#i tagged people i know have a pinterest or i at least think they do lol
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i was tagged by the lovely @dalgonamilk to make a moodboard by searching your name + "core" on pinterest!! (ty lilico 🩷)
this is..... the most random assortment of things JHSHE. also the snsd????? like hello?? JEBHEBSHE
very cottage core it seems.....
anyways i'm tagging @strawberryrhubarbs @rosedews @ruoxin @whitechocolate @yerinbaeks @bj-wnjn @snsdpop @sunghoons @aintgonnadance @uncertainlys & whoever else want to do this!! 💖
#i tagged people i know have a pinterest or i at least think they do lol#no pressure to do this!! 💕#i think i've just searched so much snsd that it just pops into anything i search....#also not shown was all the vocaloid girl images 😭#no offense to the vocaloids but i hate that one that has my name KAJBKWEJB#{ *•.¸♡ 🐚 ✿ }
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[Image ID (sorta, basically just the text from it):
GET KOSA TRENDING.
STOP SCROLLING NOW!
AS OF FEBRUARY 21ST, 2024, WE GOT FIVE DAYS UNTIL THE DAY OF DECISION OF THE KOSA BILL, WHICH WILL CAUSE MASS CENSORSHIP ROUND THE INTERNET IF PASSED. OR DOOMSDAY. WE NEED EVERYONE TO KNOW ABOUT THIS AND CONTRIBUTE. I'M NOT GIVING UP ON YOU ALL.
WE'RE DOWN TO THE WIRE BUT WE CAN'T GIVE UP YET. IF WE GIVE UP, EVERYTHING IS OVER. IF WE DON'T, AT LEAST WE HAVE A CHANCE.
I'M THE ONE WHO SOUNDED THE ALARM, AND I'M NOT GOING TO CURL UP AND DIE YET.
Reblog this post in every LEGAL way you can under the Tumblr guidelines with the appropriate tags. TELL AND TAG EVERYONE YOU KNOW, then add the tags to see below... and more if you can think of any complying.
Visit badinternetbills.com if you want to find a way to defeat KOSA. It WILL NOT take much of your time. Reblog with any other information or sources, too-- but make sure to reblog if you can.
Reblog if you support lgbtq+ content.
Reblog if you support questioning queer youth and/or abused youth getting the information they need.
Reblog if you support Ao3 and/or other sites that wholeheartedly preserve talentedly made media.
Reblog if you're going to repost this on other sites than Tumblr and spread the word across Twitter, Tik Tok, Pinterest, or elsewhere, alongside the link to badinternetbills.com.
END image ID]
Hey, everyone. So yeah, this is happening. We're still fighting this battle. And we can't give up now. We can't. We can't stand idly by while one of the most important resources that helped us all wake up, or at least start to question things, is being threatened by the government.
We can't stand idly by when kids, teens, and adults just like us still trapped inside might lose access to the resource that could help them wake up. We can't stand idly by when they might lose access to their non JW friends and family. We CAN'T stand idly by when we can do something to stop this bill from passing.
I am sick and tired of this same old song, where conservative fuckers higher up think they can oppress everyone. I am FUCKING SICK of it.
Please, reblog both this post and the original post linked above what I've written, and do what you can to stop KOSA, please. We are running out of time.
I suggest that if it is within your power to do so, that you do more than simply reblog and assume someone else will do something. DON'T assume that. Please do more than just reblogging if you are able to, because that's not really enough at this point.
Call/email representatives in the House and tell them to oppose KOSA (you may want to list different reasons depending on who you're calling, some House representatives are anti-LGBTQ+, so it may be best to tell them to oppose because it violates people's privacy, safety, and anonymity online). Print posters and put them up where legal if you can.
Sharing all this information to other social media sites (Instagram, Reddit, TikTok, the bird app) to reach more people can really help too. The wider the reach, the better.
Thank you. Now let's fucking rip that bill apart like we rip apart Watchtower magazines and eat it for fucking breakfast.
(In a "we're eating it and the politicians who are sponsoring it are looking on in horror" kind of way)
#kids online safety act#internet censorship#stop kosa#exjw#ex jw#ex jehovah's witness#ex jehovah's witnesses#not necessarily ex jw related tags but still relevant bc this bill also affects these communities:#queer#lgbtqia#lgbt#lgbtqplus#lgbtq community#ex catholic#ex mormon#ex christian#ex evangelical#ex cult
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to live for the hope of it all ꨄ charles leclerc smau
charles leclerc x fem!reader
pic credits: pinterest
link to part 2 | link to part 3
this is my first time ever doing a smau so pls be kind!! i hope you enjoy, and my requests are open for both smau and regular fics if interested!! this ends on a bit of a bad note, so if you're interested in a part 2 please let me know :)
yourusername
tagged charles_leclerc
liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 398,432 others
yourusername in honour of 22 years of friendship, and hopefully many more ♡
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username "of friendship" gurl enough
username do they think we're oblivious...
charles_leclerc can't wait to reminisce when we're old and grey 💗
yourusername the retirement home won't know what to do with us
username literally screaming crying n throwing up... just admit you've been together for years PLS
arthur_leclerc why don't i get posts like this... there are photos of you literally holding me as a baby?
yourusername i text you on our friendiversary every year?
yourusername
liked by arthur_leclerc, mercedesamgf1, mickschumacher and 299,456 others
yourusername oh monaco... how i will miss you and the breakfast views
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username you're leaving monaco????
yourusername i was offered an opportunity i just couldn't pass up!
username this MUST be why her and charles' friendship blew up... she's been one of the most consistent things in his life for 22 years he prolly doesnt know how to react
username so he made her leave the paddock in tears over it the other day?? lol
mercedesamgf1 our croissants may not be as luxurious but we promise you won't regret it for a second
charles_leclerc
liked by pierregasly, carlossainz55, arthur_leclerc, and 2,388,401 others
charles_leclerc everything has changed but monaco will always be ours
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username girl this is so y/n coded
username god pls just kiss and makeup i cant survive with mom and dad not at least being friends
username it actually makes me so sad to not see yourusername in his likes... like 22 years of friendship and things are just gone?
username friendships end all the time... but we don't even know what happened people need to stop speculating
arthur_leclerc yeah we all know who to blame
username 👀 spill the tea
yourusername
tagged mercedesamgf1
liked by mickschumacher, mercedesamgf1, arthur_leclerc and 501,209 others
yourusername everything has changed... and for the better. can't wait to begin this new journey of my life, even if i do have to get used to all the rain in england :(
username girl WHAT is going on
username can these two stop subposting each other and make up like second-hand embarrassment girl
liked by arthur_leclerc
mickschumacher please only post my good angles
yourusername mick you don't even have a bad angle get out of here
username omg do we think she's the new mercedes admin?? there was that posting a few weeks ago for a manager of media relations or w/e??
yourusername has posted a story
liked by mickschumacher, mercedesamgf1, arthur_leclerc and 5,421 others
yourusername has unfollowed charles_leclerc
charles_leclerc has unfollowed yourusername
#charles leclerc x reader#f1 x reader#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc smau#f1 smau#smau#formula 1 x reader#cl16 x reader#cl16#charles leclerc#charles leclerc x you#f1 x you#f1 x female reader#writing#f1 one shot#f1 social media au
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Summary: After his last failed mission, the D.S.O dropped him off at the shelter. Grumpy and off-putting, his chances of leaving were bleak until you came along.
Pairing: Dog Hybrid!Vendetta Leon x Fem!Reader
Tags: NSFW, MDNI, Smut, hybrid sex, unprotected sex, age gap, oral sex, knotting, mild dubcon reader into it though, cream pie, mentions of alcohol, mild angst, but also comfort, no use of y/n
Read on AO3 || Askbox || Masterlists
A/N: A birthday gift for a wonderful person. <3 Also thanks to @explorevenus for helping with the banner photos, because Nexy still cannot Pinterest correctly. Title from the deftness song, Cherry Waves.
I also have a bot based off this story: Character AI || Spicychat
Leon grumbled as he laid against the shitty bench-turned-bed inside the small gray walled kennel. There was only a folded up blanket for padding, to protect him from the cold cement beneath his back. It was a far cry to the plush and lavish hotel room beds previously provided by the D.S.O. His ears twitched as he curled in facing the wall, doing his best to drown out the sound of the other hybrids around him as well as the sound of the people looking around. His throat ached for the burn of some good whiskey.
He resented all of them – owners and the yipping little pups who they were here to claim. How many months had it been since he’d seen the dewy green of the grass outside. How many months since some poor soul decided to even peer into his kennel? Too many by his calculations.
Leon didn’t want an owner exactly, much more used to having his own freedom. It was one of the few good things about his previous employment. As a federal agent Leon had been allowed free reign for most things unlike the other hybrids who ran around playing butler-house-pet or fuck toy. An owner meant rules, it meant being friendly, it meant playing and being lovey – all the things he had grown to be inexplicably bad at.
He couldn’t deny though that somewhere deep within his alcohol riddled organs, it stung a little knowing that he was likely never leaving the kennel again, it was his prison. An owner at least meant getting out of there. But alas, he wasn’t a puppy anymore, and between his age and ‘off putting personality’ as it stated on his papers, he knew it was a pipe dream.
He stretched his limbs, flopping onto his back, trying to push the thought out of his mind. Idly, he stared at the flickering light mounted to the ceiling, eyes following the creaky fan blades as they swirled around. It was almost enough to lull him into another dreamless nap, until he heard an unfamiliar gait heading his way. With no pups beyond his kennel he figured it was someone walking the wrong way, so he ignored it, returning to the fascinating task of counting specs on the ceiling tiles once he grew bored of the fan.
“Hm?” One of his ears perked up as the footsteps stopped outside his room. A moment of silence, no further sound. The soft scent of some dainty perfume graced his nostrils. “What are you still standing there for? Puppies are the other way.” He called out idly, still not willing to acknowledge their presence with his eyes.
“O-oh. Well…I wasn’t really looking for a puppy per se.”
Soft. Soft was the best way he could describe your voice, like his ears were being tucked into a cushiony blanket. He couldn’t decide if he hated it or not, but it intrigued him enough to finally sit up — it’d been a while since someone who sounded as sweet as you bothered to even look his way.
