want me to get you off, when you’re all pretty and drugged and can’t do shit to stop me?
Johnny whines, trying to draw his tongue out from under Ghost’s thumb. The bigger man only grunts, leaning forward and spitting a wad of saliva onto his tongue. Then he lets Johnny close his mouth, letting him swallow.
“Yeah, there you go,” he breathes, staring between Johnny’s lips and the column of his throat with an intentness Johnny can’t even begin to understand, not with the way his pace doesn’t stutter at all. “Gonna fill you up from both ends, make sure you fuckin’ feel this tomorrow. Might fuck your mouth when you pass out, make sure you’ll fuckin’ breathe me.”
Johnny’s got no idea what’s being said to him, too lost in the way Ghost’s stomach rubs against his cock, the way his body is covered completely, the way his thighs clench around Ghost as tightly as possible and yet the man doesn’t slow at all. Even with his mouth closed, he still drools, can’t stop moaning and panting as Riley forces a space for himself.
“Yeah, just like that, tighten up for me. C’mon, c’mon-”
Johnny’s wail nearly drowns out the way Ghost eggs him on, his body bursting into flames as he’s finally shoved off that edge. He feels everything and nothing, raw and numb, comfortable and wound so tight he’s sure he’s about to snap in half. His throat aches from his volume, but he can do nothing but grab on tight to Ghost’s shoulders and try to ride out his orgasm.
He can’t even tell when Ghost finally comes, only really registers a loud grunt in his ear and the way his hips slow to a stop inside of him.
Johnny’s already fading when Riley pulls out, would hardly have noticed if he hadn’t seen Ghost standing fully from the bed. He can’t move from where Ghost has left him, his knees splayed wide and leaving his cunt bared to the room.
He’s too tired to open his eyes, too high on painkillers and ecstasy to care that he can’t. Before long, he’s falling asleep to the obnoxious sound of his heart rate monitor slowing.
———————————————————————
When Johnny wakes up the next morning, he’s sore and confused.
“Wha’...” he breathes, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position and rubbing a hand over his face. His head throbs, but that’s far from his biggest concern as he takes stock of his body.
“Oh good, you’re up,” a familiar voice says, and once he clears the sleep dust from his eyes Johnny can see Gaz lounging casually in a chair next to his bed. “Good timing, too, Graves just left.
“Graves?” Johnny asks, clearing his throat when he hears how raspy he sounds. “What the hell happened?”
Gaz raises an eyebrow, leaning forward to grab a watter bottle from the small table beside the hospital bed and offer it to Johnny. There’s a terrible taste in his mouth, and Johnny gratefully takes the bottle and sips from it. “You really don’t remember?”
Johnny’s eyebrows furrow, and he thinks back to the day before.
It all comes back to him quickly once he can work past the pain in his head - his new assignment, the unfriendly other guards, his stupid mistake, and the ensuing brawl. What’s harder to remember is what happened after, what happened when he woke up to a dark room and a guest who’s face he can’t quite see.
There are vague impressions of a man - a large man, a heavy man, he can remember what he felt like on top of Johnny - and the dull ache between Johnny’s legs gives him a good idea of what the man did to him.
It’s hard to keep his breathing even.
Gaz doesn’t seem to notice, rambling on. “Graves is sayin’ you did it intentionally, said some real dumb shit about you, mate. You’re damn lucky you’ve somehow got the warden’s favor - I’ve been here a few years now, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone make a mistake like this and keep their job.”
Johnny groans, throwing himself back onto the mattress. “Thanks, Gaz. Very comforting, you are.”
Gaz laughs, patting Johnny heavily on the shoulder. “Yeah, well, they don’t pay me for my bedside manner. C’mon, they’re kicking you out.”
Johnny lifts his head enough to look at the other man. “Kickin’ me out? Really?”
Gaz gives him a don’t start look, standing and gathering a bag Johnny hadn’t noticed before. “They already let you stay overnight, mate. You’re lucky they gave you a bed at all. Plus, warden gave you the rest of the week off for recovery. You’ve got no room to complain, my friend”
It takes a bit for Johnny to feel steady enough to leave, longer for he and Gaz to make it outside of the prison. He gets nasty looks from several of their coworkers, but he lets their clear irritation slide off his back. As long as he’s got a job, he couldn’t care less what the others think of him.
It’s difficult to get Gaz to let Johnny go home on his own, but once he promises to take it easy for the next few days - and overplays his own exhaustion just a bit - the other officer lets him go after exchanging numbers and making him promise to text if anything changed.
Johnny can’t quite work up the nerve to check between his thighs until he’s in the privacy of his tiny shower.
He probes at his sore hole with tentative fingers, wincing at the slight sting of pain and resting his forehead against the tile. He only opens his eyes for long enough to recognize the liquid coating his fingers before he lurches out of the shower and kneels above his toilet.
He’s not sure what it says about him that he doesn’t actually vomit - is he just getting used to the constant violation, or is there too much else wrong with him to feel overwhelmed by this?
He doesn’t think about it for long, just lets his stomach settle, quickly cleans himself in the shower, and then buries himself beneath his thin blanket and throws himself into the oblivion of sleep.
———————————————————————
The first day Johnny goes back to work, he decides he has nothing left to do but resign.
It’s a choice he agonizes over every single day he spends cooper up in his small mobile home. This job had come as a blessing, and had only come in the first place because he’d been owed a favor by John Price who’d called in a favor of his own. For all intents and purposes, he should’ve never been lucky enough to get here.
And he’s about to throw it all away.
It’s hard not to feel disappointed in himself, to not say suck it up and get over it . But Johnny’s nightmares have shifted from explosions and gunfire to a weight over his chest and a cock down his throat. He wakes up soaked in sweat and panting, slick between the thighs but shaking with fear. He gets flashes of that night in the med wing sometimes, images of Ghost hovering above him, the feeling of something on his tongue and something else in his cunt.
He can’t handle another violation.
So walking to the bus stop, the whole ride over, and the walk in, Johnny is thinking about how he’ll manage to quit without offering to serve his two weeks. If worse comes to worst, he figures there’s nothing anybody can do if he just stops showing up.
When he stops by Shepherd’s office and asks for a meeting, he’s confident he won’t even spend an hour in the building. That confidence is crushed the moment Shepherd looks at him with pity instead of frustration.
“MacTavish…” he sighs. “I know what you’re trying to get out of.”
Johnny’s eyebrows furrow. “Sir?”
Shepherd sighs, and leans forward to bring something up on his computer. “The only places without cameras are the shower and the cells. Everything else in this building, I see.”
There’s a pit forming in Johnny’s chest, but he can’t do anything but say, “I’m not sure what you’re implying, sir.”
The look Shepherd sends him says yes you are, and the man turns the screen of his computer around to face Johnny.
It’s… it’s him, in a hospital bed, with Ghost over him. Johnny’s jaw drops open as he watches his legs get hiked up higher on the other man’s chest, the bulk of him covering Johnny’s cunt, but the spread of his legs doing nothing to hide the slick dripping from him.
The video is silent but horrifying. Here’s what Johnny has forgotten, what’s slowly been coming back to him in his dreams, and it’s being played for him by his boss.
“Sir…” he says, unsure of what he’ll say but knowing it has to be something. “I don’t…”
“You can’t quit,” Shepherd says, straightforward and with no bend.
Johnny can’t tear his eyes away from the screen. “I have to.”
Shepherd lays his hand flat on the desk, making just enough noise to startle Johnny. “No, son. You’ll be staying here. If you don’t, I’ll take that video right to the police myself and have them charge you with assault.
Johnny’s eyes fly to Shepherd’s, his brows arched high on his head. “Assault? Me? But- look at the video! I was injured and high off my ass!”
“You’re also an officer, with power over the prisoners.”
“Power? Look at what the bastard did to me!” He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, wants to break the computer screen so no one ever sees that clip again instead of bringing more attention back to it.
Shepherd winces, very intentionally not looking at the screen. “An argument could be made that you… encouraged him. You’re in the position of power, and that makes you at fault.”
Johnny grits his teeth, glaring. “I was drugged and-and… well, if anyone was assaulted it certainly wasn’t him.”
Shepherd leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “You can’t have it both ways, MacTavish.”
“I- What?”
“Either you’re a man or not. Look at the size of you, son. You think anyone will believe that you couldn’t have fought him off?”
Johnny’s speechless, unable to do anything but stare at Shepherd, mouth gaping.
“Or you’re a woman, and no one would be shocked to hear a tragic story about a female officer being overtaken and assaulted by her male prisoner. Is that you? That the story you want to tell?”
“I’m not a fuckin’ woman.”
Shepherd’s eyes narrow. “Watch your language with me. Those are the only two stories you could sell in court.”
“They’re not -”
“Yes, they are,” Shepherd hisses, suddenly more incensed as he leans forward and lowers his voice. “You don’t have a goddamn choice here, MacTavish. You keep this job, nobody else needs to know you fucked Riley. You leave, I’ll make sure every person you’ve ever looked at sees the goddamn video of it.”
Johnny reels back in his seat, hands shaking and mouth bone dry. He can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, can’t believe that this is the point his life has brought him to. “Why? ”
Shepherd sinks back in his seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose and suddenly looking ten years older. “Because he doesn’t want you to quit. Riley and I have a deal, and it’s a damn fragile one. He’s fixated on you for whatever reason - I let you walk, all my hardwork with him goes down the drain.”
Johnny’s teeth grind in the back of his mouth. “Sounds more like your problem than mine.”
Shepherd glares. “It became your problem when you let him fuck you.”
“I didn’t let -”
“Video, MacTavish. I can see exactly what happened.”
Johnny’s face flames, and he squirms in his seat. “It wasn’t… I didn’t want to…”
Shepherd’s voice is almost mean when he says, “Didn’t seem to fight that hard.”
Johnny nearly flinches, and doesn’t say another word.
“Listen,” Shepherd sighs, turning the computer around and finally running off that horrible video while seemingly doing his best to look at as little of it as possible. “The job pays well. You’re good at it - well… you could be good at it, if you tried a little harder.”
There’s a part of Johnny that’s offended, but the rest of him is too baffled by this entire meeting to do anything but listen.
“If Riley wants to…” Shepherd winces, the tiniest flush coloring his cheeks. “If he wants to be in a relationship with you, let him.”
“Relationship,” Johnny hisses, lip curled in disgust at the word. “Is that what you think-?”
“I don’t give a damn what he wants from you, MacTavish,” Shepherd cuts him off, glaring. “You’ll put up with it, and if necessary, you’ll do it with a smile. Either that, or I make your life much, much more difficult going forward. Do we have an understanding?”
Shepherd’s tone makes Johnny want to leap forward and claw the skin from his face. Not quite mocking, not quite pitying, not quite frustrated, but all authoritative and pissy. Again, Johnny is reminded of how much he hated men like this in the military.
After a long moment of silence, Shepherd sighs and holds out a hand. “C’mon, son. We both know you’re staying. This can be as easy or as hard as you make it.” He pushes his hand a little further out, like he’s expecting a handshake.
Johnny ignores him completely, storms from the office, and slams the door on his way out.
———————————————————————
The next weeks pass in a blur.
Whatever hope Johnny had of having a normal life post-military, of getting closer to Gaz and maybe even other officers, is well and truly crushed after Graves informs him he’ll be permanently assigned to Ghost from then on.
Johnny refuses to look at Gaz long enough to see the man’s expression of sympathy, but he hears it in the quick gasp and the little rumble of sound.
Ghost doesn’t quite smirk or smile when Johnny walks up to him on that first day back, but there’s a smugness radiating off him that makes Johnny scowl.
It’s lunch when Riley calls him over for the first time. He doesn’t make a show of it, only flicks his gaze over to Johnny long enough to make eye contact and raises a hand to beckon him.
Johnny pretends he doesn’t see at first, shifts and stares at a wall. Ghost doesn’t let it go, and shouts, “MacTavish!” across the room after a moment of silence.
Graves glares at him and jerks his head over with a sort of what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you look.
He can’t help but feel a little like a kid when he storms toward Ghost, unable to keep the frustration hidden when he feels like he’s drowning in it. “What?”
Ghost gives him an unimpressed look. “Watch it. You’ll come when I call you.”
Johnny grits his teeth. “Course, sir,” he bites sarcastically.
Riley’s lip twitch, at that only pisses him off more. Ghost shifts back in his seat, the tray in front of him already wiped clean - the food looks disgusting to Johnny, but Ghost had eaten so quickly you’d think it was the best thing he’d ever had.
“You think that’s as embarrassing as I can make things for you?” He asks quietly, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward. “I could do anything I wanted to you right now, and not a man in this room would stop me.”
Johnny’s lip curls. “What do you want?”
“I want you to mind your manners when you speak to me,” Ghost snaps, his voice rising just a bit. Johnny’s sure he’s not loud enough for anyone else to have heard, but he shifts uneasily anyway.
“Fine,” he hisses. “Now what do you want?”
Riley doesn’t quite look satisfied, but he drops it. “I’m doin’ you a favor here, Johnny. You rather I not tell you the rules, let you stumble all blind into a punishment in front of anyone lucky enough to be nearby?”
Johnny’s head jerks down a bit in instinctual frustration. “Okay. Alright, fine. Just get it over with.”
Ghost hums low in his throat. “You’ll look at me when I’m speaking to you. Start now.”
Johnny bites his tongue as he raises his eyes, glaring into Ghost’s with all the anger he can muster. The man only smirks, murmuring a “Good boy,” in that tone that Johnny still hears in his dreams sometimes.
“I want you by my side unless I’m in my cell - then, you’ll stand outside when you’re still on duty. If you need to be somewhere else for some reason, you’ll come immediately when I call.”
“I’m not a fuckin’ dog,” Johnny can’t help but argue.
“You’re whatever I tell you to be. I ask you to crawl behind me on fours, and you’ll do it - happily . Or are you so eager for that little video to make it’s way to good ol’ Graves’ pocket?”
Johnny’s face flushes, and he inches closer, ducking down as if they haven’t already been speaking quietly enough for no one else to hear. “You can’t- you can’t show that to anyone. I don’t know what you have on the warden, but-”
“Exactly,” Ghost cuts him off, glaring. “You don’t know. And you won’t, because it’s not information for you. All you need to do is fuckin’ listen, and you aren’t doing a good job of it so far.”
Johnny grits his teeth, straightening. “What’s your next rule, then?”
Riley considers him for a second, then leans back on the metal bench. “Next rule is you’ll speak to me with respect. I outranked you in the military, and I outrank you here. You’ll watch your-”
“Wait,” Johnny interrupts, brow furrowed. “You were in the military?”
“Don’t interrupt,” Ghost scolds, glaring. “But yes. Not with you, but I was. Made it up to Lieutenant before I got out.”