Scratching at his stubble he took you in, head to toe as he walked closer, leaning against the bars. Just as he thought; soft, sweet, cute, too young. “Not looking for a puppy?” He questioned, raising a dark brow. “You really think I’m your taste?”
Doe eyes darted to his little display plaque before back to his, he could tell you were nervous, the slightest rosy flush on your cheeks. “I think so.” The words weren’t confident, they wavered, your hands fidgeted.
He wanted to laugh in dry amusement, but he wasn’t that mean. “Listen kid, unless you got a flask of whiskey hidden in your pocket, a cute thing like you is better off finding a puppy to fawn over.”
“I don’t want a puppy.” You said again, this time more firm, determination overtaking your features. “The whiskey can be arranged though.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. Dead serious.”
“You read my file? You know how big of a grouch I can be.”
“I did.I like a challenge.” That ditzy little smile never left your face, but your eyes screamed sincerity.
His eyes narrowed, he had both arms crossed while he considered what you were saying, squeezing the worn leather of his jacket. “There’s plenty of other old dogs around here.”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m 37.”
“That’s not old.”
“Old for you.”
“You don’t even know how old I am.”
“You’re a real pain, you know that kid?”
“I like you already.”
Leon tilted his head to the side, one ear flopping with the movement, his tail against his will wagging slowly behind him. You were interesting, that’s for sure, like a little warm dart shot into his iced over heart. For the briefest moment he felt hope, though he steeled it away as fast as it came – he knew better than to let emotions like that flourish. But at least he figured this could be a nice vacation.. “Know what? I like you too, kid. But don’t expect me to do any cute shit.”
“No cute shit, got it.”
The apartment was small, simple white walls, beige carpet that looked kinda scratchy. It reminded him of the first apartment he ever had, rented it himself when he began the police academy. That felt like a world away now – yet he could still remember the look on the manager’s face when he rolled up as a fresh-faced pup to sign the lease, his academy badge attached to his shirt.
‘Wonder what my life would’ve been if I could’ve stayed that guy.’ He mused, following you around for the grand tour.
“It’s not much. But there’s a second bedroom you can have all to yourself, and the hall bathroom is all yours too.”
He nodded, sniffing around the place, everything had your scent lingering on it, even down to the guest room sheets. That same dainty scent, he hated to admit it but it was nice, growing on him by the second – so much so he even felt his cock twitch in his pants. Surprising to him, he can’t remember the last time he popped a stiffy between the alcohol, work, and sour mood he’d been in forever.
When you weren’t looking he adjusted himself in his pants. You were saying something, but truthfully he was only half listening. “What was that?”
“I was just saying how tomorrow we can stop and get you whatever you’re needing. I would offer you some of my pajamas but yknow…”
“It’s fine, I’m a boxers kind of dog anyway.” He swatted you away dismissively. “Don’t worry about it either, I should still have some money in my account from my last job. I just have to get to the bank.”
“Oh. Ok.” You replied. “Well uhmm, you know my room’s next door. If you need me for anything, don’t hesitate to come get me.”
“Mhmm.” He didn’t say goodnight as he heard the door shut behind him. Not having much on his person to unpack, he decided to just strip for bed. He kicked his browned boots off into the corner, tossing the jacket on top. Opting to leave the tshirt on, he tossed his jeans over with the rest before flopping back onto the mattress.
Truth be told, the silence was odd – even at the shelter there was always something or someone making noise. The loud industrial AC unit on blast, night puppies running around their rooms, idle chatter. Here there was just…silence, loneliness still. Despite the unease that set forth within him, he had to admit the feeling of a real mattress felt delightful, like floating on clouds. Rolling over he took the opportunity to bury his face in the pillow, finally getting to indulge in your scent as much as he wanted. His eyes squeezed shut, his tail wagged against the bed thumping each time it connected – he was glad for the privacy. ‘I’m fucked up for this, she’s too young.’
He considered rubbing one out before falling asleep, but between the way he was sinking into the bed and the coolness of the pillow, he stood no chance. It wasn’t long before that sinking feeling of unconsciousness began to wrap itself around him. His cock could wait another day.
For the first time in a long time, Leon dreamed while he slept.
You sat in your own bed, unable to sleep. It was odd knowing that someone else was in your home for a change, but you supposed that was the whole point.
Living alone was hard, kinda scary, and definitely lonely. Though the decision to get a hybrid was one you landed on impulsively. You considered a regular dog but that was more of a hassle than you wanted – what you really needed was a companion that could be independent.
Leon’s picture was one of the first on the shelter’s website. You were surprised a dog his age was there, more surprised at how handsome he was if you were honest. His file caught your interest right away, previously employed, a government agent? The mystery behind that had you wanting to know more – was he like James Bond? Why would a government agent wind up in a shelter? Someone like that would make a good guard dog, right?
And then of course when you saw him in person you knew you wanted him. Leather jacket, boots, and those cute fuzzy ears. God. It felt like his blue eyes pierced your soul, his locks framing his face – you loved it.
Now here you were, he was in the room right next to you and yet you couldn’t get him off your mind. Looking over at the clock it was around midnight now. ‘Come on, just sleep. The sooner you sleep, the sooner you can talk to him.’ You reminded yourself, trying to will your brain into submission
It didn’t work.
“This sucks.” You complained to yourself, hanging your legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at your eyes. Figuring stretching your legs and grabbing a glass of water might help, you pushed forward, quietly making your way out of the room and down the small hallway to the kitchen.
The chilling water felt like a rush of relief the moment it made contact with your mouth, legs feeling better after walking as well. You stretched almost like a cat, arms in the air, relishing in the feeling before deciding to head back to bed.
Your trek back was interrupted by sound coming from behind Leon’s door, it was so quiet at first you almost ignored it, until his booming voice made you jolt where you stood.
“Fuck you Patricio, you fucking coward! I should kill you myself.”
“What the hell?” Nosily you cracked his door slightly. “Leon? Everything alright?” There was no immediate response, but you heard shuffling on the bed, like he was thrashing around. This time you pushed the door open completely, hall light illuminating the room just enough to see his torso on the bed.
Another noise left him, almost like a pained cry, then a whimper. “Fuck you.” He said again. “They’re all dead because of you…no…because of me.” His voice became quieter towards the end of his sentence.
“Leon?” You cooed his name, sitting down on the edge of the bed. You weren’t sure what to do, but it hurt to see him struggle in unconsciousness. Gently you placed your hand on his cheek, he was clammy, the stubble rough against your hand. He didn’t seem any closer to waking, but you could feel his facial muscles tense – a growl left him as he rolled the other way.
Daring to reach out, you pet at his ears gently, the short fur soft against your skin. “Hey, it’s alright.” You moved closer on the bed, intending to try and comfort him some more. Instead, your hand landed on his tail by accident.
Leon jolted awake, and in an instant you were flipped onto your stomach, arm twisted and pinned to your back. Your muscles strained painfully, his grip bruising. His breath was hot against your ear, growling loud. “Ow!” You whimpered, face buried into the pillow.
His nose pressed into your neck, sniffing a bit before he finally retracted slightly. You could feel his cock harden a little as it twitched through his boxers, pressed slightly in on your thigh from behind. “Oh shit.” He said, sleep addled brain fully catching up. “Shit, I’m sorry kid.” He didn’t move off of you completely, but he let go of your arm at least. “You alright?”
“I think so.”
“What were you even doing in here?”
“You were having a bad dream. I wanted to make sure you were ok.” You mumbled against the pillow, flopping your arm to the side to ease the pain and tension from how it had been pulled. You weren’t sure what to do next, ask him to get off? Try to move? Stay still? While it should have scared you more than it did, you hadn’t expected him pinning you down to make you feel…exhilarated? That coupled with him pressed against you made your panties grow sticky with arousal. ‘This is awkward.’ You thought to yourself, hoping he didn’t notice. Hoping he would do something on his end to move the situation forward.
“Are you sure that’s the only reason you were in here?” You couldn’t see him, but you swore you could hear the smirk in his very words. He leaned over you again, this time his chest flush against your back, lips against your ear. “I can smell it on you, you know. Don’t even need to feel it to know you’re soaking.”
“Wha–” Your face burned hot with embarrassment, more slick soaked your panties with just his words. “No I swear, I was just –” Your words were cut off instantly by the feeling of his tongue on the shell of your ear, the warm muscle teasing it, skin cooling the moment it moved away.
“You smelled good earlier. But now? Now you smell like a fucking treat.” He said, burying his nose back into your neck, pressing his now nearly fully hard cock against you more. He ground down slightly as he took in your scent again. “Wanna just tear you apart, eat you up.”
“Leon!” You gasped out, squirming under him. “Bad boy!” You managed to get out, though it lacked any real authority.
He snorted with amusement, leaning back, a firm grasp on your hips with both hands. “I’m bad? Who’s the one sneaking into someone else’s bed in the middle of the night?” He punctuated each word by grinding his clothed erection against your clothed cunt.
“I already said..I wasn’t… Bad, boy. Down!” You whimpered again, trying to sound firm this time, and failing again.
“No can do.” He replied. “Got me all worked up now.” He gave a solid slap to your ass cheek, not enough to leave a mark, but just enough to sting lightly. “I warned you to go fawn over a puppy, didn’t I?”
“L-leon –”
“Not in control with me, Sweetheart. Shouldn’t get a pet you’re not ready to take care of.”
You weren’t able to reply as he brought his hand between you from behind, rubbing at your clit through your panties. He ghosted his fingers there with just enough pressure to make you want more, but not enough to really push you over that cliff of euphoria. A needy whine worked it’s way out of you, and you ground your clothes pussy back against his hands, desperate for more pressure.
“That’s better.” He praised, rewarding you by letting rut against his hand. “Gonna cum just from that, aren’t you? Dirty little owner.” He teased.
“N-no” You attempted to protest, but he was right. It felt so good, though a little rough from the friction of the wet fabric. Your hips didn’t stop their movement against his warm hand, chasing that pleasure, each movement making you whimper into the pillow. It wasn’t long before you were cumming against his hand, him rubbing your back with his free one, coaxing you through it. “Atta girl,” he praised.
While you caught your breath, he made quick work of your panties, not bothering to pull them off, opting to tear the thin fabric instead, leaving them torn between your legs. “Bet you taste as good as you smell.” He mumbled to himself, scooting down the bed enough that he could lean forward face to face with your wet folds. He gave no warning before he dove in, tongue lapping at you like you were dripping liquid gold. “Sweet as a fuckin’ treat.” He said, pulling away just long enough to take a breath before sucking on your clit gently, swirling his tongue around it.
Too sensitive from your previous orgasm, you kicked against the bed, back arching as you tried to get his attention. “S’too much.” You cried out, squeezing your eyes shut. If he heard you, he didn’t acknowledge it, simply pulling you closer to his face, strong arms keeping you pinned where you were as he continued devouring your cunt mercilessly. “S’too much!” You cried out again.
With one more particularly hard suck, your whole body tensed, hole clenching around nothing as you came again. Hot pleasure radiated from your core, shooting zaps of pleasure that tingled your fingertips and made your toes curl. Little aftershocks of pleasure made your brain hazy as he eased up on the pressure, giving light licks now to savor your taste.
Legs trembling, you were relieved when you felt him move from between your thighs, feeling his weight shift off the bed for a moment. When he returned, you realized he’d taken his boxers off, whining pathetically as he ran the hot sticky tip of his cock against your folds, bumping it over your clit again for good measure making you squeal.
“Be a good girl and relax.” He said, finally pressing himself inside of you. It was just the tip but you already felt so full, like you were being speared with every inch. “Easy, easy….biiiiiiiiiiigggg stretch.” He cooed, finally burying himself to the balls. You had never felt so full before, mouth opening into a little ‘o’ shape, no sound coming out. Velvet walls tightened around him, making him hiss behind you. “No pushin’ me out, not ‘til I’m done.” He said, sliding out just a little before pressing back in. He did this a few times, slow shallow thrusts, easing you open for him.
Leon wrapped one arm around you, pulling you back so you were leaning against him as he rocked your bodies together. He splayed one hand against your stomach to help hold you in place, the other a firm grip on your neck. Not tight enough for you to be unable to breathe, but enough to cut off some of the blood supply, give your brain that heavy drowsy feeling – tongue flopping out in your dazed state.
Tilting your head to the side, he lapped at the junction between your neck and shoulder before biting down on the spot, letting just his canines puncture the skin, careful to not draw too much blood. You gasped at the sensation, while it stung at first, each slam of his thick cock head to your cervix made any pain forgettable, enjoying the feeling of being stretched and filled.
He was close, you could tell by the rugged and uneven breaths he was taking, mixed with how he desperately rutted into you. He pressed you forward back onto the mattress, releasing your neck to reach down and lace his fingers through yours, his other hand maintaining its spot around you for support as he smacked his hips against yours.
Leon came hard, balls tightening as he painted your insides white with thick ropes of cum. He rode out his own pleasure with deep but slow thrusts, holding you tightly against him. It wasn’t long before the knot on his cock stretched you out further, nearly at your limit. “I know, I know.” He said, rubbing your stomach gently as you squeezed his other hand. Once you seemed mostly adjusted, he carefully rolled both of you so that you were laying sideways, one leg bent back slightly over his to accommodate where your bodies were still linked. He held you close to him, nuzzling into your neck and lapping up any remaining blood from the bite mark.
Silence passed as your bodies cooled down together, an overwhelming sleepiness taking over you. You rubbed at your eyes again before breaking the silence by calling out his name. “Leon?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you really ok though?”
“Huh?” He sounded genuinely perplexed by the simple question.
“The nightmare, it sounded…real…like a memory. Are you alright, like really alright?” You turned your neck as best you could, wincing slightly from the bruised bite that was now aching a bit, trying to see his face in the dark room.
“You were serious about that?”
“Yeah, I was worried. I told you I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Shit …. I’m fine kid, promise. Just a bad memory that’s done and over with.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Right now?” He asked incredulously.
“Well, yeah why not? Post nut clarity and all that.”
“You’re literally stuck on my – “ He cut himself off with a sigh. “You’re a weird one.”
“Yeah, I know. And you’re kinda grumpy, especially when you first wake up.”
He let out a laugh, it sounded genuine this time. His knot finally deflating, he slipped out of you gently so he could readjust the way you were laying so you were facing him. He pulled you closer, burying your face in his chest, resting his chin on your head. You could hear the telltale sound of his tail gently patting against the bed – a part of you wanted to point out that he did, in fact, do cute shit, but held your tongue. Instead you closed your eyes, letting the smile he couldn’t see spread over your features, relishing in his warmth, and the smell of his spiced cologne.
“Tell you what. Keep me around long enough and I might just tell you about the dream some day.”
“Mmm and what if I keep you around forever?” His tail thumped harder at that question, a sign of his true feeling, it made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
“Guess that remains to be seen.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. “Go to sleep.”
“Fine.” You conceded, too tired to really argue. A squeaky yawn escape you as you curled up into him, letting your eyes lid with sleep, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.
#Leon kennedy#Leon Kennedy x reader#Leon s kennedy#Leon Kennedy x you#Leon Kennedy x y/n#resident evil#resident evil x reader#resident evil vendetta#vendetta!Leon#vendetta!leon kennedy#hybrid!leon#hybrid leon kennedy#resident evil fanfiction#fanfiction#reader insert#fanfic#dog hybrid#Leon s Kennedy x reader#resident evil leon#resident evil Leon kennedy
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the house of snow (9) ✧ coriolanus snow
the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3
pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader
series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his.
chapter summary: he is in love.
word count: 1,823
series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later
chapter warnings?: a shorter chapter, coryo’s pov, soft!coryo, obsessive!coryo, pet name (petal), not proofread
Coriolanus Snow was fourteen years old when he fell in love. The academic year was nearly halfway over, just days away from winter break. Coriolanus hated breaks. His one hot meal a day would be ripped away from him for at least two weeks—longer, perhaps, if the weather turned inclement when school was supposed to pick up again in January. The only good thing about a break was not having to carefully construct his image, to ensure that no one realized that the great house of Snow was falling. But he tried to not pay either issue any mind, choosing to focus instead on the Academy’s trip to the opera house.
It was supposed to be a culture day of sorts. Since the war and the Dark Days, the arts had been slow to return to the Capital. Most of the funding was spent on rebuilding efforts, ensuring that the Capital’s citizens had places to sleep and things to eat. But the Plinth family had been funding the arts steadily over several months since being granted their title, enough so that the opera house could open its doors once every few weeks to hold a performance. Strabo Plinth paid for a Lord’s Room, and insisted that Sejanus’s class be able to attend one such performance.
Coriolanus did not particularly care for the arts. He could see their value, sure, in being able to memorialize parts of history, to show how the public viewed the changes in culture. It was a history lesson for him and little more than that.
His mistake, of course, was muttering that to Sejanus as they took their seats in the front row of the Lord’s Room. Or, rather, his mistake was saying such a thing within your earshot.
“I beg your pardon?” you said, peering around Sejanus.
Coriolanus stiffened, surprised to be called out so publicly. It was one thing for you to question his ideas in the classroom. He didn’t mind that. It kept him sharp. It made him always prepared to provide a solid rebuttal to a counterargument. But this? He didn’t know what to do with this. “I believe our time could be better spent than listening to people sing in a language that we don’t even understand yet.”
“It is remarkable to think that a boy so intelligent could think so lowly of the arts,” you said, turning your nose in the air. “The arts bring us a sense of community. It allows us to come together and understand the way our society functioned and continues to function. It breeds creativity, and with that, innovation. Do you think we would have such impressive advancements if not for people becoming inspired by the beautiful? You think you’ll become a man of logic, of sound mind, but you will be little more than a cynic if you do not appreciate the arts.”
He blinked. Well. He didn’t know how to rebut that. He tried, though, because Snows do not back down from a challenge. “I can understand the value of poetry and prose. But a performance? It seems more gratuitous than anything beneficial to proper society.”
“Perhaps you are of simple mind, then,” you said. You turned your attention to Sejanus. “Are you also simple?”
Heat rose to Coriolanus’s face. He prayed that he did not look as red as he felt. Before Sejanus could answer you, he said, “Are you of simple mind? I can hardly think of a reason to attack someone’s intelligence other than for a lack of a proper argument.”
Rather than looking as embarrassed as Coriolanus felt, you only laughed. “Fair enough, I suppose. How about, you try to find enjoyment in this performance and if you don’t, you can gloat without interruption or criticism.”
“I shall agree to your terms.”
But as the performance began, Coriolanus could hardly focus on anything other than you. How you sat at the edge of your seat. How you propped an arm up on the railing, cradled your face in your palm. The way your eyes seemed to sparkle as you absorbed every note. You were mesmerized and mesmerizing. He couldn’t look away. Coriolanus might not have learned the importance of opera that day, but he certainly realized you were a work of art all your own.
Coriolanus Snow fell in love at fourteen years old in an opera house.
Two weeks later, when the Academy students returned from break, he left a single white rose he begged his Grandma’am for on your desk. You did not know it was from him, but he didn’t seem to mind. Not when you showed the flower to everyone you saw. Not when you wore it so proudly in your hair.
And, now, ten years later, he brought you another rose as you sat curled up in his palace’s library.
You had not yet noticed his presence as he stood several feet away. He didn’t mind, though. Coriolanus fell in love with you when you didn’t even realize he was watching, and he fell further in love with you every moment he had to admire you.
Coriolanus twisted the rose by its stem pinched between his fingers. It was not often that he felt anxious, but it was becoming more frequent. After everything that happened with Sejanus, he found himself becoming paranoid that you might run away. That everything you said that evening was an elaborate ruse and that you were waiting until the last moment to run away to the base Sejanus was stationed at. That, despite his efforts in intercepting Sejanus’s letters to you, one might have slipped through and you were just biding your time.
Still, he felt the need to apologize to you. He was not sure how truthful you had been when you said you intended to tell him of Sejanus’s plan. He wanted to believe it, to be sure. But Coriolanus had been angry enough to murder Sejanus then and there, and he was sure you realized that. Coriolanus was worried that he scared you, that he might have gone a hair too far in ensuring you would not be taken away. That one day soon he might wake to news that you were gone—running off to a life with Sejanus or a life away from him, he wasn’t sure.