It shouldn’t change anything for Johnny, the revelation that he and Ghost have a common background. And it doesn’t - not really - but there’s something in his mind that just… shifts, a bit, after learning that he and Ghost have similar roots, that they were maybe even in the same place at different times. Somehow the idea doesn’t quite fit with everything else he knows about Ghost.
“But regardless, I won’t tolerate a brat. You’ll behave and watch your mouth when you’re with me. Understood?”
“Fine.”
“Fine…?”
Johnny’s lip curls and his hands tighten into fists at his side. “Fine, sir.”
“Good boy,” Ghost rumbles with a smirk. “You won’t touch yourself without permission. That’s your third rule.”
Johnny can feel his face flaming, and he ducks his chin close to his chest, shoulders hunching in an attempt to hide himself. “What? ”
Ghost’s smile is ugly on his face, wide and showing off crooked teeth behind thin lips. “That pretty pussy belongs to me now, and I don’t want your grubby hands on my property.”
“I’m not- my hands aren’t-” Johnny huffs, shaking his head a bit until a strand of loose hair falls into his eyeline, then pushing it away with a small sound of frustration. “I’m not your property.”
“Oh, yes you are. But there’s no point in arguin’ with you, you’ll understand soon enough. That’s it for now - we’ll start you off with the simple stuff so you don’t fuck up too soon.”
“Oh, thank you,” Johnny rolls his eyes sarcastically, back to glaring at the table.
Ghost grunts, smacking a hand beside his tray with just enough force for Johnny to jump. “What the hell did I just say about the attitude?”
Johnny stares at him wide-eyed for a second, but quickly relaxes into his frustration. He swallows his pride and says, “Sorry.”
Ghost narrows his eyes, glaring up at Johnny. “You’ll make it up to me later,” he decides. He stands from his seat with little warning, nudging the tray closer to Johnny. “Drop the tray off, then follow me to the rec room.”
He can feel every single pair of eyes on him as he walks to the busboy, and Johnny can’t help but think that he’s never once in his life felt this much scrutiny before. But he ignores every one of them, his eyes carefully forward and just slightly unfocused so he doesn’t have to see the way their heads turn.
He follows Ghost to the rec room, his pride in tatters.
And that’s where it begins. The indignities only get worse.
Ghost informs him slowly of more rules. Johnny’s never to sit near Ghost, only to stand (sitting is a reward, and one he finds quickly is very rare). He’s only to look Ghost in the eye when responding to him, and never to look anyone else in the eye when he’s shadowing Ghost (“You’re on my time, you won’t give a spec of your attention to anyone that’s not me.”).
And the sexual favors… Johnny is just glad they’re kept private. Ghost only ever touches him when they’re alone, and they’re only truly alone during Ghost’s solo showers and when he tugs Johnny into his cell for the last hour of his shift.
The taste of Ghost’s cum becomes unfortunately very familiar, and the bruises on Johnny’s knees never quite get enough time to fade before new ones appear. The only small blessing he can see is that Ghost never pisses on him anymore.
He still fucks Johnny’s mouth in the shower, but he’ll take any amount of skull-fucking over the humiliation of being treated as nothing more than a urinal. Even after weeks of nothing but blowjobs being forced on him, he still tenses for that sour stench after every once.
Johnny also learns that Ghost is - predictably - as mean in bed as he is out of it. Half the time, the bastard isn’t even decent enough to give Johnny a pity orgasm when he assaults him.
He’s also incredibly creative with his dirty talk, and infuriatingly that’s usually what gets Johnny off - when he’s allowed to get off, that is.
Pretty fuckin’ cunt, made to take my cock, huh?
Should keep you tied to the bed, use you as my own goddamn mattress so I can fuck you whenever I want
You’re awful loud today, baby, you want the others to hear you? Hm? Want them to come knockin’ and ask for a turn riding this tight ass?
Nothin’ else in the world compares to a hot hole like this, shit, I’d kill a man to have fucked you when you were a virgin.”
Sometimes Johnny thinks about rubbing himself to completion at home, on the nights when Ghost edged and denied him time and time again and his boxers were sticky with his slick when he took them off. He never quite works up the nerve, though, sure that Ghost would somehow know what he had done and unwilling to face any more severe of a punishment from the prisoner.
His service to Ghost extends outside of the purely sexual, though. That comes as more of a surprise than it probably should, and there’s something about it that’s more difficult for Johnny to bear.
When Ghost fucks him, it’s a fight. Ghost likes it like that, and Johnny gets to tell himself he tried the best he could to keep the other man’s hands off of him. It’s as close to a win as he can get in this situation, and he forces himself to be okay with that.
But all the little things Ghost expects him to do - serve his food, clean his cell, bring him any book he asks for, give him a damn massage once - they feel more… willing. Like Johnny is choosing to do these things for Ghost. And he knows that he is, technically, but only because he’s terrified of what would happen were he to disobey.
And still, that’s not enough of an excuse to calm his psyche. He goes home to his trailer and feels filthy, showers for so long every night that his water bill has become egregiously high. He picks at his nails constantly now, never quite feels like he gets them fully clean. The thought that his service to Ghost is willing, is consensual, haunts him.
He thinks that’s what Riley enjoys the most - the inner turmoil. Sometimes when he asks Johnny to do something particularly embarrassing, he’ll watch the way his face twists with an expression that can’t be described as anything but gleeful greed. He comes fastest when he threatens to fuck Johnny in front of his coworkers, or when they can hear other voices. Nothing seems to get him off quite like Johnny’s anger and humiliation.
So it should come as no shock that one of his favorite things to make Johnny do is work out with him.
Ghost works out while all the prisoners are in the rec yard, usually monopolizing one machine and scaring off anyone else who comes too close. But because of his deal with the warden (and Johnny curses that man more and more every day), he gets an extra hour outside that no one else does.
Outside of the context of their dynamic, Riley is one of the best trainers Johnny’s ever had. He certainly pushes him harder than anyone else has, and he makes sure they’re both working out all parts of their body.
Unfortunately, he’s more than a little unfair to Johnny.
He always uses whatever maching he’s picked for that day first, and he never lets Johnny adjust the weight down to his own level. Johnny’s big, stronger undoubtedly than most of his coworkers, and damn proud of it. But he’s not Ghost big, not able to do many reps with the shitton of weight Riley uses.
But that doesn’t matter - Riley tells him to do it, so he does. He’s usually little more than a noodle when he’s done, but he can usually force himself to do at least half of the workout that Riley did.
He always spots Ghost - and does it correctly, no matter how much he wants to strangle the man. It’s probably his favorite act of service Ghost forces onto him, because he sees prisoners helping out other prisoners across the yard every day. Granted no guard is stepping in to spot them, but it’s better than being the only person waiting at the beck and call of another.
So he spots Ghost without complaint, even though the older man never once needs his help. It’s unfortunate, too, because Johnny’s pretty sure he could just pretend to not be strong enough to help the other man if he were to get stuck, but unfortunately he’s not that lucky.
While he spots Ghost, he finds that the favor is almost never returned - not unless Johnny is so weak from the previous day's workout that he can barely do a full rep.
When they’re doing bench presses, Ghost stands above Johnny’s head, damn near blocking out the sun, and smirks when all he can do is try his absolute hardest to keep the bar from choking him.
On most days he can manage a pathetic few reps, but there was one day where he really, truly couldn’t do it. He’d been lucky and nobody else had been in the rec yard, but he still remembers it in his dreams sometimes.
Ghost had known before Johnny even sat down that he wouldn’t manage, he could see it in the prisoner’s face. The last few days - their first days working out together - had been hell on his body, and he could barely raise his hand enough to wave, let alone bench press several hundred pounds.
“Ghost…” he had muttered, laying on his back and looking uneasily at the bar above him. “I really don’t think I can-”
“Quiet,” Ghost said, stepping so close that Johnny could see his bulge right above his head. “You’ll be fine. I’m spotting you.”
Johnny can’t help but scowl. “That is not spotting.”
“Well, it’s all your gettin’. Hurry up, the more time you waste here, the longer I’ll keep you after your shift.”
“Shit, okay, okay, I get it,” he said, wrapping his hands around the bar and taking a deep breath. “You swear you’ll-?”
“Johnny.”
“Fine, fine.”
He’d managed a single rep - which was impressive enough for him, quite honestly. But it wasn’t enough for Riley, who grunted a negative and a “Keep going.” when Johnny tried to put the bar back in its place.
“Ghost,” he had panted, on the verge of whining.
“Johnny,” he’d mimicked, voice pitched insultingly high.
He doesn’t get a full second rep in, only just barely manages to hold the bar above his throat with shaking limbs. His whole body is shaking, and he’s drenched in sweat.
“Riley…” he gasps, teeth clenched so tight he’d be worried about cracking one if he wasn’t so focused on not dying.
“Need some help, Johnny?”
He can’t do much more than grunt an affirmative sound, but for once Ghost doesn’t make him beg. Instead he wraps both hands around the metal bar, and sort of pushes it forward a bit.
“Wha-?” Johnny manages, before he realizes what Ghost has done. He’s trapped him securely beneath the weight - Johnny’s not strong enough to push it away from his chest, and if he moves too much he risks rolling it forward and onto his neck. It’s an incredibly dangerous position to be in, and the fear only makes Johnny shake more.
“There we go,” Ghost says quietly, patting Johnny on the head once before stepping away.
“Ghost?” He gasps, rolling his head to the side as he desperately tracks the other man. “C-c’mon, ye can’t-”
“Don’t waste your breath, Johnny, you’re already panting like a dog,” Ghost scolds, tapping him lightly on the stomach as he passes. He tugs the weight a little further down, and to Johnny’s relief it allows the slightest bit of strain to fade.
Ghost grips him roughly by the knees, forcing them to spread wide on either side of the bench.
“We’re gonna play a little game, Johnny,” he rumbles, yanking down Johnny’s pants and boxers in two quick tugs. “You finish that rep before Graves calls us in, I’ll let you come. You don’t, I fuck you in front of him.”
“N-no!” Johnny gasps, one leg jerking up as he squirms. His pants are tugged off one ankle, left loose around the other, and he feels sweat dripping from his navel down to his center already. “Y-you can’t.”
Ghost hums, and a thumb parts Johnny’s folds. “Then you better get that bar up, boy.”
Johnny’s sobbing before he even registers Ghost’s mouth on him.
The experience is the very definition of overwhelming. He can hardly breathe with hundreds of pounds resting on his chest, and Ghost’s tongue feels like magic on his cunt. He licks Johnny’s engorged clit, knows just when to wrap his lips around the bundle of nerves and suck. When Johnny gets too close to the edge, when his whimpers turn to whines and his moans pitch up, Ghost ducks to Johnny’s hole and spends time drinking all of his slick.
He has absolutely no idea how long it will be until Graves shows up, and the thought drives Johnny insane. At any moment the other man could walk out and see them, see Johnny pinned and Ghost eating his cunt like he’s starving.
With a gasp at a particularly rough edge, Johnny gets the bar a few inches off his chest. He feels like he’s suffocating when it drops back down.
“Good,” Ghost purrs, one hand lifting from where he’d been holding Johnny’s lips open to stroke his stomach beneath his shirt. “Almost there. Go on, try again f’r me." He sounds drunk on Johnny, his words slurred and muffled. Johnny doesn’t sound any better, sobbing and moaning in equal turns as he’s driven to the edge again and again.
In the end, he only barely manages it. He’s just able to time his breathing, erratic as it is, with his effort in pushing the bar away. His muscles scream at him as he gets it higher and higher in the air, and every single part of him goes completely limp the moment he stops gripping the bar.
“There ya go,” Ghost growls, and Johnny groans as the vibrations sink into him. “Tha’s my fuckin’ boy.”
Johnny whines, manages to muster up just enough energy to lift one hand and drop it onto Ghost’s buzzed head. He can’t do anything but keep it there, but it helps him feel less lost in the pleasure. He doesn’t even have enough strength to grind against Ghost’s hand, but the other man doesn’t need the help in getting him off.
By the time he’d gotten re-dressed (by the time Ghost had re-dressed him), Graves had been walking in the door. He’d only given the two of them a nasty look, and Johnny’s face had burned bright at the realization that they’d been caught.
“Inside, you two. Now.” Was all Graves had said, but Johnny had trouble even glancing at the man for days.
Ghost had never been that hard on him during a workout again, but the threat of it was always there, and it was more than enough to keep Johnny from complaining again.
That’s how most of their dynamic worked - the second Johnny pushed back against Ghost’s control even minutely, he was met with swift and firm punishment. Unwilling to experience whatever degradation Ghost chose again, he’d be sure not to repeat the same mistakes.
And Johnny finds that when he listens, when he doesn’t question Ghost and doesn’t let the humiliation get to him, the man verges on kind. In his own sick and twisted way.
(At night, alone under his sheets, Johnny wonders if Riley is really soft, or if he’s too used to the man’s cruelty and simply thinks anything less than that is kind.)
———————————————————————
Two months into their “deal”, Johnny’s world is brought to a sudden stop again.
He’s in the staffroom - an hour early, because Ghost expects him to be there when he takes his showers, which happen to be first thing in the morning - when Gaz walks in, a small paper bag in his hand.
“Hey, mate,” he beams, quickly walking towards Johnny. “Glad I got here early enough to catch you, feel like we’ve hardly talked in ages.”
Johnny gives his best sympathetic smile, checking the bullets in his gun. “Sorry, mate. Job’s been wearin’ on me more than I thought it would.”
Gaz quickly looks away, nodding rapidly. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course.” There’s an almost-awkward moment of silence before Gaz holds out the bag he’d brought. “Oh, I brought donuts. Y’know, to celebrate the good news.” He shakes the bag enticingly. “Want one?”
Johnny grins, quickly snagging the bag and tugging out a maple log. “Thanks, I love these. What’s the good news?”
He’s taking his first bite of the treat, savoring the taste of it on his tongue, when Gaz makes a shocked noise “You don’t know?”
He’s still chewing, so the only response Johnny can give is a shake of the head and a raised brow.
“Huh, I’d figured he’d have…” Gaz trails off a bit, his own brows furrowing as he takes the bag back. “Well, I guess I get the pleasure then - Ghost was up for bail, and he got approved.”
Johnny chokes on his next bite of donut instantly, bending in half and coughing desperately.
“Shit, mate!” Gaz exclaims, whacking him hard enough on the back to dislodge the little bite of food and allow him to suck in gasps of air.
“He’s-” Johnny gasps again, then straightens. “He’s what?”
Gaz looks completely surprised, leaving his hand on Johnny’s back just long enough to make sure he’s stable before letting it drop. “I can’t believe you didn’t know. I figured with your… relationship, he would’ve been the one to tell you.”