And yet, here you were. You had come to the palace unchaperoned, of your own accord. You had done so every day this week. You let him kiss you, and you kissed him. You let him hold you. He did not go further than that—nothing more than passionate kisses and longing touches. Not because he did not desire it, but because he wanted to know you desired it. It meant little to him to have you as a wife in name. He wanted to drive you as insane as you drove him.
Your head lifted as his footsteps echoed across the floor. You watched him as he approached, knelt down before you, and plucked the book from your hands. He marked the page you were on and set it aside, replacing the book with the rose.
You stared at the rose, admiring its pure white petals. “Thank you, Coryo,” you said.
Oh, how he loved for you to say his name. He wished, of course, for it to arise under different circumstances, but he loved it nonetheless.
You reached down, a hand cupping his chin, and pulled him up to meet your lips. Coriolanus kissed you softly, as if you might break, before he moved away and took a seat next to you. He pulled you into his side, his arm snaked around your waist as your head fell against his chest. Your legs curled up under you. You burrowed yourself further into him.
“The ton might soon think we have held a secret wedding if you continue spending your every waking hour here, petal,” he teased. He wouldn’t mind if they thought that. Anything to keep the ton from trying to take you away.
“The ton would believe we lived on the moon if someone was convincing enough.”
He laughed and shook his head. It was nice for you to tease but not direct it at him. “I am pleased you spend so much time here now, though.”
“It…feels safer.”
Oh. Oh, he liked that. How long had he been hoping you would say something like this? Coriolanus lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. As much as he liked the push and pull with you, this was better. This was nicer. This was the sort of life he deserved.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t feel like I have to pretend to be someone else. When I am with the rest of the ton, I have to still act like a respectable young lady. At home, I can’t even read in peace. But when I am here, I can read and call you horrible names without judgment.”
Coriolanus snorted. “Oh, I judge you for the names you call me.”
“But you don’t stop me either.”
“No, I suppose I don’t.”
And why would he? He loved your wit. Even if there were times he wished you would tone it down, he appreciated that you didn’t put up with bullshit. Coriolanus had little respect for people that allowed others to walk all over them. In his view, most of the ton was like that. You, however, were a beautiful, shining exception.
Coriolanus glanced around the room, making sure that Coriolanus the Cat was not around. Whenever he tried to kiss you, that damned cat would appear out of nowhere to try to claw his face off. (Or, as you put, “play with him.”) Coriolanus wasn’t sure if you were in cahoots with Sejanus, but he was certain that you were in leagues with the cat. Once he was sure the cat was not preparing for attack, Coriolanus cupped your face in his hands and pulled you in for a kiss.
“You can call me anything, and I will still adore you,” he mumbled against your lips. “I love—OW!”
You pulled away with a laugh as Coriolanus the Cat pounced on top of his head. You reached for the cat, cradling the beast in your arms, cooing at it. “We don’t attack our papa, Coriolanus,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of its head. “He doesn’t deserve that, does he?”
Coriolanus glowered at the cat. “I don’t think that’s my son. I think he’s a bastard.”
You swatted at his chest. “Don’t be rude, he can hear you!”
Coriolanus leaned down and whispered in the cat’s face, “bastard,” before pulling away before the cat could claw his face off. But, while the cat was trapped in your arms, he did take an opportunity to steal another kiss, grinning as you giggled against his lips.
Hmm. He could get used to this.
#the house of snow: a royal coryo au#coriolanus snow imagine#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus snow x fem!reader#coriolanus snow x female reader#coriolanus snow x y/n#coriolanus snow x you#coriolanus snow fanfiction#coriolanus snow fan fiction#coriolanus snow fanfic#coriolanus snow fan fic#coriolanus snow fic#starrywrites#starryevermore
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too sweet, part 8
you know you don't gotta pretend
series master list
liked by rutgermcgroarty and others
yourusername: quick trip to MN to support my boys #frozenfour
rutgermcgroarty: the lack of photos of hockey on the trip to watch hockey is crazy
yourusername: i was trying to keep it artsy
rutgermcgroarty: i mean you did a good job ig
yourusername: i know. i'm all about the aesthetics
markestapa: artsy
yourusername: THANK YOU i love when my efforts are acknowledged
trevorzegras: i swear you travel anywhere but california
yourusername: oh my god, i will come to california if that'll make you happy
trevorzegras: it would make me happy
alexturcotte_: wait if you're going to anaheim you have to come to LA too
yourusername: i will come visit both of you
edwards.73: it's giving pinterest
yourusername: you have no idea how happy this comment makes me
edwards.73: please you talk about pinterest at least once a day ur obsession is scary
username25: wait I love that he knows how much she loves pinterest
username45: fr it's adorable
yourusername: the bar for the men is on the literal floor
luca.fantilli: went all the way for MN for us 🥺🥺
yourusername: you're acting like it wasn't a quick flight
luca.fantilli: if there was a dislike button i'd dislike that reply
yourusername: you're so welcome for flying my butt to MN instead of getting my homework done tho
luca.fantilli: we'd expect nothing less from you
lhughes_06: do you even go to class with all this not being in Michigan you've been doing?
yourusername: yes I go to class dummy. My straight A's prove it
lhughes_06: nerd
yourusername: at least i'll have a college diploma
lhughes_06: and i'll still make more money than you
yourusername: and i'll always be mom and dads favorite
_quinnhughes: children please
liked by taylorrose and others
yourusername: 🖤 🤍
taylorrose: so you're just flawless okay
yourusername: stoooppp you're making me blush
taylorrose: he is a lucky man
yourusername: he really is
rutgermcgroarty: did we go back in time to when color photos don't exist or??
yourusername: you're such a smartass
rutgermcgroarty: aw you think i'm smart
yourusername: you're ridiculous
edwards.73: your photographer deserves a raise
yourusername: idk last one's a little blurry. gonna have to talk to him about that
edwards.73: HEY ur words were literally 'a little blurry'
yourusername: are you sure? I don't think I said that 🤪
edwards.73: you are impossible
yourusername: i'm actually a literal saint
edwards.73: now that's hilarious
trevorzegras: baby hughes you ain't slick
yourusername: please for the love of god find a different nickname
yourusername: and i have no idea what you mean
trevorzegras: mhm whatever you say you little liar
lhughes_06: i think you have an instagram addiction
yourusername: i do not! i could delete the app right now
_quinnhughes: that's such a lie
jackhughes: yeah and I'm the pope
luca.fantilli: you're literally addicted that's such a like you could never delete it
alexturcotte_: even i gotta agree with them on this one
markestapa: you spend like every spare second on instagram
dylanduke25: fr you have a whole note section dedicated to all things instagram
taylorrose: plus a whole ass pinterest board for instagram aesthetics
edwards.73: and you find joy in making other people's instagrams cohesive
yourusername: OK I GET IT no need to expose me so everyone to everyone jeez
Texts with Trevor
NOTE
as a MN girl i really should've had more photos of saint paul and i'm so disappointed in myself for having bascially zero
tags: @love4ldr @bunbunbl0gs
#ethan edwards#rutger mcgroarty#jack hughes#luke hughes#quinn hughes#trevor zegras#ethan edwards x y/n#umich hockey#ethan edwards x reader#mark estapa#luca fantilli#dylan duke#nhl hockey#nhl imagine
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It's Not About You
Requested Here!
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader
Summary: When Tim overhears his fellow police officers and your other neighbors flirting with you, he gets jealous, and takes it out on you.
Warnings: jealous!Tim (he's hot), brief angst, fluff at the end
Word Count: 2.1k+ words
Picture from Pinterest
Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List
Over the last few years of impromptu visits to the Mid-Wilshire LAPD station, you’ve gotten to know most of the front desk staff. They know you too, and you’re often wordlessly handed a visitor’s badge and wished good luck. You’ve heard the stories about the man you come to visit: how intense and grumpy he can be, but you’ve never seen that side of him for yourself.
Today, two people sit at the front desk, and you’ve never seen either before. Moving into one line, you wait until you reach the desk. You smile as you look at his name tag and are surprised to realize that you have heard his name.
“How can I help you today?” he asks, clearly displeased with his current position and forcing his smile.
“Officer Nolan, I am here to visit Officer Bradford,” you answer.
“Bradford,” Nolan repeats. “Tim Bradford?”
“That’s the one. I just need to drop something off and ask him a quick question.”
“Oh, sure,” Nolan replies. “Just fill this out for me and I’ll get you a badge.”
You nod, stepping to the side as you fill out the paperwork you haven’t seen since your first visit. Knowing that Nolan is new, though, and seeing just how busy the station is, you decide to do as he asks rather than argue with him.
“So, do you know Officer Bradford?” Nolan asks.
“I do. I’m his neighbor,” you answer.
“Ah, I see. I’m surprised someone as nice as you would intentionally visit him.”
“What does that mean?” you ask, furrowing your brows as you pass the clipboard back to him.
“Nothing, just- Hang on, I’m out of badges. Jackson, do you have visitors’ badges over there?”
“Uh, yeah,” the man beside him, Jackson apparently, answers.
“She’s here to visit Bradford,” Nolan explains.
“On purpose?” Jackson asks.
“That’s what I said!”
“Why is that so surprising?” you ask, smiling.
“He’s just… grumpy, and you seem so kind and fun to be around,” Nolan replies.
“You think I’d be fun to be around?”
“I- I mean, yeah. So envisioning you and Bradford talking to each other is just weird.”
“And concerning,” Jackson adds. “Have you been tested for any cognitive issues?”
“That’s not cognitive-related, you’re just questioning if I’m a good judge of character,” you argue.
“What’s your impression of me?” Nolan inquires. “Just to make sure you’re okay.”
“Well,” you begin, tapping the desk as you think.
✯✯✯✯✯
Tim looks down at his watch before glancing at the door. You should be here by now; your text said ten minutes, and it’s been twice that. Tim abandons the conversation he’s been ignoring and walks to the door behind the desk. He hears you say why you’re there, but when Nolan starts talking to you about how different you are from Tim and then dips into what sounds like flirting, Tim's jaw tightens as he listens.
“As much fun as this has been,” you say with a chuckle, “I’m really late, and-“
“Bradford hates that. Trust me, I know,” Nolan interjects. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“I do. Thank you, Officer Nolan.”
“John.”
Tim watches you smile as you use Nolan’s first name, and his nostrils flare. Usually, he can recognize his own emotions (and he’d admit - to you, at least - that he doesn’t have much emotional range). Right now, he can’t place the feelings he’s experiencing watching you and Nolan.
“Uh, Tim?” you ask, stepping through the door to go to the bullpen.
“Hey,” Tim replies, turning quickly. He picks up a folder and adds, “Everything okay? Took you longer than usual.”
You look at the folder in his hand and answer, “Yeah. My favorite cop wasn’t at the front desk so I actually had to go through the whole visitor thing.”
“I’m not your favorite cop?” Tim asks.
“Depends on the day,” you reply, smiling as he steps beside you.
Tim doesn’t answer, and when you look over at him, you’re surprised to see him looking straight ahead, bending the folder with a tight grip. You stop, placing a hand on his forearm.
“Are you okay?” you ask softly.
“Never been better,” Tim answers. “Why’d you stop by?”
“Oh. I wanted to let you know that Kojo is at my house, but also have a question.”
“Then ask.”
You bristle slightly at Tim’s disinterested tone, but you know his job is tough, and he’s probably had a long day.
“Do you-“
“Bradford!” someone calls. “Let’s go!”
Tim looks toward you, and you say, “Go ahead. My question can wait. Have a good day, Tim.”
“You too,” he mutters.
Tim takes the time to watch you leave, despite his seeming indifference. When you stop by the desk to say bye to Nolan, Tim destroys the folder as he realizes what he feels. Tim Bradford is jealous. Worse, he’s jealous of a rookie.
✯✯✯✯✯
Kojo is on a leash in your front yard, and you smile as you watch him jump after a ball. Tim lives directly beside you, so you’ll know when he gets home. Hopefully, the rest of his shift went okay, and he’s in a better mood now.
A deep voice calls your name, and you look away from Kojo. Your neighbor from the other side stops on the sidewalk before your house to continue talking to you.
“Hey! How are you?” you respond, staying by your porch.
“Better now,” he replies with a flirtatious smile.
He’s not a bad neighbor, but he makes you uncomfortable because he flirts with you every time he sees you. Having Kojo nearby makes you more comfortable, but you hope to get through the small talk and move on.
“I’m having a little get together on Friday if you’d like to come over.”
You call Kojo to your side, and he happily sits before you, another buffer between you and your neighbor. Tim’s truck turns into his driveway, and you sigh in relief. He gets out quickly, stopping by his passenger door as he watches you and Kojo. You smile, unsurprised but disappointed when Tim doesn’t return it.
“Friday?” your neighbor asks.
“I’ll, uh, I’m not sure if I can make it,” you offer. “Thanks for the invitation, though.”
“Open invite,” he adds before walking back toward his house.
“Hey, Tim,” you call, walking across your yard with Kojo’s leash in your hand. “Work go okay?”
“Yep. Thanks for taking care of Kojo.”
Tim takes the leash, his hand covering yours for just a moment. He pulls his hand away quickly and nods before he turns toward his house.
“Do you need me to watch him tomorrow?”
“No,” Tim answers, keeping his back to you. “Have a good one.”
You stand in your yard for a moment, wondering what happened. You’re starting to see the Tim Bradford that the officers at Mid-Wilshire talk about, and you’re not sure you like it.
✯✯✯✯✯
Tim was hoping that you’d ask your question when he got home. When he saw your other neighbor talking to you and, from what Tim heard, asking you out, he decided he wasn’t in the mood to talk. Turning his back on you felt wrong, but his jealousy is calling the shots for now. Everyone close to you, close to Tim, seems to be making a move on you. Tim doesn’t want to admit it, but part of why he likes you so much is because he’s falling for you. He knows he’ll never be good enough for you, so he’s happy to be your friend... until today, and now he’s not sure if he can stand by and watch another man attempt to make you happy.
“Any chance you can tell me that I saw that wrong?” Tim asks Kojo. When Kojo huffs, he replies, “I didn’t think so.”
✯✯✯✯✯
Kojo starts barking as soon as you return home from running some errands. Tim said he didn’t need your help today, but Kojo needs something. You text Tim, asking if he wants you to check on Kojo, but he doesn’t answer. After a few minutes, you use your spare key and enter Tim’s house.
As you walk into the backyard with Kojo, you call Tim, but he still doesn’t answer. Kojo is fine, simply lonely, so you take him back to your house. After texting Tim to let him know, you walk back to your car to lock it. A police car stops across the street, and when you see Nolan exit the driver’s side, you yell his name and jog toward the road.
“Hey,” he greets.
“What’s going on?” you ask, walking into the street so you can hear him.
“Noise complaint. How long have you been home?”
“Ten minutes, maybe.”
“They called about excessive dog barking, and that’s a direct quote.”
“Oh… that was Tim’s dog. He’s fine now, but he was barking at me when I got back because he was lonely.”
Another shop parks behind Nolan’s, and Tim slams the door as he exits.
“It was Kojo, I’m so sorry,” you offer.
“I told you he was fine today,” Tim replies.
“He started barking and I was worried about him. You didn’t answer, so I-“
“It’s fine,” Tim snaps.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
Nolan nods as he gets back in his shop. Tim waits until he drives away to take a deep breath. He begins to speak, but another neighbor stops as he drives by, rolling his window down to ask how you are. Tim opens his door, and you rush to his shop and look through his rolled-down window.
“I’m sorry, Tim,” you repeat.
“It’s fine.”
“Clearly it isn’t because you can’t even look at me. I won’t do it again.”
“It’s not about you,” Tim argues. It is, but he can’t tell you that.
“Got it,” you murmur, stepping back. “I’ll take Kojo back to your place and leave my key.”
You cross the road, walking through your yard as you think about what you’re losing by accidentally pushing Tim away. Tim yells your name, and you stop but don’t turn toward him. He walks up behind you, and you can’t see his hands flex at his sides as he tries to find the words to say.
“It is about you, but not about you taking care of Kojo,” Tim begins. “It’s about you and me.”
Turning your head, you watch Tim’s hand fold into a fist as he continues.
“I just- Nolan was flirting with you, and…”
“You think he was flirting with me?” you ask, turning so you’re facing Tim.
“He was. And it made me angry. When I came home and saw what’s-his-name flirting with you too…”
“You got angry?”
“I got jealous,” Tim forces out.
“Why?”
“Because they’re doing what I want to do.”
“What does that mean, Tim?”
“It means that I want to be more than your friend but I’m not relationship material. Watching guys try to be what I want to be makes me jealous and angry, and for some reason I took it out on you.”
“And Nolan?”
Tim pauses before nodding.
“You know the worst part of this?” you ask. “That if you had just told me, I would have let you know that I feel the same.”
“You don’t get jealous,” Tim argues.
“That’s not true. Every time someone flirts with you or stares a little too openly, I remember that you could have anyone you wanted. Being your neighbor was the closest I thought I could get.”
Tim steps toward you, and you match his movement, closing the distance together.
“So…” you begin.
“So. What did you want to ask at the station?"
"If I could come over, but I feel confident assuming that you'd say yes."
Tim closes his eyes when your neighbor says your name.
“Cute,” you murmur.
“I realized that a big gathering like that wasn’t a good choice, so I wanted to ask if you were free Thursday? Maybe we could get some dinner or something."
“She’s busy,” Tim answers, his eyes on you.
“But-“
“Let me rephrase, she’s taken!” Tim yells.
“Oh, sorry man, I didn’t know.”
Tim watches him scurry inside before turning back toward you. You smile as you look at him.
“I’m taken?” you repeat.
“Only if you want to be.”
Nodding, you lay your hands on Tim’s chest. He moves a hand up to your waist, pulling you against him. Kojo barks before he can do anything, and you laugh against Tim’s uniform.
“Aren’t you still working?” you ask.
“Technically. How about dinner when I get off?”
“Only if you cook.”
“Like I’m taking you out in public this soon. I just got over the jealousy.”
You kiss Tim’s cheek just before dispatch alerts him of a call in the area.
“Where are you going?” he asks as you walk away.
“Home!” you call as you walk into his porch. “My boy lives here. And you do too.”
#tim bradford x reader#tim bradford fluff#tim bradford imagine#tim bradford the rookie#tim bradford#the rookie#requests#fem!reader#kojo bradford#hanna writes✯
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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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This what I mean 👇🏻
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/3518505943900484/
Dear (returning) Bitchy Anon,
I wrote this answer yesterday, but I am posting it today, because I did not want to give you any satisfaction. Your coming back in here proves there is not an ounce of humanity left in you: just a #silly obsession for an actress who does not even know or care you exist. I promise you she doesn't. Confidently so.
But then, onwards to your 'evidence'.
You thought you would give me the creeps on Christmas Day with a controversial picture allegedly taken at the Weinstein (yes, that Weinstein!) and Netflix Golden Globes afterparty, on January 8, 2017?
No, seriously now: you actually did?
Crikey. As we say in Romanian (and yes, it is very rude, but also dementedly funny): mi se umple fundul de lacrimi/my arse is in tears. Perhaps the equivalent of I don't give a flying fuck, btw.
If you did read me before posting your laughable shite, and I think you did, you should know by now how I usually work, at least for those things I choose to make public (the rest is none of your business, I am afraid). You found this pic on Pinterest, originating from a Tumblr blog: @clairebeauchampfan. Since this person started blogging one year later than the moment this picture was taken, she probably found it chez Contemplating Outlander. You know, that pseudo-social scientist-cum-shrink, who thinks people are machines and adds a shitload of footnotes to her rantings, because she truly believes it makes her biased crap more credible (it doesn't, and this comes from an academic researcher: it is legit pathetic). So Claire Beauchamp Fan shared it and forgive me, but I did not bother finding her post, I just looked for her source (*urv's fetish):
This took me to CO's really nasty blog and you could have spared me that ordeal, Anon: it's literally akin to severe constipation. And then, onwards to Instagram:
A further search revealed she was wearing a Romanian designer (Maria Lucia Hohan) dress and Amrapali earrings. And then, I read the comments on that Insta post. Maybe you'd read them too, they are enlightening - for someone who's 'been around since 2015', people are rather confused about his real status in her life, don't you think?