Johnny nearly chokes again, spluttering in shock and leaning his entire weight against the counter. “Relationship? We’re not in a-a relationship!”
The look Gaz gives him is a mix between pitying and disbelieving. “Come on, mate, you don’t have to lie to me. Everyone knows already.”
Johnny gapes and can feel the blood draining from his face. “Everyone?”
“Well you weren’t exactly subtle,” Gaz counters, his own brows furrowing now. “You really didn’t know? About either thing?”
“No!” Johnny exclaims, turning so he can lean his back on the counter and bury his face in his hands. “I don’t even-” he huffs, shaking his head. “You’ve given me too much to deal with here, mate.”
“Well to be fair, I didn’t think I’d be revealing anything to you this morning.”
Johnny spreads his fingers just enough that he can see through them, shaking his head at the linoleum floor. He can’t bring himself to look over at Gaz, not knowing… not knowing that the other man has known, and known this whole time.
“Nobody judges you for it, by the way,” Gaz says quietly, a few moments later.
Johnny raises his head, glances at the other officer once before looking away again. “What?”
“For your relationship,” he explains. “Love is love, and all that. Most of these men are in here for life, you’re not the first one to start a relationship with one of them, and I’m sure you won’t be the last.”
Johnny only groans again, throwing his head back and staring blankly at the ceiling.
As humiliating as it is to know that all of the guards have known about his thing with Ghost, he can’t help but think back to the first thing Gaz had mentioned.
His brows furrow as he turns to fully look at Gaz again, trying to ignore his blush. “Did you say he’s out on parole?”
Now Gaz smiles again. “Yeah, I can’t believe you hadn’t heard! I mean granted, I only saw it in the paper this morning, but still. Can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”
Johnny can only stare at the other man with his mouth agape. “Do you still have the paper?”
Gaz frowns a minute, then swings his bag off his shoulders and digs through it for a moment before pulling out a rolled up newspaper. He flips it open, turning past the first few pages and then pointing to a smaller box in the bottom left hand corner.
“Here it is,” he says, then begins to read it out loud. “Infamous illegal weapons seller Simon “Ghost” Riley released on parole today - mistake or mercy? Not their best work, admittedly, but I suppose no one usually reads this far- hey!”
“Gimme that,” Johnny mutters, snatching the paper and ducking close to read it more closely.
There isn’t much more information - the small article only lists the day Ghost was arrested, all his charges, and the accomplices arrested with him but sent to a smaller prison.
“Holy shit,” Johnny breathes, dropping the paper and leaning back. “Holy shit.”
Gaz snatches the paper back, looking at Johnny like he’s lost his mind. “Is that a good holy shit, or a bad one? Because I figured you’d be happy about this, honestly-”
“I have to go,” Johnny interrupts, quickly tearing all of the gear he’d already put on off and striding out of the room.
“You’re welcome!” Gaz calls, just as the door closes behind him.
The warden’s office is only a few doors down, and Johnny’s just barely restraining a smile as he throws the door open without knocking.
“I quit.”
Shepherd looks up from his computer, blinking dumbly at Johnny. “Excuse me?”
“I quit,” he repeats, stepping into the officer and glaring at the warden, still unable to fully control his smile. “Your buddy Ghost is out of here, so you’ve got no reason to keep me either. I’m quitting.”
It seems to take a moment for Shepherd to process the words, but once he has he sits back with a sigh, tugging open one of the drawers.
“I supposed I should’ve expected this,” he says, pulling something out and then shutting the drawer. “You know, you’re welcome to stay on if you’d-”
“No,” Johnny says quickly, fully glaring at the man now. “You and I both know there’s no reason for me to be here anymore with him gone.”
Shepherd thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “Fair enough. You’ll want these, then.”
He holds his hand out palm up, with two small flashdrives resting there
Johnny grabs them before the ex-general can take them away, then frowns in confusion. “What’s on them?”
“Every time you and Ghost were… intimate where a camera could see you. I figured you’d want to have them.”
Johnny’s face flames again, but he nods jerkily and stuffs the drives into his pocket. He’ll burn them the second he’s home.
“Well,” Shepherd sighs, heaving himself out of his chair and holding out a hand. ”You did me a favor keeping that brute in line. I have to thank you for that.”
Johnny can only stare incredulously at the man. A thousand angry tirades run through his mind, righteous words he could spit at the man, accusations to lay at his feet and hopefully dig at whatever conscious he’s got left.
But Johnny doesn’t have room for any of them right now. All he can think about is how he’ll never have to see Simon “Ghost” Riley again.
“You’re a piece of shit,” he says with a slowly growing smile. “And I have no respect for you. Goodbye.”
And with that, Johnny turns and leaves the office. He’s all but whistling his whole walk home, hardly even noticing the twinge in his knee.
———————————————————————
Johnny’s place isn’t anything close to nice, but Ghost doesn’t mind.
He stands on the gross outside the trailer, smoking a cigarette and appreciating the cool air. Even though he’d had any privilege he could’ve asked for while locked up, he can still feel the difference in the air knowing that he’s free now.
It hadn’t been difficult to find Johnny’s address. He’d demanded the man’s full file from Shepherd before leaving, and the old bastard had been more than willing to hand it over.
Simon will go back and kill him someday. No one who allowed Johnny to be hurt like that should live.
He hadn’t thought much about where the officer lived, but he’d thought plenty about how he behaved in that home. He’s far less interested in the fact that Johnny lives in a trailer with peeling paint and old tires, and far more interested in what’s inside the tin can that can tell him all about who Johnny is when he’s alone.
And he’s… messy. Very, very messy.
A part of Ghost likes to think it’s because of him, that Johnny is too exhausted after a long day meeting his standards and taking his cock that he comes home and doesn’t do anything but collapse into bed. Another part of him is disgusted by all the fast food containers and already plans how he’ll whip the boy into shape so he can actually see his countertops. No wonder he's struggled so much with their workouts.
The trailer is small, certainly meant for a bachelor or someone travelling with just a partner. The bed in the back is messy and unmaid, and it’s only two or three feet away from the small kitchen area. Between those, the couch, where a laptop is charging on one of the cushions.
Simon digs around while he waits for Johnny to come home. He figures it won’t be long - the second he learns that Ghost is out, he’ll realize that Shepherd has no reason to blackmail him anymore and run as fast as he can.
Ghost smirks at the thought of how surprised he’ll be when he gets home. He’s damn near giddy to see his boy, to see his face drop when he recognizes the man in his home. He wonders if the anger or despair will take over first - he desperately hopes it’s anger, though he wouldn’t mind seeing Johnny cry at the sight of him.
For now, he snoops.
Johnny doesn’t have much of anything. He’s got a full sleeve of condoms next to his bed that Ghost snorts at before tossing in the trash, along with a few bottles of lube and a couple simple dildos. His clothes are all similair, and he’s only got a few pairs of jeans.
The most interesting thing is the small gun kept in a cabinet over the sink - it’s an almost pathetcially small thing, but Ghost grabs it and tucks it into the back of his pants regardless. He’s well aware of Johnny’s skill with a gun - he’d been a sniper for a bit, according to his file - and has no intentions of dying before he can properly tame the little brat.
It takes about an hour for his boy to come home. Longer than Simon had expected, but he won’t hold it against him.
He can’t help the spark of sadistic excitement in his chest when he sits himself on the edge of Johnny’s bed, forcing himself into a more casual position so Johnny doesn’t think he’s too eager.
His boy’s reaction is everything he’d hoped for.
Johnny’s face is lit up in excitement when he first opens the door, lips spread in a wide grin and shoulders rolled back. When he lays eyes on Ghost, it takes a second for that expression to drop.
(The sight of Johnny staring at him, beaming, makes something old and dead shift in Ghost’s chest. He’s not sure he or Johnny will like the things that feeling drives him to do.)
Ghost can see the exact moment Johnny realizes he’s not dreaming, realizes that Ghost has followed him home. It’s the way his smile drops slowly, the way his eyebrows pinch together and he blinks rapidly. His shoulders fall forward, like he’s trying to curl in on himself.
He doesn’t even close the door behind himself.
Simon cocks his head to the side, leaning back on his hands and spreading his legs wide - he’s nearly the width of the damn trailer.
“Welcome home, Johnny.”
Just like he’d suspected, it’s his voice that shifts the ex-officer from shock to anger. In a heartbeat Johnny goes from gaping and blinking to snarling and tightening his hands into fists.
He takes a single step forward, then seems to realize how close just that small movement brings him. He points an angry finger at Ghost, nearly spitting angry. “Why the fuck are you here?”
“Language,” he corrects automatically, barely resisting the urge to smirk at the angry sound that bursts from Johnny’s chest. “You didn’t think we were finished, did you?”
Johnny’s face is going red from anger. Briefly, Ghost wonders if he’s going to pop a blood vessel.
“Get out!” He shouts, hands shaking in anger. “You’re not- you’re not supposed to be here! I’ll call the police, get you arrested for breaking and entering!”
Now Ghost really can’t help the way his lips curl. “No, you won’t.”
Johnny’s lip curls into a nasty snarl at the challenge. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?”
Ghost lets his head tilt leisurely to the side. “Because you want to be a good boy for me too badly.” He lets on hand shift to his pocket, lips twitching further up when Johnny flinches at the movement, and pulls out two small hardrives. “And because I have these, and I’ll spread them as far as I need to to keep you well-behaved.”
He knows Johnny’s got a pair of his own, knows that Shepherd just wanted to get rid of them, but that doesn’t dampen his reaction to the small drives. Johnny’s staring at his hand like he’s holding a nuclear weapon, like his world ends with those harddrives.
When Ghost closes his fist over them again, Johnny lurches forward before stopping himself. Ghost tuts, then sits forward. “Now, I think we’ll go over the new rules. Since we’ll live together now.”
That’s what finally makes Johnny snap. A sound of pure rage tears from his throat as he dives for the cabinet above the sink. In the second that he’s not facing Ghost head on, Simon quickly follows and presses himself along Johnny’s back.
He cocks the gun, holding the barrel of it to Johnny’s temple. It’s not loaded, of course, but the boy in front of him has no way of knowing that.
“Looking for this?” Ghost says in his unblocked ear, nose running along the shell of it. “Tsk, very naughty, Johnny,” he teases.
Johnny’s shivery in front of him, his system no doubt overloaded with all sorts of feelings. Ghost pushes his nose just behind Johnny’s ear, inhaling deeply and sighing at the pure scent of him. He can’t wait until he knows each and every thought passing through that brain, can’t wait until he can predict Johnny better than Johnny can predict himself. He’s already halfway there.
“Are you gonna be good, or am I gonna have to shoot you?” He asks quietly.
“Don’t-” Johnny gasps when Ghost presses the gun a little harder, trying his best to move away from the pressure but pinned too tightly. “Don’t. Please.”
It’s the crack in his voice that makes Ghost soften, just the tiniest bit.
“On your stomach, on the bed.”
He moves back just enough for Johnny to pull away, watching intently as he starts to pull away from the cabinet.
Johnny’s moving slowly, one step only half the length it was before, but Ghost doesn’t rush him. He relishes in the sight of Johnny curled in on himself, afraid and obediant.
Then, without warning, Johnny whirls around and punches him square in the chest.
It’s the same damn move that got him the first time they met, and he’s just as unprepared for it this time. He only stumbles back a step or two, but for a man as highly trained as Johnny that’s more than enough room to do damage.
Before he can regain his balance, Johnny’s burying his shoulder into his chest and shoving him to the side. Ghost falls flat on his ass, stumbling out of the open door and the few rickety old steps into the dirt below.
Johnny flies down after him, landing with his knees on either side of Ghost’s ribs and wrapping his hands around the larger man’s throat.
Ghost chokes when he squeezes, reaching up to try and yank Johnny’s hands off of him. But the younger man has adrenaline and fear on his side, and he hangs on like his life depends on it.
A moment later he leans back, still firmly choking Ghost but letting his eyes run over the man and the ground beside him. It takes a moment for Simon to realize what he’s looking for.
“Dropped… it…” he chokes out, his lips tilting up into the slightest of smirks despite his delicate situation. The gun had flown from his hand as soon as Johnny knocked him off his feet, but he can’t see around the other man to know if it had landed outside.
Johnny’s hands flex against his throat, strangling him with just enough strength that black spots begin to dance across his vision. Still, he’s hardly weakened, and he throws a rough punch at Johnny’s face with his quickly fading strength.
The boy dodges it, but just barely since Simon’s reach is longer than his. He can see that the other man is considering something, and his hands squeeze harder again as he leans closer to Ghost’s face.
Oh, he thinks a moment later. I see. Smart boy.
Ghost lets his hands smack at Johnny’s face and arms a few more times, then slowly pretends they’ve gone limp in the dirt next to him. A few seconds later, his eyes flutter shut.
For a long moment Johnny doesn’t remove his hands, and Ghost worries he’s miscalculated. But then there’s a relieved sigh above him, and the hands disappear. Had he any background other than his own, Ghost would have sucked in heaving breaths and given himself away.
As it is, he doesn’t move until he feels Johnny’s knees leave his ribs.
He’s up and behind the smaller man almost immediately. It takes a second to catch his balance, his brain still deprived of oxygen and only half-awake, but he’s got enough coordination to grab Johnny by the ankle before he can get fully inside the trailer.
Ghost laughs at the way Johnny shrieks in rage, free hand clawing at the dirt as he pulls himself forward and Johnny back. When he raises his eyes, he finds himself staring down the barrel of the gun.
His breathing is still harsh and uneven, and his grip on Johnny’s ankle is secure. He glares at the boy, not the gun, and growls, “Go ahead. Do it.”
Johnny’s hands are both on the gun, both shaking, and his eyes are wide with adrenlinea and fear. With only a moment’s hesitation, he pulls the trigger.
It clicks, empty.
Ghost gives himself just enough time to appreciate the shock in Johnny’s eyes before launching himself forward, forcing them both up a step and grabbing Johnny roughly by the jaw. With one hand on his ankle and the other on his face, Johnny’s tucked into a small ball beneath him.
“You want me dead, Johnny, is that it?” He growls, heaving hot breaths across the boy’s face. “Gonna shoot me then bury my body in this dump?”
Johnny’s expression of shock quickly twists to one of anger, and he spits into Ghost’s face. “Go to hell, ye bastard.”
Ghost bares his teeth, forcing himself even closer into the smaller man’s space. “You’ll pay for that.”
It’s all too easy to force Johnny up, to shift his hold from jaw to neck and to throw him inside the trailer. This time he makes sure the door is closed and locked, then turns back to his unruly pet.
He easily swipes the laptop away when Johnny tries to bash it over his head, storming towards the smaller man and grinning when the other man stumbles backward.
“Wait- don’t-” Johnny tries as he falls back on the bed, Ghost quickly following him. He drops the empty gun beside them, locking his hand back around the front of Johnny’s throat and holding him down on the bed.