But Internet is really forever, no matter how you try to hide your trash, Anon. Here is a copy of O'Callaghan's post which was, indeed, deleted: maybe *urv was too insistent? It wouldn't surprise me:
She should have won the Golden Globe in 2017, that's true. And it was S, not McIdiot, the one who told the Internet she should have won all those prizes, if memory serves. How odd McIdiot is never mentioned in that particular post (y'all would have paraded it for YEARS, if it were so) - but household staff, no matter how promoted, never really is. And before you screech, tell all the damn truth Anon, and put this pic in its right context:
How odd the 'successful music producer and entrepreneur' (he is not successful, nor a music producer and much less an entrepreneur) was not tagged, by someone who is active in the industry, who clearly knows C and who attended that Golden Globes gala!
Just a last word on that pic. C was obviously smiling and talking animatedly with O'Callaghan and then McIdiot (who looks malnourished - but hey, humble beginnings, eh?) got dragged in the middle, for the convenient pic. I sometimes wonder what kind of social life you people have and sadly, I have to say - next to 0, for some of you. I never fuck the dozens of men with whom I do have similar 'just because' pics, interrupting my conversation in the middle of an event.
Also, check this very warm & fuzzy pic with one prominent member of her own, personal and very, very gay Circle of Trust. Because I am sorry, but what straight man wears lipstick, as McIdiot clearly does (and no, it's not because they were smooching in the lavatories, what are you, 14?):
She looks happy, doesn't she?
I mean: really, honey. Get a Real Life and stop trying to persuade me with ye olde Pinterest pics you clearly are completely clueless about, ok?
And before you open your mouth to vomit CO's trash again, please carefully do your homework about McIdiot. But as carefully as I did. Then you can talk, share your interesting findings. Merry Christmas and....
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my first 6ish months as a cc creator 💗🫶🏾
a little thank you note below!! pls read if you can 🙇🏾♀️
i honestly still cannot believe that i make hairs for this silly little game because i thought it would be so impossible for me to do so (as i said in my mariela post) and here i am 9+ hairs later (and even more in the works). it makes me so excited and proud to see my progress in the different hairs i make as it has gotten easier to navigate blender and gimp now. even tho i have learned so much and feel more confident in my cc making skills, there’s still so much i need and want to learn as there’s so many more black hairstyles i wanna make that are still outta my current skill set. hopefully, i can eventually make at least 40-50% of the hairs i have saved on my pinterest board. i also wanna make cc that is specifically for fat sims (maybe poses, body presets, skin details???) so here’s to so many more months of saturngalore cc! 🥂
i want to thank everyone that downloaded and used my cc in their games, edits, and/or lookbooks! i still cannot believe it whenever someone tags me or i see my hair in a cc haul youtube video (like wtf??!). im so happy to know that so many people like my cc and i hope that y’all will like my new hairs for 2024! last but not least, i also want to thank everyone who took the time out their day/week to load up their games, make such amazing edits and sims highlighting my hairs, and gave me such valuable feedback all to test my hairs!! it really makes me tear up from all the support and love that i have received so far and i will be forever grateful for all of you!! 🫶🏾
@invisiblequeen @riverofjazzsims @minaevesmoths @francescalater @kimorasimz @meoanii @browntrait @mmonetsims @eatasslikegrass @elomelos @koibish @simfuldelights @mokah @mangosimoothie @zohrou (they deactivated i think 😔) i hope this is everyone but im sorry if it’s not 🙏🏾
#before i show y’all my upcoming cc i just wanted to post this first!!!#i kept writing and erasing what i wanna say cause self praise is kinda hard to do but yasss here’s to me and my brain#i keep doing things rainbow now themed like my fault for being gay honestly#🪐 speaking
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100 questions with Theo | playlist, pinterest | ←
1. What common traits do you share with your oc? What about them is the least like you?
Well… we both have a hard time connecting with people, are easily jealous, and are hungry for understanding. Theo is very different from me in that he’s reckless, judgmental, dismissive, and is more willing to work for approval than I am.
2. Do you think you would get along with your oc if you could meet them? What things would you talk about?
To be honest… no. Theo isn’t exactly easy to get along with (which is by design) and neither one of us would make the first move to talk to the other.
3. How competent would your oc be in a survival situation? Would they be better off on their own or in a group?
He’d be very competent. Theo is a survivor. He’ll claw his way to the finish line even while covered in gore and viscera. Most of his knowledge comes from what he’s read with little hands-on experience, but I believe he’d still be able to apply that knowledge well. He’s not very strong as he doesn’t exercise and is fairly slim… so I think he might struggle with things that would require a lot of muscle. But, then again, Theo has a sharp mind… I think he could find a workaround for most things that would’ve required physical strength anyway. Theo’s fast on his feet and is also good at hiding… he’s pretty stealthy and quiet when he needs to be. Plus, with Theo’s perceptiveness and natural aptitude for reading people, I think he’d be quick to suss out who’s trustworthy or not and would know not to approach a bad situation.
Theo is a loner and is generally distrustful of people, so he’d be better off on his own. Maybe one other person beside him would be okay for a short while just to have an ally, but… I don’t know. I think he’d let someone tag along with him for a few days and then he’d just vanish in the middle of the night to be all on his own again.
4. Is your oc a daredevil, or more of a scaredy cat? What is the most daring thing they’ve done in their life?
He’s self-destructive, so… daredevil. At the same time, though, I think a lot of the situations Theo puts himself in do in fact scare him… you’d hardly be able to tell, though. The most daring thing he’s done… hm… Theo has walked into the den of a drug lord and behaved disrespectfully.
5. What is your oc’s patience like? When waiting for something, are they able to sit still or do they fidget? How do they fidget?
I think Theo is exceptionally patient and doesn’t fidget at all. He was trained out of unattractive behaviors very young in his life, so he doesn’t fuss or even so much as shift from foot to foot—not even while under duress. He’s very still. As for his patience… Theo is well acquainted with never getting what he wants no matter how long he waits, so he has the patience of a saint.
6. How much thought does your oc put into what they wear/look like? Any reason why?
Theo has to think about what he’s wearing very carefully. He’s essentially living three separate lives and has different attire for each of them. He has the typical refined masculine fashion he has to wear whenever he’s around his family, the casual fashion he dresses in for his college life, and then the more fun, colorful, androgynous fashion that he wears for his nightlife activities. He’s separated his life into three neat little boxes while he himself stands at a distance from them, wiping his hands on his legs nervously.
With regards to skin and hair care, he doesn’t do much. Theo has naturally good skin (even when he was a teenager) and only uses facial cleanser and lotions on it. His hair is the same and all he does to it, aside from washing it, is use different oils to keep it soft. He doesn’t allot much time to these things as he has other things he believes he needs to focus on (academics, for one).
7. Does your oc collect anything? What about knowledge or facts? How big is their collection?
Theo collects these small, intricately crafted decorative bells! He loves the sounds they make and how pretty they are. He has an entire curio cabinet full of them and is methodical in dusting them off and wiping them down regularly. He also has a ton of other knick knacks and things he’s picked up over the years scattered all around his apartment, but the bells are what he’s most attached to, I believe.
8. What kind of flavors does your oc like? How much spice can they handle?
Theo has been eating spicy food since he was a child, so he takes it like a champ. I don’t think he’s ever had anything that was too spicy for him. The burn is nothing to him. Moving on, Theo isn’t picky and will eat whatever is given to him, no matter the flavor. He does actually dislike sweets, though, and has a hard time eating them when they’re given to him. To be clear, he’ll still eat them… he just doesn’t actually like them and grimaces the whole way through. Theo has a really strange relationship with food.
9. How easily does your oc trust others? Any particular reason why? How trustworthy are they themselves?
Theo had his trust broken by the abuse and neglect he faced when he was just a little boy. He’s never felt safe around others as a result and the effects of that have definitely leaked over onto everything else in his life, staining any chance he could’ve had at forming normal bonds with others. It’s not even that he doesn’t trust people easily, but rather that he distrusts everyone on principle and is suspicious of every kindness or placid smile he receives. Even when he’s being pampered, he feels uneasy and suspicious of what will come next—what he thinks has to come next. He believes that there’s something malignant and twisted at the core of everyone who tries to touch him. If he can’t find the intent to harm that he always expects to see, he’ll just sow the seed himself.
As for Theo, I believe he’s trustworthy to a point. You can trust that Theo won’t tell other people the things you’ve told him in confidence, but you can’t exactly trust him not to turn around and start hurling the things you’ve told him right back in your face. Theo lashes out when he gets nervous or scared, especially if he’s in withdrawal, and he has this ability to see through people… to know what will slice them apart easiest, what they dislike most about themselves… that is almost impossible to come back from. You have to be incredibly strong, mentally speaking, to be able to handle Theo sometimes. He’ll tremble while hurting you, but he’ll hurt you nonetheless.
10. What are some of your oc’s pet peeves? How do they handle it when the annoyance doesn’t stop?
Theo actually has a lot of pet peeves… so much so that I don’t think it’d be a wise use of my time to list them all, lest we be here for days. I’ll just list off some of the things that annoy him the most out of everything.
Theo really doesn’t like being prodded for answers to personal questions, especially if they relate to his childhood or family life. He doesn’t like it when he’s interrupted or talked down to. He doesn’t like being touched unexpectedly or having someone stand too close to him and will flinch reactively. He doesn’t like having the spotlight on him—or, at least, he doesn’t like it when he’s not all uninhibited from intoxication. He especially doesn’t like arrogance (lmao).
How Theo reacts is totally dependent on who he’s around, whether or not he’s using, and whichever one of these pet peeves is getting to him, but in general he’s either going to shut down, glare and shoot off at the mouth, or walk away.
11. Does your oc have a good sense of direction? Do they get lost easily?
Theo’s sense of direction is okay, but it definitely could be better. His memory itself isn’t very great and he often finds himself feeling déjà vu in places he swears he’s never been to while forgetting the basic landmarks that’re around the city he lives in.