“Wait, don’t,” he mocks, spitting on Johnny’s face. He laughs loudly at the way the younger man winces, eyes scrunching up at the action. “You know your beggin’ only makes me harder, baby, it’s like you want this.”
Johnny’s sneer is ugly, but his anger is beautiful as he glares up at Ghost. “I don’t want anything from you except your pain, bastard. I’ll fuckin’ kill you, first chance I get.”
“Which is why you’ll never get a chance,” Ghost taunts, leaning close enough that he can press their noses together. “You’re too fun for me to let go of you any time soon, Johnny, so fight all you want - it only makes your submission sweeter.”
He forces his lips to Johnny’s in a rough, but passionate kiss. The smaller man doesn’t reciprocate, but Ghost is perfectly content to nip and lick at his lips anyway. He’ll have the boy slobbering for it soon enough.
“On your stomach,” he says against Johnny’s mouth, moving his hand to the man’s shoulder to urge him over.
“Riley,” Johnny gasps, trying to stay on his back. “Don’t.”
Ghost shoves him over anyway, pressing his face to the side of Johnny’s once he’s flipped and wrapping his arms around the man, relishing in their size difference. Even with Ghost’s workout regiment, he’s still so much smaller.
“Simon,” he says lowly. “You call me Simon. Or Ghost.”
It takes almost no effort to tug Johnny’s pants and boxers down. He kicks them both to the side, then pushes Johnny’s chest up and shirt off while he considers what the first color of panties he’ll put the man in will be.
He forces Johnny’s feet wide with his own, smirking when he whines at the stretch. Then he grabs both of Johnny’s hands where they’re clawing at his sheets and folds his arms behind his back, locking one hand around both forearms so he can hold the boy down.
“Let’s see you now,” he mutters, leaning back and using his free hand to spread Johnny’s ass cheeks. “Oh baby, you’re so soaked for me.” He makes his voice intentionally mocking, feels himself twitch in his pants when Johnny shivers at the sound of it.
He quickly yanks down his own pants and boxers, letting them fall to his ankles carelessly. He indulges in a few strokes to get himself to full hardness, then passes his thumb over Johnny’s cocklet a few times.
The younger man jolts at the sensation, head thrashing against the sheets as his back arches further into the touch. Ghost can’t quite make out what he’s trying to say, but he gives him a rewarding rub anyway.
“Did well gettin’ yourself read for me,” he praises, dragging his hand up to prod at the tight hole dripping slick. He carelessly tucks two fingers inside Johnny, only using them to pull out more slick and watch the way it coats his clit. “Too bad none of it’s gonna matter. Tsk, such a waste.”
Johnny raises his head enough to turn to the side and look at Ghost, confusion marring his pretty face. His eyes are glassy with tears, but none have fallen yet. Ghost knows that’ll change soon.
“What?” Johnny asks quietly, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.
Ghost smiles, moving his two soaked fingers up a little further and tapping a few times at the tight hole he’s yet to use. “You were very bad, Johnny. Only good boys get their cunts used. Bad boys need to learn a lesson.”
Johnny whimpers, burying his face in the pillows again. When Ghost sticks the tip of one finger into the tight furl of his ass, he rockets up like he’s been shocked.
“L-lube!” He gasps, already writhing in place with just the smallest amount of penetration. “In-in the table.”
Ghost sighs, wiggling the tip of his finger inside of Johnny and smiling at the wince he gets in return. “No lube for you today, Johnny. Since you liked spit so much earlier, I figured we’d use that.”
He watches Johnny’s eyes go wide as he spits a large glob directly where his finger is, laughs when Johnny’s “Wait-” is choked off as he shoves his finger the rest of the way in.
He quickly begins thrusting the digit in and out, using his hold on Johnny’s arms to keep him pinned. He stretches the boy as much as he can with one finger, but quickly adds a second with just a bit more spit.
Johnny whines high and loud, like he’s in all sorts of pain, and Ghost moans, grinding himself against the boy’s thigh.
“That hurt, Johnny?” He asks, his cock throbbing. “Your little asshole sting?”
Johnny hisses through his teeth when Ghost folds his finger and tugs. “You know it does!”
Ghost laughs, pulling out just long enough to slap his cunt playfully. “Course. That’s the whole point.”
He drags his fingers through the slick, doing his boy the kindness of bringing some of it back up to his ass to give him a little more lubricant.
Three fingers, it turns out, makes Johnny squeal like he’s being shot. His feet stamp against the ground angrily, and he throws his head back and forth like he’s looking for something to bite. Ghost can’t help but chuckle at how stupid he looks, only encouraging him by spreading his fingers.
“You feeling a little dry, Johnny?” He asks, pulling out to stroke over the hole and see how it’s stretching so far. He’s moving faster than he should, so it only just barely winks at him, but there’s little resistance when he slips all three fingers back in.
“Yes,” Johnny hisses through visibly gritted teeth, cheek laid flat on the bed so he can glare balefully at Ghost.
“Hmm. Want some more of my spit?”
Johnny splutters, trying to rear up again before Ghost muscles him back down. “You fuckin’- I need lube, Riley!”
Ghost frowns down at Johnny’s sex, fucking him roughly a few times in retalliation. “That’s not what you call me, stupid boy.”
Johnny hisses angrily, stomping once. “I’m not fuckin’ stupid!”
Ghost rumbles a disagreeing noise, tugging Johnny’s arms a little tighter. “Then how come you’re so bad with simple instructions? Can’t mind your manners, can’t call me the right name… can’t even ask for what you need from me properly.”
“I don’t need you to spit on me!”
Ghost sighs, like he’s dealing with a misbehaving puppy instead of an enraged man. “I won’t give you what you don’t ask for,” he warns, pulling his fingers out. “But if you’ve got all the lube you think you need…”
He lines the tip of his uncut cock up with the small, understretched hole. Johnny’s complaints rocket in volume when he realizes what Ghost’s doing, and the larger man slips his cock a little lower and rocks his hips back and forth to soak himself in Johnny’s slick while he listens to the younger man beg.
“Wait, wait-! No, no, no, nonono, please, please, don’t! Ghost!” He cries, head thrown back and thrashing as wildly as he can. Ghost’s cock only drips more precum as he’s forced to wrestle Johnny down, leaning most of his body weight onto the man beneath him. “Ghost, Ghost, Simon, please, please don’t fuck me there! Not- not without-!”
He breaks off into only pants, so Ghost grinds a little harder and leans close to spit, “Without what?”
“Spit! Without spit, please, please spit on me again Ghost!” Johnny cries, face streaked with tears and eyes screwed shut.
Ghost hums as he shifts a bit, making sure that his cockhead drags from asshole to clit to fully soak himself and Johnny. “That what you want? Want me to spit on you, sweet boy?”
“Yes, yes, please,” Johnny sobs, blinking slowly up at him.
Ghost smiles, leans close, and spits directly onto the apple of Johnny’s cheek. The flabbergasted expression on his boy’s face is more than worth any fighting he needed to get here.
“There you go,” he purrs, grinding himself a little more slowly and making sure the head of his cock rubs against Johnny’s clit. “What do we say?”
“You- you said you’d… on-on my…”
Ghost tilts his head, his smile sharp. “I said I’d give you my spit, baby, nobody said anything about where. Why don’t you stick your pretty tongue out and taste it for me.”
Johnny doesn’t listen, but Ghost lets it slide because his little confused expression is making him ache.
“But I’m too dry,” he says quietly, staring up at Ghost. “I’m gonna- I’ll tear.”
Ghost coos, pulling back just enough to line his cockhead up properly with Johnny’s ass. “Not if you relax for me.”
Then, he pushes himself in.
He knows he’s risking Johnny injury, so he dips his free hand down to rub his clit so he stays as relaxed as possible. As much as Ghost loves seeing Johnny cry, he knows he’ll be able to fuck him more if the boy isn’t torn.
He cries big, fat tears as Ghost pushes himself into the hilt. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give Johnny time to panic and tighten up, only forces himself in and keeps his fingers moving quickly on the clit beneath him.
“There we go,” he breathes once his hips are flush with Johnny’s ass. His eyes flutter shut, rolling his head back on his neck and luxuriating the tight heat of his boy beneath him. “Feel so good for me, Johnny.”
The man beneath him is only animal noises and sniffles. Ghost can tell that he wants to tense, that he wants to fight, but the mix of Simon’s hand on his cock and his instincts keep him loose enough that he doesn’t tear.
“Look’it that,” Ghost whispers, dragging his finger from clit to hole and tracing around the stretched rim of it. “And you thought you couldn’t take it. Like I said - stupid thing.”
Johnny’s keen is high-pitched and wounded as Ghost slowly pulls out, watching the place where they meet intently.
When he slams back inside, Johnny screams.
His pace doesn’t let up from there. Once he’s assured Johnny won’t tear, he fucks him with all the strength and roughness he always does. He pays almost no mind to Johnny’s pleasure, using him only as a fleshlight for him to get off in.
“So fucking tight,” he hisses, using his hold on Johnny’s arms to balance himself and really start to fuck him. “Made for my goddamn cock, shaped to my will exactly, I’m never fucking letting you go.”
He’s panting over Johnny, back hunched as he works himself up. “Never felt anything like this. No man, no woman, just you, Johnny. My perfect, tight boy, huh? Cunt or ass, you squeeze me like you never want me to fuckin’ go. Proper fuckin’ cocksleeve.”
Johnny’s sounds are caught between pleasure and pain as Ghost slowly wears him down, tears streaming down his face but hips twisting back for more.
“Too bad you were bad, huh?” Ghost pants, putting his mouth right beside Johnny’s ear. “Coulda been fucking you in that pretty cunt. Could’ve stuffed you full of my cum, given you a nice little creampie. You want that? You want me stuffed deep in your guts?”
Johnny’s nowhere near coherent enough to speak, but Ghost is more than capable of talking for the both of them. “Coulda bred you, baby. Coulda given you a pretty little thing in your tummy, coulda filled you up and made you mine. Might still, if you can learn to be good.”
Ghost’s hips begin to work erratically as he reaches the edge, uncaring for any sort of rhythm or consistent pace as he focuses purely on getting himself off.
When he finally does reach his climax, he swears he sees stars.
It takes a long time for his cock to soften fully, for Johnny’s ass to stop milking more and more come out of him. He doesn’t mind, of course, only half-heartedly humps Johnny to finish himself off.
As he begins to relax on top of Johnny, the younger man only tenses.
“Ghost,” he whines, wriggly desperately. “Ghost, c’mon, it’s my turn.”
Simon huffs a laugh against Johnny’s nape, free hand coming up to run through his mohawk. “Your turn? For what?”
Johnny whines liked a kicked dog. “To come. C’mon, I’m so close, just need a little-”
Ghost quickly pulls out and angles his hips away, so Johnny’s cunt is left with only the cold air. The little brat cries like he’s been shot, hips working fruitlessly against the bed.
“Told you you’ve been bad,” Ghost mutters, quickly crashing from his high but keeping Johnny firmly stuck beneath him. “You don’t get to come tonight.”
Johnny wails, and Ghost can’t help but laugh as he finally stands.
Johnny’s all squirming and begging beneath him as he digs through his pants pockets.
“No, no, Ghost, please, I need to come! I can’t- I can’t do this, c’mon, I’m so close, you got me so close, you have to-! Please, Simon, come on!”
“Settle,” Ghost rumbles, giving his forearms a tight squeeze as he pulls the handcuffs out of his pocket. It had been all too easy to take them from the staff room before leaving, and he sets them on the bed as he finally lets go of Johnny’s wrists.
Like he suspected, he’s too desperate to do much but beg. The most he manages is flipping onto his back, but Ghost is lifting him by the hips and forcing him further up the bed before he can try anything.
“I can’t settle, Ghost, you’re fuckin’ blue ballin’ me!”
Ghost gives him a sardonic look as he knee-walks further up the bed, grabbing Johnny’s left wrist in one hand and using the other to quickly handcuff him to the small curtain rod above his bed. “What balls? All you’ve got is a cunt.”
Johnny’s too distracted by his new predicament to care about Ghost’s comment, staring at his hand with wide eyes. Simon steps back just long enough to fully strip, throw the gun to the ground, and toss a blanket onto the bed.
“What-? Where the hell did you get these?!” Johnny spits, yanking his wrist on instinct and curling away from Simon.
“Where the hell do you think?” Simon grouses, throwing himself to the bed next to Johnny and tugging the other man down. “Get down here. We’re sleeping now.”
“We’re-?” Johnny jerks in Simon’s hold, but he can’t do more than squirm. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Uncuff me! Now!”
“No,” Ghost grunts, pulling Johnny even tighter to him and squeezing to quiet him down. “You’re not runnin’ away from me. Sleep.”
“How the hell can you expect me to sleep with one goddamn hand in the air?!”
Ghost groans, quickly covering Johnny’s mouth with one hand. “Quiet. Sleep.”
He doesn’t even flinch when he feels Johnny bite his hand. He does consider investing in some smaller ball gags for Johnny to wear to bed, if he’s going to kick up such a fuss every night.
After a few minutes of stillness and silence, Johnny relaxes in Ghost’s arms. He knows it’s purely instinctual, knows that he’ll probably wake up to Johnny’s best murder attempt in the morning, but for now he feels content.
He’s confident he’ll be able to break Johnny down into the perfect little pet. He’ll never get rid of all the boy’s fire - that’s half his fun - but he’ll make sure Johnny understands the proper power hierarchy, understands when to fight and when to listen.
For now, he falls asleep with his boy safe and secure in his arms.
#i always feel weird properly tagging my dark fics because i dont want people to accidentally stumble on them lol#ghost x soap#soap x ghost#bo writes#john soap mactavish x simon ghost riley#john mactavish x simon riley#soap mactavish x ghost riley#ghoap smut#ghostsoap smut#cod fanfic#call of duty fanfic#ghoap#ghostsoap#dark fic
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Writing Commissions
Hi! I will probably soon no longer be fundraising, but money keeps being tight for me. As I mentioned in my recent posts, I am willing to do fanfic commissions for works I'm familiar with of about 500-1000 words for a flat rate of $15, and figured I ought to make a better reference post on that. These can be in a lot of forms! Obviously narrative writing is the most common, but I do write extensive world building as well, and can write "clippings"- writing meant to look like part of a textbook or newspaper.