12. How well would your oc handle being placed in a leadership position?
Not well at all. Theo doesn’t want to be responsible for other people when he can hardly even take care of himself. The idea of being some kind of authority is nausea inducing to him. I think a lot of people would willingly follow him, though, because he really does have this innate ability to draw people in even when he’s not trying to.
13. What is your oc’s confidence like? Are they self-confident to the point of being arrogant? Are they terribly self-deprecating?
Theo often seems to other people as though he has a lot of self-confidence because of the way he talks and how he carries himself, but in actuality he’s rather disparaging toward himself. He’s always second guessing himself and wondering if he’s good enough. He feels as though he’s missing some vital part of himself that everyone else must have, something that without which he’s never going to be fully whole and deserving of love.
14. What is your oc’s speech like? How loud are they usually? Do they have an accent or a stutter?
Theo has a very clear voice and never slurs. However, he does start mumbling if he’s beginning to withdraw into himself or if he’s only just woken up and sleep is still clinging to him. He speaks quietly, never wanting to be too loud and draw too much attention to himself (a habit he formed in his childhood). His American English accent is largely neutral without any extra stresses or dips.
He did actually develop a stutter in his teenage years but underwent speech therapy for it.
15. What is your oc’s memory like? Do they remember certain things better than others? Do they have any strategies to better remember things?
Theo often has lapses in his memory that’re either brought upon by or made worse by drug use and trauma. There are events and experiences that his brain just buries from him and he can’t remember them at all. Aside from that, his memory itself isn’t that great, but he’s learned that repetition helps. If he’s studying or has something he really wants to remember well, he’ll read/repeat it forwards and then backwards a few times. He takes a ton of notes as well and has a journal that he writes in every day now. He’s aware that his memory gets better when he lays off the drug use for a while, but… he’s addicted. He doesn’t try getting clean for a while and relapses many times before it finally sticks.
16. How affectionate is your oc? How do they convey their affection? By being touchy, or through more subtle ways?
Whether it’s platonic or romantic, Theo isn’t very affectionate at all. He doesn’t even really have a baseline for what real physical and verbal affection is meant to look like anymore, as his memories of the affection his childhood au pair showed him keep fading more and more as each day passes.
Theo can only picture affection if it’s hard—if it’s brutal and rough and will ultimately hurt him. He can’t really wrap his head around softness anymore. That kind of touch is almost unbearable to him… because if he could’ve always had gentle hands on him, then what did he do so wrong to deserve the ones he got?
He wants to be affectionate, but… it’s too much. He’s too fearful and ashamed of everything he wants and it’s all just building up inside of him. Voicing desire out loud is nearly impossible for him as well, because he just feels so much shame around it… how it deviates from everything he’s been told he should want… how it’s been used against him…
It takes a lot of time to get him used to gentle affection and when he starts to reciprocate it, it’s tentative at first. He’ll stand close by and then he’ll reach out to hold onto an arm or grip tight onto the back of a shirt for just a few seconds. Just… little progress at a time, these small victories where warmth spreads through his fingers. It takes well over a year before he becomes more bold and will initiate kisses or hugs. Still, though, he won’t voice his affections or even his desires. Not for a very long time.
The only exception to this is when he’s hurt. He seeks Matthias out and will wait to be touched before clinging on tightly and letting it all out.
17. How polite is your oc? Do they know how to act in a formal situation? How would they *actually* act in a formal situation?
Theo isn’t very polite unless he’s in the presence of his parents or is somewhere where he’s expected to uphold his family name. He knows how to act in formal situations well enough and will follow the rules set out for those occasions when he needs to. Outside of formal situations and away from his parents, though, Theo is often dismissive and cold and will skim over the standards of politeness. It’s the only way he knows how to defend himself anymore.
18. How physically strong is your oc? Is their agility or endurance better?
Theo isn’t very strong at all. He has some lean muscle that’s a combination of natural testosterone paired with light cardio (he dances, plays a few sports when he gets the opportunity to, and sometimes jogs) but that’s it. I think his stamina isn’t that great but he’s fast and reacts quickly—though he finds it hard to actually dodge when he should… even when he can see it coming. His tolerance for pain has adapted over time and is rather high now, but the emotional effects of being hurt still get to him.
19. What is your oc’s creative skillset? Music, drawing, writing, dancing, etc.? Or are they lacking creativity entirely?
I think Theo is actually really creative even without him realizing it. He really enjoys dancing and is free while moving, doing whatever he thinks feels good; he wasn’t taught professionally at all, so it’s just intuitive and fun for him. He keeps track of things in his journal, but he has a certain style to the way he writes that I think is incredibly descriptive and lends itself to creativity. In all of his English and Literature classes he received a ton of high praise that was ultimately ignored as it wasn’t relevant to the direction his life was planned to go in (with relation to his future major in business). He doesn’t draw or play music, but I think he’d be good at it if he ever allowed himself the time to have those creative outlets. Theo’s pretty strict with himself, honestly, but his imagination… it’s definitely there. I think as a child he was used to entertaining himself by imagining a different life for himself, one where his au pair took him with them when they left his home.
20. Does your oc have any favorite games to pass the time? What other hobbies do they have?
Theo people watches, if that counts. He likes observing people and picking out details about their life from their behaviors and the way they dress. His other hobbies… hm. I don’t think he has very many, truthfully. He likes to go partying and will get intoxicated however he can and go dancing, maybe even play a few drinking games. He likes playing sports but he doesn’t often get the opportunity to since he doesn’t have any friends (in his mind). He likes to collect things and window shop. He likes journaling. Yeah… that’s really all I can think of. Theo doesn’t allow himself very many simple joys.
21. Is your oc expressive, or would they rather conceal their emotions? What are their typical expressions like?
Theo can certainly try very hard to conceal his emotions, but his eyes… they give everything away if you’re truly paying attention. He can be very impassive at times, especially if he’s hurt, but when he’s frustrated it’s incredibly obvious; his brow furrows and he glares directly at whatever or whomever is bothering him. He hides his hurt well, but when he’s feverish and sick you can kind of catch onto it by the sweat on his brow and the flush of his cheeks. Theo’s smile itself is incredibly rare and kind of… clumsy? His smile is crooked and he never holds it for very long. If you call out his name he’ll startle and quickly look toward you, and in those few seconds of shock his face gives away how terrified he truly is most of the time.
22. How easily does your oc fare in the sun? Do they tan or burn easily? Are they completely unaffected?
Theo doesn’t burn at all even when he doesn’t apply any sunscreen. Let it be known that Matthias is always reaching out to Theo to put some on him when they’re together, fussing over Theo and complaining about the harms of the sun… it’s cute. Theo doesn’t tan that easily so he has to put suntan lotion on whenever he wants to.
23. How graceful is your oc? Are they elegant in their movements, or more clumsy?
Theo has a grace that comes to him easily now through years of practice. Because of how ambitious both of his parents were for wealth and status, he’d been brought to numerous social functions that required a lot of him when it came to manners and poise. He never learned in a professional capacity, but he has a kind of elegance that was ingrained in him by a militaristic approach to teaching from his parents as well as observation. There’s nothing clumsy about the way he moves when in public and you would assume he’s someone who’s very confident in himself just by watching him from across the room.
24. Is your oc a romantic, or are they grossed out by the simple mention of anything romantic?
Hm. I don’t think Theo outwardly shows any romantic tendencies, but inwardly… in that soft, guarded place inside of him… I think he makes himself sick yearning for love and romance. He doesn’t let on to those feelings of his at all. In fact, I think Theo probably shrinks away from mentions of romance, insisting he doesn’t need it… but really, it’s something he imagines all the time. What must it be like, to have that for yourself? Does it hurt? How bad is it? Is it painless? Does it fill you up? Does it ever feel like enough? Thoughts like those.
25. How stubborn is your oc? Are they open to considering different options or opinions, or are they more closed off?
Theo is incredibly stubborn. You can certainly try to convince him to change his opinion or what he believes, but you’re going to be fighting tooth and nail against a man who is wholly inflexible. Theo’s formed a lot of very fast and hard opinions over the course of his life that he’s unreceptive to changing for his own peace of mind. He might let some allowances slip by, but don’t count on it. I honestly don’t think he’d ever give in and change them unless he’s been hit with solid facts or experiences something for himself that points to the contrary.
26. How does your oc sleep? Do they move around a lot? What position does your oc normally sleep in? What are their typical bedding arrangements like?
Theo is a very anxious, fitful sleeper. He’s wound up all tight through the night and will fist his hands in his covers or his pillows. He moves around a lot and prefers to sleep with his back to a wall and the door a great distance away from him. He can’t sleep if he’s on the first floor of a building or if he doesn’t check all of the locks first. Theo sleeps on his side and will actually startle awake if he rolls over onto his stomach, heart in his throat and sweat at his temples. Theo’s bed in his apartment has… three, maybe four pillows—one of which he hugs to his chest. On his bed, he has two sets of sheets, a comforter, and a blanket. Theo has a sort of crowded bed, honestly, but it cradles him… which is something he needs to feel safe.
27. What is your oc’s sleep schedule like? Are they a night owl, an early morning riser, or do they get any sleep at all?
Theo prefers the morning as he doesn’t like the dark and feels worse without sunlight. But… hm… Theo doesn’t get a lot of sleep since he’s either out partying and getting too intoxicated to stand or he’s up all night pouring over his study notes and getting a headache for it. I’d say he normally falls asleep around 3AM-4AM and doesn’t wake back up until 7AM. Four-ish hours is pretty average for how much sleep he gets a night… maybe less at times. He’s wearing himself down and will end up crashing eventually…
28. How organized is your oc? How important is organization to your oc?
Theo is very organized when it comes to his study materials and his wardrobe, but the state of the rest of his apartment is… I wouldn’t say messy exactly, but cluttered enough that he has trouble finding things sometimes. He has so much on his plate already that his apartment kind of suffers for it. I think he values organization a lot, it’s just that he lets it get away from him. I think there’s a lot you can learn about Theo from how his apartment looks…
29. If a perfume was to be made to represent your oc, what sorts of smells would be included in it?
I think Theo is best represented by light scents as he himself doesn’t really like anything that smells too chemical. He hardly ever wears cologne, but when he does he sticks to a fresh green scent. Powder and soap… that’s what reminds me of him most. Lemon, too, but not strong… just a hint of citrus.