Properties I can verify I am familiar with:
Deep Space Nine
Pacific Rim
The Untamed and MDZS
SVSSS
TGCF
Word of Honor
Good Omens (book or radio)
The Once and Future Nerd
Revolutionary Girl Utena
The Yuzna Reanimator movies
to a lesser extent, meaning I may need to refresh my memory on something: Fullmetal Alchemist (specifically Brotherhood), most of Rick Riordan's books, The Raven Cycle, Star Trek TOS
Examples of recent fics of this length:
Teeth, a fic about Kira Nerys's relationship to a family tradition
Eat you up, a silly Garashir short
The Beetle and the Moon (a bit longer than the range here), a letter from Julian to Garak just before his last meeting with Sloan
Airing it out, Kira and Julian end up talking about marriage
White Fire, a "missing scene" from "Dr. Bashir, I Presume", with Julian and Garak
The night colored field, uhm. Kinky Garashir smut.
Night Time Visitor, a response to some feelings I have about the episode "If Wishes Were Horses"
Not willing to write:
graphic underage content
bigoted stories (not the same as a story wherein bigotry is expressed by a character), for example I would not write a story about Piper McLean being an alcoholic. It could be told in an empathic way, but I doubt I could capture that, and the prompt rests on a highly questionable premise.
character hitpieces
excessive gore, less because I'm squeamish and more out of a lack of experience
I would be taking payment through kofi (ko-fi.com/rosebijoumme) as opposed to directly through PayPal for privacy, just attach a note about what its for. If you are interested, DM me, we'll talk over what you want, and you can either do full payment upfront or half upfront and half upon completion.
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Unexpected Calling – Part I
Masterlist - WIP
Fandom: Marvel
Prompt: A world class contract killer finds an envelope at his dead drop. Inside are $23.42 in short change and a letter handwritten by a 9-year old girl.
Type: Series
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader's daughter (platonic obviously), Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Genre: fluff, action, slight angst, might get smutty but idk yet
Warnings: Be prepared for some adult language! Nothing too crazy in this first part though, we're just getting started so that's my only warning for now.
Word count: 1.6k
Send me an ask to let me know if you wanna be added to/removed from the taglist!!
This post was Beta'd by @mariekoukie6661. Thanks a million!
A/N: Thought I'd throw my hand at a prompted fic! Hope you guys like it, I'll add a chapter directory and update as needed as the next parts are posted. So stay tuned 👀 Text dividers made by @firefly-graphics <3
Every morning is always the same when you're paid to kill. He'd been trying to be better about the whole actual killing part lately, but that didn't change his morning routine very much. He woke up to the sound of his alarm clock going off—yes, he still used one. If you asked for his reasoning, he'd tell you it's because it's less complicated and you can always count on it to work because it simply stayed plugged into the wall; in the event that the power went out? It had batteries for backup power, and you can't find that kind of peace of mind with just the alarms on your phone. He's still an old soul, sue him. He woke up at 6:45 am, on the dot, every morning without fail that way so it was rather effective.
After the blaring sound of his trusty alarm clock came the process of forcing himself out of bed and cleaning up for the day; shaving if necessary, freshening up, getting dressed, the works. This was generally when he'd change his appearance should the need arise, as well. But he didn't need to do that this morning and so he flicked the light to the bathroom off as he left the room when he was finished, heading out to his kitchen thereafter. The next step? Food. It was always 7 am sharp by the time he got done with his wakeup process, the only time that changed being when he added any extra steps in the bathroom. And breakfast was always simple: a cup of hot black coffee, sliced avocado, and bread toasted to perfection with an egg over medium to be dipped in. And it never failed to be a pleasant way to start his morning, usually followed closely after by a session of watching the morning news. He found it a good way to see what was going on in the area and across the country so he could plan accordingly.
If he didn't have a job, which by chance was the case today, he'd generally find any sort of quiet way to spend the rest of his morning; reading a book, cleaning up all his weapons, or a walk in the park if he felt like it. Today, he felt like it. And it was mostly peaceful, if you excluded the grating sound of car horns, tires squealing, and buses chuffing past. And of course, if you chose to ignore the rumbling from the subway, the people shouting either in their urgency to get to work or just simply because they were an ass, then it was really utterly plain and quiet to walk through Central Park. By this point Bucky had truly gotten used to it. He supposed in some ways it wasn't too much different from his home in the past. But that didn't mean he liked to spend too much time there anyway. So long as he got out and went back home just in time, he could skip the gradeschoolers and dog walkers that came around for the afternoon.
There had been nothing unusual about his day so far, and he liked that. He liked the rhythm of it all, and how it always went according to his carefully curated schedule. He began the process of unlocking his apartment door after making his way up to his floor, and pushed it open to take a step inside. Crunch.
What the helll...?
Bucky frowned as, seemingly, something sat under his boot and crinkled where he'd stepped, making the same sound again as he carefully pried his foot off. The poor, crisply folded, paper envelope that had earlier been slotted through his dead-drop, suffered a dirt-covered footprint but aside from that, it seemed harmless and intact as he picked it up to inspect it. A curious thing to find when you hardly get mail aside from the bills. What was even more curious was the contents within it, feeling a bit lumpy and—quite frankly—heavy for a letter-sized envelope. He closed the door behind himself with one hand, locking it once again out of habit while the other kept hold of the envelope. Moments later he flicked out a switchblade to slice it open revealing not only a handwritten letter but also $23.42.....Exactly. All in small change.
It was quite honestly the oddest thing he'd seen or received to date, and that was including the number of quite-literal backstabs he'd received, numerous other maiming injuries, and the odd encounters he’d had with a talking raccoon, tree, and robot...man…thing. To name a few. That was also including the number of odd jobs he'd been offered and peculiar payment methods he'd been given. Never had he come across such a specific payment with a letter that….upon further inspection….looked as though its penman couldn't be much older than 9 years old, at most.
'Dear mister,
My name is Rosie Jones. I am 9 yeers old. My mommy says you're vary good at helping people. Well, I need your help. Mommy also said you like to be paid for helping, so I broke my piggy bank open so you wood help us. Mommy doesn't know yet thoe, so please don't tell her.
My mommy dissuhpeered disappeered last night. She told me to hide and I did but now I can't find her and so I need your help mister becuz you're really good at finding people too, mommy said so. Please please help me find my mommy, I don't know what to do mister.
– Rosie'
"You've gotta be shitting me." He muttered to himself. The first question Bucky had, quite honestly, was how did this little girl even know who he was? Or where he lived? Not many people did, if any, truth be told. If they did? They were usually dead within minutes. It was one of many reasons that kept his renowned status intact. But here he was, sitting at his own table, with proof that some little girl knew both of those things. Frowning down at the paper and envelope of change, the assassin ran his hand back through his dark brown hair momentarily, processing what he'd just read. On one hand, it could be an elaborate trap. By all rights he had to assume it, considering the nature of the letter and the fact that a little girl of all people had written it. But on the other hand, there was a certain dedication there that he simply couldn't ignore. And some part of him couldn't help but at least look into it. So moments later, the man was pulling out his laptop and began searching for answers, anything that could give this little girl's story any sort of credit.
Much to his surprise? It checked out. Every last bit of it. There was a mother, connected to the Rosie Jones in question, who had gone missing under rather mysterious circumstances. "I'll be damned, mystery kiddo."
'Y/N Jones, aged 37, a single mother, was nowhere to be found the next morning after reports came in that a struggle and silenced gunshots were heard from the house that night.'
He probably could have gotten away with just keeping the money and letting it go. It was some little kid somewhere hoping for someone to hear her plea, he could get away with it. But it was that name…. he'd seen it before, he knew he had. In all fairness though, he really only remembered faces exceptionally well. Names didn't matter in the long run, names didn't tell him who he was shooting within a crowd of people. So why did it keep nagging at the back of his mind?...
Spoiler alert: he shouldn't have went digging. He should have just left it alone. But he had always been a curious mind and he was nothing if not thorough on top of that. Popping open the top to his bottle of whiskey, Bucky carefully poured out a favorable portion into a glass tumbler, before letting it down onto the counter as he heard an agreeable noise coming from his laptop to signal it had finished its task. Glancing over his shoulder, he sipped on his drink as he made his way back over to the table, having waited for what seemed like an hour to get the information he wanted. And the minute he looked at the screen was the very same minute he regretted it.
He knew that face.
He knew it like the back of his hand almost, he knew it the same way he knew the taste of bourbon or the sound of a .22 magnum. That was the face of Y/N Y/L/N and it was a face he had been trying to forget for years now. But most of all he knew it was a mistake to have even touched this with a ten-foot pole. Because now he had a target, he knew what the target looked like, and he had been paid in- well, maybe not-so-full, but in 9-year-old currency $23.42 was basically a million dollars considering it was all her savings.
In short?
He had to do it now.
He knew that. And it damn near made him groan at the prospect. Because this was going to be a long-ass job, and if he was going to ensure the rescue of that little girl's mother, then he needed to ensure that child's safety. The less leverage the 'enemy' had, the easier his job was. So as he sighed out, "Damnitall, this better be fuckin worth it kid," the hundred year old assassin finished off his drink and went about packing his things to take on a job that he never asked for, but knew damn well he was stuck with until it was over.
But at least if he had to go through with this, he was going to be damn sure he did it right, that was for sure.
Taglist: If you weren't tagged it's because I couldn't get it to tag you or I didn't know which account was yours – @aingealcethlenn @deaan @idabbleincrazy @impala-1979 @kadet-jb @myinconnelly2 @princessmisery666 @rosedemica @tvdspngirl314 @darsynia @buckys-zomdoll @cookingglitterfairy @emilyshurley @fictionalabyss @jotink78 @mariekoukie6661 @manawhaat @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @scarletwinchester84 @sorenmarie87 @until-theend-oftheline @starryeyes2000 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @betweengalaxies2 @focusonspn
#marvel#marvel fanfic series#marvel fanfiction#marvelfanfic#bucky fic#bucky barnes#bucky barnes fanfiction#winter soldier#winter soldier fanfiction#wintersoldierfanfic#buckybarnesfanfic#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#winter soldier x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky x you#bucky x y/n#bucky barnes x y/n#reader insert#mcu fanfiction#mcufanfic
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what I genuinely appreciate about American psycho as a movie and bale’s involvement is that mary harron (director) and Guinevere turner (writer along w harron) were the only ones who saw its true potential as a period satire horror with a feminist lens. given that both of them directed and wrote “i shot Andy Warhol” I think they were the only people who could have given proper depth to this movie as opposed to just botching it (in so many ways; lionsgate tried to botch it in SO MANY ways) or making a film that was uncritically devoted to gratuitous misogyny. and obviously as a critique of capitalism, with the understanding that Patrick bateman was a monster and the firm refusal to let him be interpreted in any capacity as redeemable.
Christian bale was the *only* actor that tried out for the role who also understood the character was an irredeemable monster and he had no interest in understanding bateman as anything other than an alien who got dropped into 1980s nyc as a businessman. everyone else lionsgate tried to have make the movie (actors directors and writers) wanted some psychological profile, explicit inclusion of context in the film for why bateman was like that (which would only serve to have the audience sympathize with him), or a jekyll and Hyde portrayal (to make him redeemable).
harron , turner, and bale knew that they were all missing the potential point completely, along with the fact that doing any of that would only make the film less interesting, and that all of those attempts to make bateman understood stemmed from everyone being extremely uncomfortable with the content of the film/book and the actors being uncomfortable/unable to play a character they couldn’t sympathize with. Ur literally not supposed to sympathize with him. It’s a horror in which the main character is the villain, but it’s also a social commentary/satire and surreal, which means the main character must also be a preposterous villain characterizing only the absolute extreme of what is being satirized, not a real human. he is one-dimensional on purpose and if he were not, it would undermine the entire message of the film.
I saw someone somewhere say that bateman was a portrayal of how if men had to have the mentality that women have, they would become homicidal maniacs. I think that is such an interesting and valid interpretation and we wouldn’t be able to view this movie thru that lens if this movie had been written and directed by anyone other than harron and turner. that specific layer of meaning would not exist, at least not effectively.
and also the writer of the book brett ellis whateverson (sorry I cant remember his name for the life of me even tho i know it?? Idk why) couldn’t have made it a good movie bc the book he wrote was an ode to graphically violent misogyny that he pretended was satire. Also his screenplay sucked because he kept the garbage parts, made it MORE graphically sexually violent, and apparently turned it into a musical and didn’t want to write one anyway or so he says (I think he did but when everyone agreed it sucked he pretended he made it suck on purpose). when harron and turner made it an ACTUAL satire and made the viewer incapable of taking Bateman seriously, the novelist hated it and insisted and continues to insist that it never needed to be made a movie. Probably because he’s pissed 2 women made it objectively a better story (and made Bateman laughable instead of like... cool)
unrelated but I also think it’s interesting that the film went through so many recasts but the one actor who got decided on from the start and never got switched out was jared leto
#ok anyway I’m done#idk why this is even getting notes it’s like not even an insight#oh also#there’s a few things about harron’s directing style for this movie that I think are rly cool#American psycho#long post#movies#1k
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been catching snatches of your stormlight posting. never enough to actually understand anything. should i read it
I really liked it! However it was on my reading list for many years before I finally was in the right headspace to dive in. It's a lot.
The Stormlight Archive consists of four fairly long high fantasy novels and two tie in novellas. It takes place on an alternate fantasy world called Roshar, which is part of a larger fantasy universe called the Cosmere. If you like high fantasy epics, or if you're interested in giving them a shot, then yes, definitely try out the Cosmere!
High fantasy, as I define it — sorry if you know this already anon also sorry if my definition differs from other's reading this — is...bigger than life. High fantasy is two main things. First, the setting— magic creatures and fantastical architecture and folks with super cool magic powers. Second, High Fantasy is the way people behave, which verges into Mythology and Fairy Tale. I'll explain.
Don't get me wrong, when well written, and Cosmere is very well written, the people still feel real. I mean the glowing guys wearing vaguely renaissance faire clothing who are fighting the giant rock monsters still have complex relationships with their fathers. But it's also an idealization — people saying the right words at the right time, people being their noblest version of themselves. Read and/or Watch the Lord of The Rings and take notes on Aragorn's speech at the Black Gate. It's the fantasy of people at their best, noble in all the ways we want the word to mean.
Low fantasy, by contrast, is a bit more grounded, both in the setting and the people. The places in low fantasy look more like your day to day on earth — dive bars with bouncers and crude jokes on bathroom doors. The dive bar bouncer in low fantasy is just a massive rock troll and the graffiti has penises of many different fantasy races. The people are a bit more like some guy you know. It can still be a good some guy you know. Just if they have to fight a nightmare monster they're probably ugly crying and maybe peeing themselves a little. People can still be good and bad, they just maybe have a bit less polish.
There's obviously lots of grey area — Game of Thrones has a lot of high fantasy setting elements, being a vaugely mideval europe pastiche with dragons, but the way it focuses on brothels and people trudging through mud is a bit more low, the reality of a world without indoor plumbing, as opposed to the dream of a world without cellphones. It has epic speeches and larger than life figures, but they get bogged down by stuff like taxes and dehydration, which high fantasy doesn't generally linger on. I'd argue some of the worst behavior fits right in with high fantasy — the red wedding is just a much graphic version than we're used to of the ol' scheming advisor trope, but still fits into the archetypes. Anyway.
Discworld by Terry Pratchett is an excellent low fantasy series, and if you're looking for a fantasy book recommendation and haven't read/watched/ didn't really enjoy lord of the rings, or if you did and want to read my favorite series, then read these 100%. If you've read them already — nice.
(I think having some more familiar touchstones makes fantasy novels more enjoyable for folks who aren't into their recreational reading being Very Unlike real life . Discworld is incredibly funny, while also being full of heart. The turns of phrase are adult without being crazy dense. I'm not a personally big grimdark person; I prefer my stories with a core belief that people who are good deep down, which is at the heart of Pratchett's writing. I laughed, I cried. I recommend Guards, Guards as a first book but you can start lots of places.)
To get back a little closer to your initial question — I started reading the Cosmere with Mistborn, which consists of three novels, a several hundred year time gap, and then four more, slightly shorter but still pretty long novels. It takes place on a completely different world from Stormlight. The planets are only tentatively connected, but there the very solid promise that they will interact a lot more soon.
By soon I mean in the next decade as far as book publishing goes, because the author, Brandon Sanderson, is a madman. And by madman I mean he fucking writes like a machine. I checked his website and he posts things like "23% percent through my next book." "45% through" "82% through" who writes like that??? He's also a massive prude, which is hilarious. I love him in a non parasocial way. He's got the next 20 years of book releases mapped out. Whom the fuck??
Anyway if you like high fantasy epics, or want to try one, then yes, definitely try out the Cosmere! It's funny, I've always had a hard time listening to audiobooks, but either things clicked in my head or the narrators, Michael Kremer and Kate Reading, are just that good.
I...actually liked Mistborn more than Stormlight. The first Stormlight book I found a little hard to get through at the start, because the main characters seriously go through it, but I had trust in the author at that point and things DID get better. Mistborn hooked me start to finish and every plot twist felt perfectly executed in a way that Stormlight didn't completely nail for me. I mean, Stormlight Archive is still a great series, with compelling characters and well structured romances and interesting world building and super, super rad fight scenes.
I'm posting obsessively about Stormlight partially because I'm scrambling for more cosmere content (I didn't actually expect to reach the end) and partially because there are things in the books that weren't 100% satisfying, and those spaces are where fandom lives. Again, it's still really, really good. Just long, and sometimes fairly heavy in how much the main characters struggle with mental illness while fighting crab monsters.
In the stormlight archive, your personal fight with depression and PTSD and drug addiction is actually inextricably linked to your super rad glowing magic power fight with rock monsters and crab people. The crab people who also have a lot of trauma and mental illness.
Honestly, I'm not sure how Sanderson is going to resolve that.
But fuck it, TLDR, Stormlight is good but long, and the next book is supposed to resolve a bunch of stuff and it comes out this December, and the way he wrapped up things in his other books was really satisfying! So this is a pretty good time to get into the series!
#discworld#cosmere#lord of the rings#terry pratchett#brandon sanderson#stormlight archive#nevertheless meta#ask
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I’ve been thinking a lot about how people’s reactions to certain queer shows and something I think we need to examine how we treat more ‘dark’ and ‘emotional’ shows versus more ‘happy’ shows in this case I’m gonna be talking about the “debate” between Young Royals and Heartstopper.
Firstly these shows exist in two different lanes, and draw in two different audiences and potential age ranges, in my opinion, Young Royals is for older teenagers (think juniors or seniors or someone who is about to graduate high school and is going into college) while Heartstopper is geared towards those who are just starting high school or in the middle of it and is in that transitional period of their lives. Obviously, if you are not in these age ranges you can still consume and enjoy these shows, But I want to discuss how people act like they both can’t exist and you can’t like both or both shows existing for a reason. I’ve never really been a fan of punching down or belittling queer media (unless it’s harmful) Queer media in all forms is still lacking (especially those mediums centering WLW relationships). That being said the debate of which show is better is honestly so tired.
For people who say Young Royals is so much better (don’t get me wrong it is an amazing show and by all means like whatever you want) but liking it more because it’s “darker and more realistic” compared to Heartstopper which is "much happier" and "unrealistic," To me is so disingenuous because firstly so what? campy shows that feature queer characters deserve to be unrealistic, What's wrong with being unrealistic? Queer media has been subject to the Burry Your Gays narrative for decades or extremely unhealthy tropes and storylines so what's so wrong with having storylines and shows that are unrealistic or extremely happy? (even though the themes in Heartstopper are realistic).
Have you thought about how that may be an intentional choice? Now bare with me here this may be my over-analytic brain at work but Heartstopper has more or less some of the same themes as Young Royals just shot in a very vibrant and colorful manner to showcase how happy and colorful young love is BUT if you actually have watched the show or read the graphic novels you would know the show and graphic novels cover some heavy themes.
SPOILERS AFTER THIS POINT……
I want you to keep the song Pumped up Kicks by Foster the People in mind throughout this...I have a point I promise. Heartstopper is shot in a very poppy colorful way and in my opinion, symbolizes how when you’re young and in love everything feels warm, colorful, and vibrant. While Young Royals doesn't utilize this cinematic style they do use some form of vibrancy to convey tone and emotion. In Young Royals many of the scenes featuring Simon and Willhem's 'good moments' feature the sun especially shining on Simon when Willie is looking at him or whenever they are just in each other's company, this is especially prominent in the last scenes of the last two episodes of season 3.
So while people's criticisms of Heartstopper can be warranted (not saying you can't dislike the show) the comments that it's just so bubbly and bright just aren't true. The last season of Heartstopper saw multiple characters go through traumatic situations and it has been building up that way from the very first scenes in the first season of the show (but for the sake of time I'm only going to discuss both main characters in the two shows) Charlie not only is still struggling with being outed but is also battling with an eating disorder, this is foreshadowed throughout the first two seasons leading up to its inevitable blatant reveal when he is at dinner with Nick and his family where Nick starts to piece together why he is never hungry, passed out on the Paris trip and never finishes his food, which leads his to eventually research the signs of an ED. Nick is also still figuring himself out when it comes to his Bisexuality, while also dealing with the feelings of, feeling abandoned by his father, and having to reckon with the fact his brother is not supportive and dismissive of his sexuality and relationship.
Now before I said keep Pumped Up Kicks in mind that's because while this song has an upbeat, catchy tempo the song actually has a really dark undertone and meaning. So while Heartstopper is shot in a very vibrant colorway most of its characters and content of the show deal with dark themes and it's not all just a happy love story, and if the script for the next season follows the graphic novel closely, then we will see the characters go through even more challenges which also falls inline with the "darker" more emotionally message of the show. So to end this so it doesn't become a dissertation, both shows more or less have the same themes they just exist in two different lanes, I don't know why exactly people are fighting for one to be more valid than the other. When both can exist and be impactful to both or each audience, more queer shows need to exist where the characters are just happy and in love and I need y'all to unpack why you view more doom and gloom (for a lack of a better word) queer shows or movies are more valid than ones where the characters are just happy and have relatively in some aspects great experience when it comes to young love and figuring out one's identity. Sepreatlty why do you want these characters to suffer to find love? Why do characters have to go through something traumatic for their identity to be more valid and for you to relate and want to root for it more versus the latter?
Anyway, this was longer than I intended it to be but I just had to get my thoughts out there. TL;DR: Heartstopper and Young Royals are two great shows and if you think one is better than the other cause it has darker themes you are missing the point or probably objectively missed the dark undertones of the show, and one isn't more valuable than the other.
#young royals#heartstopper#queer shows#lgbtqia#queer media#rant#anaylsis#netflix#nick nelson#charlie spring#nick and charlie#simon eriksson#willhem#prince wilhelm#simon and wilhelm
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ID in Alt Text!
Hey, sorry I haven't been doing my daily outfit posts lately-- I guess I never mentioned why I started them, but it's this personal project that I'm working on where I take a picture (though, in all honesty, it's a lot of pictures lol) in whatever I'm wearing and I feature my cane to promote awareness and give representation to other cane users and members of the cpunk and Physically Disabled community. I'm working on building up the courage to take these pictures outside as well, because I do them on campus, but we deserve to see ourselves outside as well!
The reason I haven't been keeping up with it is because my partner and I have really been really struggling financially as well as with our mental health (and me with my physical health as well, obviously lol) we moved across the country to go to school and it is So Hard-- I had to drop three out of five of my classes because the course work was just too much in volume and I need a job really bad (which is going to be Hard to do since we don't even know why I'm in such chronic pain yet 🙃 it's hard not to feel defeated!)
Either way, I think going to start posting them with the tag #TheVainCanes and #MobilityAidVainity but I'm also going to host a poll for some options bc I want this to be a widespread community thing!
I'm choosing these names because I've seen from both ableds and disabled elitists this idea that we and our mobility aides need to look like they're fresh out the hospital for us to be Believed and deserving of respect, and anything beyond that voids our suffering and invalidates our experiences-- and I think that's reductive, harmful, and just plain wrong! Our mobility aides are an extension of ourselves and we deserve to dress them up however we want. We deserve representation, and the normalization of Joy and Having Personality While Disabled.
This will be intersectional as well (bc. I mean look at me. Also I don't need a reason!) , people from all identities are welcomed and encouraged to join! This is meant to be a celebration of Us, Disabled, BIPOC, LGBTQIA2S+, and All That Jazz! (If you use a mobility aid, you're in!) We're beautiful gorgeous handsome devils and I think we'd do good seeing how good we all look in a designated tag
Also my cash app and Venmo are @/cherubpunque 👀 if anyone has some spare change I could have that would be an amazing help towards feeding me, my partner, and our two cats!!
To kick things off, I am a 2S, Afroindigenous person (Gullah and Kanien'kehá:ka!) who experiences chronic pain and fatigue. I have PTSD and a few other brain things going on, less than perfect eyesight, and a great passion for Art, Music, Subculture, and Helping Others whenever and however I can! I'm majoring in art and am working towards becoming a published graphic novelist. Idk I just have a lot of love and support to give, and a big need for love and support for myself as well, and I'm hoping to offer us a good opportunity for us to connect in a space that's just for us! We're already living outside of society's expectations for health, so why should we let these folks decide the way we look while doing it? Express yourself! (I'll also be tagging myself in future as #mothie so you can find me in the tags! Anyways, I gotta go lay down. My back hurts.)
#cpunk#cripple punk#cane user#chronic pain#chronic illness#solarpunk#diy punk#c punk#chronic fatigue#afro indigenous#indigenous#alt subculture#gullah geechee#gullah#self expression#mobility aid#TheVainCanes#MobilityAidVanity#TheVainCanesProject#MobilityAidVanityProject#punk#punk fashion#**i always mask in public!! i just take it off for these photos while im completely alone**#but i do like to spice it up with a fabric mask over it for a little extra fashion#face mask#spoonie#black mutual aid#trans mutual aid#queer mutual aid#indigenous mutual aid
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In light of your most recent poll, headcanons for ‘differences’ between game Joel and show Joel? If you get what I mean? ;)
I getcha, Anon 😏
So obviously I mean, they’re different portrayals of the same man, so they’re going to be… pretty identical. But there’s some subtle differences, I think, so here’s my interpretation:
Game!Joel
- Definitely leans more towards being rough, in the sense of he has less control over his emotions. He’s shown as being more aggressive & violent than his show counterpart, and I think that would translate to his bedroom mannerisms too.
- When I say rough, I mean he’s more likely to be okay with choking you, leaving marks on you, putting you in positions that mean you’ll feel it for days after.
- Less subtle with his dirty talk than his counterpart. Much more likely to be graphic and filthy when he’s whispering smut into your ear.
- Less possessive than his counterpart. While he’s still got the same sort of trauma, he’s buried his a lot deeper. It doesn’t come out as frequently, but when it does it’s a lot more intense.
- Bites. Likes leaving pretty marks on your throat.
- More of a “call me sir” than “call me daddy” kinda guy.
- Will kill anyone who looks at you wrong. Far more likely to be more of the dark! Archetype than his counterpart.
- Whether he cuddles you afterwards is dependent heavily on his mood.
- More likely to sing for you than his counterpart.
- Less kinky than his counterpart but very open about what he likes.
- Far more vocal in bed, constantly telling you what he likes, how good you are, etc.
Show!Joel
- Far more possessive and happier to show it. He wants everyone in the vicinity to know you’re his.
- More subtle in the way he talks to you; the pet names he gives you in bed are *just* passable for appropriate in public, and you know he’ll call you those names in public just to make you blush.
- Did NOT expect to like being called “daddy”, but when you jokingly did it once it made him hard as a rock and now he has to coax it out of you while he’s railing you.
- Far more subtle in the ways he protects you, mostly because he doesn’t want to scare you. You KNOW what he’s capable of, doesn’t mean you have to see it.
- More likely to cuddle with you afterwards. More open with physical affection than his counterpart.
- Probably secretly more kinky than his counterpart, but less likely to reveal said kinks.
- Gets less vocal when he trusts you; it’s more of a show he puts on. When he trusts you and cares about you he’s quieter in bed.
#my writing#Joel Miller#joel miller smut#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x reader#the last of us#tlou#Joel Miller headcanons#answered
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Actions Have Consequences
Warnings: MDNI, Smut, Profanity, Angst, Anal (f!receiving), Aggressive Sex, Verbal Fighting, Dom/Sub Relationship DID NOT PROOFREAD
Summary: Actions have consequences and your boyfriend Gojo Satoru was going to see what the consequences of ignoring your texts are or so you think.
A/N: I tried to make sure I did good warnings but if there is anything I should have included please let me know, this is my first time writing something this graphic
Day7: Dom/Sub
You were kneeling in the entry way of the apartment you shared with Gojo Satoru. The sweat from your palms was starting to slide down your thighs as the minutes ticked by on the clock while you waited annoyed. This was a usual affair for you and your boyfriend, the only issue here was that today he decided he was too busy to respond to any of your calls or texts. Not even a single auto message either. You were pissed. His obedient good girl wasn’t on her best behavior all day because of the lack of attention.
The outfit he requested you to wear because not the one that was currently hugging your body. What was requested of you was one of his favorites, a simple lace one piece that was the color of the sky. The lingerie you had on now? Complete opposite. It was a bright red two piece. A spandex thong that barley held in your plush cunt, delicate chains holding the front and back together. The top matched the bottom, the front only covering your nipples, your large brown areoles on full display. The chains of the top there digging into your skin, a bit painfully but you had a point to prove. How dare he ignore you all day?
Now here you sat, sweaty palms and the wrong outfit looking delicious. Just because you were mad at him doesn’t mean you were going to go overboard; you were still going to greet him properly. Although, you were starting to get a tension headache from the tight puff you had sitting on the base of your neck. He was taking his sweet time getting home which was making you more irritable.
Your breath hitches as you see the door slowly open to reveal the handsome devil that’s been on your mind all day, which you quickly turn your head away from him avoiding his gaze.
“Well hello there pretty girl, you’re waiting for perfectly for me.” His smile makes his eyes glitter as he looks down at you. He obviously doesn’t notice your face or your outfit, you weren’t even looking at him. Scowl was plastered on your face. His hands moved to his blindfold, shaking out the updo that comes from that style. As he slides his glasses on, you can feel him turn his gaze to you with that smile that usually would turn you and your pussy into a puddle. But you and your bratty attitude were going to stand strong.
“Welcome” Your tone was short and snapped. The smile on his face immediately falls when he takes notice of your attitude and your attire. His teeth grind as he glares down at you.
“What are you wearing” His voice is cold and harsh. Yeah he wasn’t happy. You stay silent, since he ignored you you were going to ignore him.
“Silence will not do you well. Now what the hell are you wearing? Why are you being a brat today?” There’s a flare in his nostrils that emphasize his displeasure with you.
“Have you even looked at your phone today?” You scoff, keeping up your demeanor, still not properly facing him. He didn’t even have his phone on him all day but of course you didn’t know that. You had just assumed that he was ignoring you. He pulls his phone out of his bag, looking at all of the missed calls and texts, kissing his teeth as he goes through all the messages you had sent. It was a lot of messages.
At first they start out sweet, many “I miss you” “Come home” “How’s your day going”. And then after the several missed calls the messages got less sweet, “Where the fuck are you” “So youre just not gonna call me back?” “You’re just going to ignore me?!” “Hello?!?”. More missed calls that followed up with the last text message “Bet”. After that it was only picture messages. A picture of you going to HIS favorite lingerie store, another picture of you exclusively getting red outfits, yet another picture posing seductively in every single one of the new outfits. You definitely racked up on his card today. He thought that would have been all, you’ve been known to swipe his card when he makes you mad like the brat you are. It’s usually just on plushies or food but sometimes you could be a bit more bratty.
He huffed, ready to address you and your behavior when he realized the notifications were not done. There were videos. The first video was of you and your back, it showed you sliding on the outfit that you were wearing now, slowly, not showing anything but your ass. The second video, almost immediately making his dick twitch, was of you seductively applying the whipped shea butter that he bought you all over your body rubbing and caressing yourself as you moisturized. The sound was on and he could hear you making small moans as you rubbed yourself. His nostrils flaring and the tent in his pants growing.
Now on to the third and final video. This video may have been a bit too much and you may have fucked up doing this but you were mad. The video starts with a close up of your tits as your propping the phone up on your shared bed. Your camera view was of you straddling a pillow, his pillow, on his side of the bed. Once you were in the perfect position, your hips start slowly grinding against his pillow. Your hands roaming all over your body as you make small lewd noises. His gaze snaps to you, who was looking at him now, and then back to the video. Yeah you went a bit too far. The video continues as he watches you fondle your own tit, grabbing and pinching your nipples as you continue to dry hump his pillow. You’re spurring yourself on, mouth agape head thrown back. The only sounds leaving your lips were moans of his name. His dick ached in his pants from how lewd you were being in this video, pre-cum already spilling out the top wetting his boxers.
Your own noises and his reactions were turning you on, your legs pressed tightly together shifting to relieve some of the pressure but it was hurting your knees. The video finished with you cumming on his pillow and then wiping your now soaked cunt all over it. End of video.
Those ice blue eyes stared down at you wild, pupils dilating, and his nostrils flared. Yeah the last video may have been to far but it was too late now.
“Stay” His voice commanding and you did as you were told.
You were silent, knowing any back talk would not fair well for you. He walked off grabbing on of the bar stools to allow himself to sit in front of you. Slowly, he slipped himself out of his jacket giving yourself a quick view of the abs that lay under the t-shirt he still adorned. Even with just the shirt on, it was tight and didn’t leave much to the imagination. His body was beautiful, and it took everything in you on to reach out to touch him. You loved his body; you were almost drooling at this point. His dick looked like it wanted to escape his pants and you would be more than happy to assist him with that. Any thoughts of being angry with him were out the window as the crazed look in his eyes was making you puddle onto the floor.
He’s stroking himself over his pants as he stares down at you from his seat, “You know, I didn’t have my phone on me all day.”
OH you really fucked up, he wasn’t ignoring you, he just didn’t have his phone on him.
“I didn’t know that, sir.” You say with a bent head, hoping that your punishment would be less.
He chuckles darkly, “ Now it’s sir? It wasn’t sir when you were having that bratty attitude of yours. It wasn’t sir when you were swiping my card buying those slutty clothes in the color you know I hate. And it really wasn’t sir when you were making MY pussy cum on MY pillow.”
He didn’t really care that you spent money, that’s what you had a card for. He did care about the sinful videos you sent him along with wetting his pillow while he was at work.
His dick was in his hand now, stroking the long thick length. The tip was red and angry, veins tight all up and down his length. Your mouth was watering for a taste of him. The heat between your thighs was pouring into the rest of your body, your nipples hardening painfully.
“But that’s alright” He says too calmly, stroking himself more aggressively now. “ You’re going to sit there and watch me cum and then get your punishment. And you better not move an inch, no squirming, no touching yourself, nothing.”
You gulp, nodding.
“Words.”
“Yes sir.”
“Hmmn, maybe you can be a good girl.”
This was fucking torture. It took all you willpower not to touch yourself to him. Was this not punishment enough? He looked so fucking sexy fisting himself on the stool, he had spat onto his dick using it was lube to stroke himself faster. The look on his face was erotic and intoxicating. He wasn’t breaking eye contact with you either as you saw him getting closer and closer to his peak. You may be able to cum without even touching yourself from the scene. You were getting needy, so close to desperate. This was part of your punishment for your brat behavior. Good girls get good things, brats get punished. There was no way you could still be punished after this torture.
Satoru knew he was getting close. That video made it so he was almost already there, but now he had to decide on where to come. He was not going to give you the satisfaction of cuming down your throat, this was supposed to be your punishment, but he wanted to badly. As his balls tightened with his upcoming orgasm it hit him as he was looking down at your pained face. You were kneeling right in front of him and that’s where he came. Right in front of him, right in front of you, on the floor. How you wished that was inside you and your wish was going to be his command.
“Lick it up” He damned, a little spent from his release. Your eyes went as wide as saucers. “ I said lick it up.” He bites,slowly losing his patience already.
You do as he commands, bending over and putting your mouth to the floor. You felt humiliated but your pussy differed with the way it started trying to grasp on to nothing dripping more on the floor.
“Lick it all up, make sure it’s clean” He inhaled sharply watching you clean the floor of his cum. You were being so obedient, so filthy, he wanted more. No, he needed more and to see how far you would go under his command.
After the floor was clean, you sat back up on your knees looking up at him doe eyed. You looked intoxicating from his angle. Your soft brown skin was glowing from the care you put into it today, your lips were a bit puff and red there was a clear indent from where you had been biting it. He just watched you do the nastiest shit and yet your face still held a shyness to it.
He groaned as his dick came back alive, “On all fours.”
You did as you were told and looked up to him for further instructions, your face heating up with embarrassment and a bit of excitement. This was new. He didn’t say anything, just pointed at the bedroom door. You went to stand up and he stopped your body pushing you back on all fours. Your knees were aching at this point and you had no clue what he wanted you to do.
He points again to the bedroom, only saying one word “Crawl”
There was no way he actually wanted you to crawl to the bedroom, but the look in his eyes told you he was serious. His eyes weren’t the bright blue color they usually are, they were dark and dangerous. What kind of new punishment was he thinking up? You push those thoughts out of your mind, you were going to do as you were told. You were going to show him that you were still his good girl. You’re starting to crawl, after a few shuffles a hard smack comes to your ass making you falter. The pain went straight to your pussy and the sight of your ass rippling made Satoru fist his cock again. You turn around to look at him, he’s towering over you slowly pulling at himself. Fuck he looked delicious and terrifying. His shoulders were broad and shrug, his biceps flexing slightly with each slow pull. The look he was giving you was sending shock waves to your pussy, he was going to destroy you.
“Move” He demanded and you go. Again after a few movements another smack comes to your ass, another jolt making your leak on the floor. He didn’t stop this routine until you made it all the way to the room. There was no way you didn’t leave a wet trail behind you.
Finally in the room, he grabs you by the arm throwing you up on the bed. You were spent at this point, your knees hurt, your ass hurt, you needed to cum but your punishment wasn’t over yet. Gojo disappears for you a moment and you take that time to catch your breath. Your head was spinning, and you were leaking everywhere, and it was so uncomfortable due to the spandex thong. Unfortunately for you, he came back before you could sufficiently catch your breath.
He turned your body was that you were facing the mirror, on your stomach. You took this opportunity to beg.
“I’m sorry sir. I wont be a brat anymore I promise. See I’ve been punished im sorry.” Your eyes were already puff with tears, but you got nothing from him. He just hummed as he gently tied your hands behind your back. You don’t even bother squirming at the restraints, the man knows how to tie a good knot. He goes about setting things up around the room, you have no clue what.
“Satoru, please. It’s all to much.” You try to plead again. He walks over to your warn out former, shushing you and gently stroking your face. He gives you a kiss on the forehead before going back to whatever he was doing. After he’s done around the room, he returns in front of you once more placing a dildo in front of you. Leaving it there, he takes his place behind you on the bed.
“Knees up sweetheart” He says gently, lightly taping on the hips. You do as your told and this gives you a second to look around to see what he did. Your chest is in the bed due to your arms being behind your back but you can see a bit. Satoru has you placed right in front of the mirror, and it looks like he set up a phone. You try looking back at him confused.
“What’s going on ‘Toru” You pant, trying to crane your neck to see him.
“Hmmmn. Since you like making videos, we are going to make some video.” He states, rubbing your ass making you whimper. He was being so gentle with you, it was soothing the previous pain. His large hands travel to the chains sitting on your waist from your thong, snapping them. “You won’t be wearing this ever again”
He slides the fabric off you, sliding something cold and metal between your folds.
“You really like it when I treat you dirty huh?” He coos sliding the what you can not tell is a butt plug around your clit lubricating it while also stimulating you. The cold of the plug sending shivers up your spine making your wither in front of him. You were already so stimulated, that slight sensation made you almost cum. “I should make you go lick up the mess you made like you licked up mine. You’d love for me to watch you be fucking disgusting huh? Licking up your trail from the floor.”
You moaned as your shoulders further into the bed. He took this opportunity to stick the now well lubricated plug into your awaiting ass hole. This makes you gasp and your hips would have given out if Satoru didn’t have such a firm grip on you.
“Fuck. Satoru. I can’t. Please” You whine, already feeling too full. The thought of him making you lick up your own wetness as he stuffed the plugin your ass was doing crazy things to your body.
“Yes you can and you will. Now suck that dick while I fuck you.” He grunts as he pulls you up, allowing you to take the plastic cock into your mouth. As soon as your mouth was around the shaft, he let you go and thrust into you easily with how wet you already were. Your pussy sucked him in immediately, your walls.
The scene in-front of Gojo almost makes him cum deep in your walls. You are sucking off the dildo infront of you as if it was his dick. He could feel your pussy clenching around him when he hasn’t even moved yet along with the tightness from the butt plug. If he died right here right now it would be fine. With a staggered breath, he gets his shit together and starts pounding into you. Every thrust his dick is fighting against your cervix. The noises that were filling the air was so lewd, the sound of Satorus balls slapping your ass, your small gags on the plastic toy in front of you, along with both of your moans. Everything was so pornographic.
You couldn’t speak but Gojo knew you were close; he could feel it by the way your walls had his dick in a chokehold. You had already been so sensitive and ready, he should have known you weren’t going to last.
“Don’t you wanna cum again on video baby? So, I can show everyone what a filthy slut you are, Hmmn?.” He says as he grabs the restraints on your hands lifting you up so you could see yourself cum. You looked a damn mess, your hair was disheveled, you had drool all over your face and you couldn’t even close your damn mouth with how Satoru was making you feel. Not only was your pussy clenching around him, your asshole was clenching around the plug driving you wild. It was all too much. Way too much. You came hard, screaming his name over and over again. He yanked you back to his chest, leaning back for leverage. His free hand snaps the chains on the brain releasing your tits. He wanted to watch them bounce as he fucks you aggressively. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head as he fucked you through your orgasm, he started at your combined forms in the mirror. As you were coming down, Gojo released into you bringing you back up again as you cum with him. A few more thrusts and he’s done, both barely able to breathe.
He gently places you down on the bed, unbinding your arms. You finally stretch your body out, muscles screaming and sore.
“You did so good for me. You took your punishment so well. You are my good girl.” He kisses you on your forehead and you smile.
“I’m sorry for over reacting” You pant still attempting to catch your breath.
“It’s okay my love. I’ll make sure to keep my phone on me, yeah?” He says taking your hair out of your bun and putting your bonnet on for you.
You smile up at him, “Okay”
“Now let me go run us a bath so we can rewatch our video” He says with a wink.
#smut#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#jjk gojo#jujustu kaisen#jujutsu gojo#gojo saturo#jjk smut#jjk x you#jjk#jjk x reader#jujutsu sorcerer#jujustsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu satoru#jujutsu kaisen#gojonsfwweek2023#gojo x y/n#gojo smut#gojou satoru x reader#gojo x you
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Finders Keepers - Chapter Three
AN: I hope you enjoyed the last part and the delve into your main characters' pasts. Please note that in this chapter our Reader is physically violated by the removal of her prosthetic without her consent. This is an assault on her body autonomy. Please do not read this chapter if this will trigger you - I will place a summary at the end so you can get the gist of what happens
Unbeta'd chapter
Dividers by @firefly-graphics and moodboard by me.
Bingo Fills - @buckybarnesbingo Square B4 - Deja Vu
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Chapter Two
Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Chapter word count: 3.3k
Chapter CW: Physical assault, kidnapping, non-consensual body modification, violation of body autonomy, threats of rape, implied threat of murder, non-consensual kiss, Hydra.
Chapter Three - Violation
It was like a twisted version of deja vu. Most of this scenario felt so familiar - the taste of dirt in your mouth, the aches from hitting the ground at high speed and, most of all, the embarrassment at being taken down so easily. What was different though, was the face of the man standing over you. You didn’t recognise him at all, but as your eyes roamed over him as he stared down at you, smug and predatory, you did recognise the red octopus patch on his jacket. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows.
“Hydra boys? What are you guys doing around here?” You knew from talking to your neighbours that Hydra had had a strong foothold in this area until about five or six years ago, when they’d suddenly moved territories.
They did what you and Bucky did, but were far more organised and far less scrupulous. The worst thing you did was steal from piles of unclaimed junk in Bucky’s area, but apparently Hydra weren’t above outright thievery if it was required - there was a rumour of a grav-train heist gone wrong. And whilst they did offer credit, folk who took them up on that offer very soon regretted that decision. Even with the advanced medical procedures now available, it was still hard to earn a wage if you were nursing freshly repaired knee-caps, plus the fact that paying for said repairs would automatically put you in more debt.
The man staring down at you took a few steps closer and you fought the urge to scoot away. He obviously wanted you to stay put as well, as he planted a heavy boot on your chest and pressed part of his weight onto you. You gritted your teeth and swallowed down a moan of discomfort, just continuing to glare at his scarred visage.
“Decided it was time to take back our territory, sweetheart. And the best way to start is to bring Barnes back into the fold.”
“What do you mean? Barnes is a loner. Through and through.” You were confused about what he was talking about, but luckily he seemed to like the sound of his own voice and was more than happy to explain.
“He might be now, but he was once one of us. We parted ways on bad terms a few years back, but the boss thinks it’s high-time he rejoins us. Especially as he didn’t actually ask to leave. Just walked away and left us, which isn’t really how we do things.”
You furrowed your brows as he spoke. Had Bucky really been a part of the mean and vicious Hydra gang. Yes he was an asshole towards you, but his reputation with others didn’t match up with the picture this goon was painting.
“Nice story, but I fail to see what it has to do with me and why you decided I should eat dirt. Sounds like a you and Bucky issue.” You really wished he’d take his foot off of you. Your ribs were starting to ache like anything.
“Well he might need a bit of persuading - he can be a stubborn ass a lot of the time - and what better way to persuade him than to have his girl on our side.”
If your ribs, and therefore your lungs, weren’t so constricted you’d have laughed at the man’s statement. As it was, the best you could do was snort derisively. “Good luck with that!”
The man chuckled. “You don’t want to join us, toots? You’re breaking my heart.”
“Well, obviously I don’t want to join you - I have some standards. But it’s more that I’m not Barnes’ girl. He doesn’t give a shit what I do, as long as it isn’t stealing from him. We barely tolerate each other, and in fact he took all of my latest fee off me, not fifteen minutes ago.”
The hazel eyes looking at you narrowed and he suddenly removed his foot from your chest. You sucked in a deep breath, unable to stop your reaction, but didn’t have any time to get your breathing back to normal as he suddenly wrapped his fist into the front of your jacket, hoisted you back to your feet and slammed you back into the closest wall.
“Stop playing games. We know he lets you Find on his turf and we know he keeps an eye on you. Even if you’re not his girl in the traditional sense, Barnes definitely has a soft spot for you. Therefore, I reckon that if you’re with us, and it doesn’t matter to me if that’s willingly or unwillingly, sweetheart, he’ll definitely come after you.” He looked you up and down, as if only really assessing you for the first time. You felt like a piece of meat hung up in a butcher’s window. “If you’re not his girl, what about being mine? I could show you a good time.” He ran the back of his free hand down your face in caress and you repressed a disgusted shudder.
“Not fucking likely”, you ground out, and then made your move. You kicked him in the shin with your right foot. Hard. At the same time you wrapped both your hands around his wrist and twisted it. He shouted out in a combination of shock and pain and let go of you. You set off, sprinting down the alley, however you’d momentarily forgotten that he wasn’t alone. Several sets of feet set off after you and you jumped, midstride, as a stunner shot connected with the wall beside you, leaving a scorch mark and an acrid smell in its wake.
You quickened your pace, willing your flesh leg to keep up with your metallic one, but your wish was in vain. You stumbled and at the same time a stunner shot caught your arm, sending you spinning. Pain flared up your limb and a small voice in your head unhelpfully pointed out that this was beginning to feel like a pattern as you crashed back into the ground.
You groaned, unable to move as footsteps approached, and once again your tormentor leaned over you.
“I realised, sweetheart,” he drawled. “I never introduced myself. The name’s Brock. Brock Rumlow. Remember it so you know what to scream later.”
Your eyes widened as he aimed a stunner at your chest. You heard the whine it gave off and then…
Nothing.
Your head was pounding and your tongue felt thick in your mouth as you woke up. You hadn’t been shot with a stunner many times, but you didn’t need to in order to know the feeling of a stun-hangover. You blinked your eyes open and you were glad that wherever you were, it wasn’t too bright.
It appeared to be some kind of empty warehouse, and you were the only occupant, sitting in a chair, your wrists tied to the arms and your legs….
Horror swept over you, along with a feeling of utter violation. Your left leg was tied to the chair by the ankle, but your right leg wasn’t tied at all, because the lower half of it was missing, your pants leg shredded to gain quick access. Bile rose in your throat and choked it back. Any thought that’d you’d had to play this cool in hopes of lulling Rumlow and his goons into a false sense of security went straight out of the window.
“You sick fucks!” You screamed across the space, your voice echoing off the bare walls and you started to struggle against your bonds. They’d regret this. As soon as you got free you were going to rain hell down upon them. The ropes rubbed painfully against your wrists and left ankle, but you were a woman possessed.
Suddenly, a large hand clamped down on the back of your neck menacingly, and you stilled, teeth gritted. Rage filled you were, stupid you were not.
“Did wonder when you were going to wake up, sweetheart” Brock bent down, his face appearing in your peripheral vision and his breath hot on your cheek. You wrinkled your nose at the stench.
“Give me back my leg,” you growled, your rage bubbling white hot inside you.
“And give you another chance to kick me? That shit hurt. Nah. Leg privileges are earned.” His other hand landed on your right thigh, and he gave a light squeeze of it through your ruined pants.
“Its a fucking part of me, jerk. I’d ask how you’d like it if I took your dick off you, but I doubt anyone, least of all you, would notice.”
He wrenched your head back in anger, and although it hurt you couldn’t help but grin up at him and how easy it was to push his buttons. Like any bully.
“I don’t know how you haven’t realised this yet, bitch, but you aren’t in charge here - I am. And if you’re nice to me I’ll be nice to you. However, if you continue like this…” Brock shrugged as his words tailed off and shoved your head back forward before releasing it. You continued to glower at him as he walked around the chair to stand in front of you, his thick arms crossed over his equally broad chest.
“What am I supposed to do if I need to piss or crap?” you questioned, hoping that the question would gross him out. Unfortunately he seemed unfazed.
“Ask me or one one of the boys nicely and we’ll carry you to the bathroom.”
“I’d rather hop, asshole.” The thought of any of them touching you made your skin crawl.
“If you prefer. It’s a long way from this room, princess.”
It was your turn to shrug in reply.
A silence fell between you, but Brock just continued to stare as if you were an insect he was studying under a microscope. You squirmed beneath his gaze and bit your tongue until you couldn’t take it any longer.
“What now? We stay here staring at each other, hoping Barnes turns up at some point? I hate to break it to you - he’s not coming. I’m nothing to him.”
Brock smiled then and it made you more afraid than any of his macho posturing had. “You’d best hope you’re wrong, toots. Because if you’re right, and he doesn’t come for you then I’ve got no use for you.” He crouched down into your personal space, his large hands resting on both your thighs this time. “Well, no long term use. Short term on the other hand…” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours.
You pulled at your bonds again and wrenched your head away. “Ugh, you’re such an animal.” Brock just chuckled and stood up, nonplussed by your reaction.
“Sticks and stones, sweetheart. I’ll come and check on you later, see if your mood has improved at all. Don’t forget to shout loudly if you need the toilet - you’ll want us to hear you then.” He then turned away from you without a second glance and you were left alone in the dull light once more.
A few hours later and despite your resolve you were forced to call out. It was the most humiliating thing you’d ever had to do. You also hadn’t quite contemplated how hard it was to hop with a full bladder, but you’d be damned if you’d let any of them assist you. The nameless Hydra thug who accompanied you smirked and sniggered the whole time, but you did your best to ignore him. At least he didn’t come into the tiny, disgusting bathroom with you, so you had a few minutes to mentally pull yourself together again and inspect the marks on your wrists from being tied up.
However, what you weren’t expecting once you’d finished was that you weren’t returned to the chair in the large, echoey space, your guard turning in another direction instead. He didn’t offer to help you and nor did you ask. Thankfully it wasn’t too far, but you had to stop several times and lean on the wall to catch your breath. When you finally reached your destination, the goon just gestured for you to go through the aperture he’d stopped in front of. You were wary but also intrigued. So far, aside from the violation of having your leg removed from you, none had perpetrated any violence upon you, apart from Brock’s kiss and unsubtle threats.
The room you entered was a small cell, and ironically it was bigger than your living space back at the apartment block. The only thing in it, though, was a bed. At least you’d be able to rest. When the forcefield buzzed into life behind you, you signed in resignation. You listened as the footsteps of your minder echoed away back down the corridor, leaving you in blessed solitude, and you allowed yourself to relax a little.
Manoeuvring yourself over to the small bed, you sat down. To stop yourself immediately lapsing in maudlin state, you decided to do something about your tattered pant’s leg. It had been cut twice, all the way up to mid thigh, by whichever complete bastard had done this to you - your money was on Brock - which at least meant you could tied the two flaps together and tuck the ends in so they wouldn’t get in your way or snag on anything. That didn’t take much time, so when that was done you lay down on the bed to rest - there wasn’t really much else to do unless you wanted to count the rivets on the wall.
You shuffled around for a few moments, trying to get comfortable, before realising that something in your jacket pocket was digging into you. You slid your hand in, and as soon as your fingers curled around the object you couldn’t help but grin. Brock and his cronies may have been clever enough to take your leg, but they obviously hadn’t done a proper search of your person. You still had your field disruptor.
Now all you had to do was wait for the right time.
In the end, you decided you weren’t going to wait too long. You knew Bucky wasn’t coming for you - you doubt he’d even realised you were missing, probably assuming any absence was because you were licking your wounds after your last encounter. However, if he wasn’t coming, then eventually Rumlow would realise that as well and you would become a nuisance or worse. A plaything. You had no desire to see how long his patience would last before it snapped and he took his frustrations out on you. Just the thought of him touching you made you want to wretch.
After you’d been placed in your cell you’d been left alone for another few hours, another guard only appearing to place some ration packs in with you. He didn’t speak to you and you acted as though he wasn’t there for the brief amount of time he was present. However, as soon as he’d gone, you devoured the food and drink, needing the energy, and then sat down by the edge of the field, so you could get a good look up and down the corridor.
There was a camera on the opposite wall, part way down, and you’d just have to hope that it wasn’t being monitored too well. You gave it a little wave anyway, listening out for the tell-tale whir of it refocusing. It didn’t make a sound, which didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t being monitored, but you could hope.
Time started to lose meaning - you weren’t sure how long you’d been locked up here - but you did notice when the sky began to darken outside and then start to glow with the reflection of thousands of neon lights. The corridor remained empty and the sounds of people moving around in other parts of the warehouse lessened. You looked up at the camera. It still hadn’t moved. Did you dare risk it?
You slid your hand into your pocket again, gripping your field disruptor, balanced on the edge of your decision. Waiting for a sign.
The power light on the camera went out.
You blinked at it, disbelieving, then in the next second pushed yourself into action. Your disruptor was out in front of you, powered on, and you were scanning for the correct frequency. Your head jerked up when you heard a loud thud coming from way down the corridor and the whine of a stunner discharging.
“Come on, come on,” you muttered under your breath as you turned the dial by increments and then let out a small shout of success as you saw your device start to work. You willed it to work faster as the noises of a confrontation along from you became louder.
As soon as there was a gap for you to crawl through you did so as fast as you could. You powered off the disruptor and shoved it back into your pocket and then pulled yourself upright. Which way should you go? It seemed to you that the exit was more likely to be in the direction of the commotion, but without your full mobility or any kind of weapon it didn’t seem like it would be a good idea to go that way. Maybe you should find somewhere to hide and then try to sneak out when it all quietened down?
A pained shout from the direction of the apparent confrontation made your decision for you, and you started to move as fast as you could away from it. Panic consumed you, your mind making up all sorts of scenarios about what was happening behind you - there was no way whatever it was would be good for you. Was it another rival gang taking out Hydra? Or was the beast turning on itself? Rumlow had mentioned a boss after all - maybe he was unhappy with how the scarred man had handled things?
You clung to the wall, using each crevice as a hand hold so you could move faster. There was more stunner fire, but also the sound of phase pistols. Some folk weren’t messing around, apparently. Then most of the sounds diminished. One didn’t, however. The sound of a pair of heavy footsteps. Footsteps that quickened in pace and seemed to be getting closer to you. You didn’t dare look around, your focus firmly on the doorway you could see up ahead. The desperation to get to it and its perceived safety was overwhelming.
This time when you fell, it wasn’t because someone threw something at you or tripped you. It was because you were fatigued. You tumbled to the ground, arms outstretched to try and stop your face meeting the hard floor. You let out a sound, half pain, half frustration and tears started to run down your face unbidden. The footsteps came to a halt behind you. You didn’t even have the energy to look up. You were beaten, well and truly and you waited for your next tormentor. The next humiliation. The next violation.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, doll. I’m getting a sense of deja vu.”
For a moment you thought that your panicked brain was making stuff up, but you turned your head, and there he was, larger than life. More tears, ones of relief now, flowed from your eyes, and as he knelt to the floor and gathered you in his arms you hugged him back. Your face pressed into the stiff leather of his jacket and you inhaled the scent of it. The scent of him.
“You came for me?” Your voice was small, so unlike the normal you, especially the you around Bucky. However, it appeared you weren’t the only one behaving uncharacteristically, because you felt his arms tighten around you and what felt like a kiss to the top of your head.
“Always, doll. I’ll always come for you.”
Chapter Four
Chapter Summary: Reader is confronted by Brock Rumlow and Hydra goons who think they can use her to leverage Bucky into returning to them. She kicks Brock with her prosthetic leg and tries to escape, but is caught and shot unconscious. When she wakes she is bound to a chair in a warehouse, her prosthetic removed. Brock taunts her with threats of sexual and physical violence. Later she is transferred to a cell. She realises that despite her missing leg she still has her field disruptor and decides she needs to try to escape before Brock gets frustrated at Bucky’s failure to show. When trying to decide when to make her move the security camera suddenly disables and the sounds of a fight reach her. She makes her move and escapes her cell but decides to try and hide rather than make her way through the confrontation to the exit. Whilst she is moving along she hears someone coming up behind her and she panics and falls. She expects some further horrors, but it is in fact Bucky, who scoops her into his embrace.
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