30. How caring/empathetic is your oc? Are they the type to immediately adopt and protect others, or are they a true sadist?
Kindness hasn’t come easily to Theo since he was a child, so I’m not sure if he’s very caring anymore… at least, if he is then he doesn’t outwardly show it. Theo does have a learned kind of empathy, though… just not… a very real kind? Um, so because of the hostile environment he grew up in he had to adapt to subtle changes in expression, mood, and tone… he needed to know when he was in danger, what alert signs there were. The easier people became to read, the more he could feel their emotions spill over and try to pull him in. It’s… not exactly as if he’s sharing the feelings, but more like he has a very real sense of them… it’s almost tangible.
31. What inspired the creation of your oc? Any specific things, a general aesthetic or idea, or something completely random?
Theo is a pretty old character of mine… I’d say he’s been with me for at least five years now. Originally, I think he was just… a vague idea in my head with some aesthetic choices in mind (sweaters, abandoned houses, autumn leaves, dirty shoes)... but over time I started getting more invested. I think one of the main building blocks of his character was actually a really old post I saw about a bloody child bringing a rabbit they'd saved from a hawk into the house and trying to get their mom to notice, but the mom just blew them off because she was busy on the phone… yeah. I kind of got that stuck in my head and built up this neglected kid around it who was a little sarcastic, mean, buried under all kinds of responsibilities, and lonely. His actual appearance in TS4 wasn't even really meant to be him at first, as I'd just been making random male sims at the time and then one of the ones I made kept drawing my attention back to them. I made some slight changes and then I decided that would be Theo. He still looks pretty similar to the original sim, actually.
32. How judgemental is your oc? Do they keep an open mind about people, or are they the type to judge a book by its cover?
Oh, Theo is super judgmental. He’s distrustful of people on principle and highly perceptive, which is an all around bad combination since he can quickly spin the innocuous into something worse.
33. What five objects or things could be expected to be found on your oc’s person at any time? Why?
Theo has a bag that he keeps his planner, his phone, his keys, some cash, and hand sanitizer in… occasionally there’s some baggies in there if he’s stressed out from too many assignments or pressure from his parents.
34. Does your oc have a pet? If they could have another one or if they were to get one, what would it be? How well could they care for it?
No, Theo has no pets. He wouldn’t even know what kind of pet to get. Theo had never even been around any pets until he met Matthias’s cat. I also think… well. Theo wouldn’t be very good at caring for a pet. Like, I don’t even think he’d be good at feeding fish regularly. He doesn’t have that kind of time and can barely even take care of himself.
35. Does your oc have any distinguishing markings? Scars, tattoos, birthmarks, freckles, etc?
Theo is covered in beauty marks from head to toe. I think his most notable (at least to me) beauty marks are the two under his left eye and the one on the tip of his nose. Theo has no birthmarks, freckles, or tattoos. Theo also has no scars… every violent hand laid on him has been intentional in pulling back just before leaving behind any lasting marks.
36. What is your oc’s fight or flight response like? What sorts of things provoke it the most?
When Theo’s nervous (around other people, in discussions that’re too personal, when confronted by emotions, etc.) I’d say he falsely exhibits the fight response and will become a bit nasty as a defensive maneuver. If he’s pushed past defensive behaviors and is actually put into harm's way, the fight response quickly melts away to his real fear responses. As a specific result of trauma, Theo displays both the fawn and freeze responses. His parents bring about the fawn response and figures of authority bring out the freeze response. I’ll leave it at that.
37. How does your oc handle heavy stress? Do they have any specific coping mechanisms? Are they healthy or not?
Theo is used to stress as he’s been put under a lot of it since he was a teenager. That said, he’s never been able to manage it healthily and his go-to way to cope is by numbing everything out. Theo abuses substances and sex… and I suppose that by nature of both of these coping mechanisms he’s also abusing himself. It’s obviously not good for him and as time goes on he begins to spin out of control.
38. What does your oc do to relax? Any specific activities? Why?
Theo never truly allows himself to relax, like, ever. Hm. I do think there are small moments, though, where he finds some peace. When he’s in his apartment he’ll sometimes reach into the curio cabinet that holds his collection of tiny little bells and give a few of them a ring… the sounds they give off are very sweet and make him smile. In the morning, when he wakes up at his apartment, he likes to watch the birds fluttering about outside his bedroom window; there’s a window box just there that’s home to a nest. He’s never once tried to interact with the birds, though. He just stares and watches silently from his bed.
39. Does your oc have any nicknames? What are the origins of them? If they don’t, can you come up with some possible ones?
Theo is in itself a nickname that he gave himself when he moved out of his parents’ home (Theodore is his full name). Most everyone in his personal life calls him Theo except for his parents, his extended family, and the people that his parents associate with.
Matthias has given Theo a couple personal nicknames and also calls him a bunch of others. My personal favorite of the nicknames Matthias has given Theo is Bambi, which was originally given to him because his last name is Doe (a doe is a kind of deer… hence Matthias reaching for the name of an animated deer). Matthias also calls him Bambi because of his golden brown eyes and because Theo is sort of wobbly and green in Matthias’s eyes, reminding him of that scene wherein Bambi tries to walk for the first time. Matthias also calls Theo mała myszko, which means little mouse in Polish (Matthias’s native language), and he often uses my darling at the same time (like: “My darling, mała myszko, it’s time to get up”). As for regular nicknames, Angel is what Matthias calls Theo most often in the heat of sex (again, a nickname often said alongside my darling, as in: “My darling angel”). There are many more pet names that Matthias calls Theo, but those are the ones he hears most often.
40. What languages does your oc know? Are there any they want to learn but haven’t had the chance to? How good are they at picking up new ones?
Theo is only fluent in English and Spanish, however he can read Hangul and understand Korean when it’s spoken to or around him. He doesn’t have the time to learn any other languages and doesn’t exactly have a desire to either. I think his parents have definitely pushed him to learn more languages as they would benefit his career, but he has too much going on as it is to learn at the moment.
41. What was the worst injury your oc ever suffered? Has it had any long lasting impact on them?
I’m not going to answer that first part, but I will say that it did impact him grievously and has rippled out through his whole life.
42. Is your oc an optimist or a pessimist? Any particular reason why?
Theo’s a pessimist. He’s never had much to be happy about and is on a path in his life that is being entirely puppeteered by his parents. Theo has nothing to look forward to and feels like his life is out of his own control and already over.
Through the course of the little story that I have for Echthroi in my head, however, Theo does eventually move away from the pessimism. I don’t think he becomes an optimist exactly, but he smiles more and finds things to look forward to in his life.
43. How important are the rules to your oc? Do they follow them to a t, or do they enjoy breaking them?
Theo definitely has a history as a rule follower. He can’t really help it, not with the way he was raised. He had rebellious moments as a teenager—refusing to sit down for a haircut, stabbing a needle through his own ears to pierce them—but those were things he did to incite his parents’ attention. Now, though… well. I think he still follows most rules, but he does use drugs… pretty big rule to break there, legally speaking.
44. How violent is your oc? Or are they more of a pacifist? To what lengths will they go to start/avoid a conflict?
Theo is all bark and no bite. He’ll lash out if he’s frightened, he’ll insult and dismiss, but the second he sees a telling twitch of the hand or building tension in the jaw he goes quiet and retreats. He’s only ever tried fighting back a few times… he doesn’t have it in him anymore.
45. How is your oc around animals? What about children?
Theo isn’t good with children and is awkward and fumbling with animals. He’s never been around a lot of kids, but… I don’t know. I think seeing children hurts him, a lot of the time. The happier they are, the more Theo wants to escape. With animals… he doesn’t know how to touch them or even how to approach. Matthias’s cat, Odious, is very friendly and makes Theo freeze up when she comes over to lay in his lap. It takes him months to get used to her. He doesn’t hate either of them to be clear. Like, he’s not a total weirdo, he just… he doesn’t know how to act around them.
46. Does your oc lie a lot, or is the truth very important to them? What is their reaction to other people lying to them?
Theo isn’t a very good liar but he has a lot that he has to keep secret… because of this, he’s learned how to skirt around the truth and evades questions that poke and prod with ease. However, I think despite how frequently he tells half-truths, he’s actually someone who doesn’t like lying. He’s used to being told lies, though. He’s been lied to rather often and even though he can see through it effortlessly now that he’s had so many years to catch on to the signs, it still hurts him. He doesn’t outwardly show that he knows the truth, but internally it tears him up.
47. How much of a prankster is your oc? Are their pranks truly evil, or more harmless, positive ones?
Theo doesn’t like pranks. He doesn’t like startling people and doesn’t find it humorous. He doesn’t ever want to make anyone feel fear. He knows what that’s like all too well.
48. What are your oc’s nervous tics? Are they aware of them? Do they attempt to hide them?
I was going to say Theo has no nervous tics, but I suppose the way he lashes out is a kind of nervous tic. Physically speaking, though, Theo shows next to no signs of distress. He isn’t someone who fidgets ever, though he does still get the urge to at times. If he ever slips up and moves a hand clumsily in the air or shifts uncomfortably, he’ll catch himself and freeze, righting himself without drawing any more attention to himself.
Theo is still skittish, though. Like, he won’t shift around or bounce a leg, but he startles easily. Call his name and he jumps, make a loud noise and he jumps, say something unexpectedly and he jumps. He’s never been able to hide that.
49. What would be the perfect gift for your oc? What would be their reaction to receiving it?
If you gave Theo a bell his cheeks would get all pink and he wouldn’t be able to look away from it… he’d hold it very gently in his hands, not wanting to drop it. He’d say thank you all soft and quiet, then place it with the rest of his collection. He’d smile to himself, but he wouldn’t smile at you.
I also think bandaging Theo up would feel like a gift to him. No one’s ever taken care of him like that before.
50. How attentive is your oc? How perceptive are they? How easily do they get distracted?
Theo’s incredibly perceptive and when he’s focused on one thing it’s almost impossible to pull his attention away from it. He’s pretty discipled, honestly, because of all the studying and the focus he’s needed to keep up with it. I think Matthias is the only person who can distract Theo… the ways in which he goes about doing that are best left to the imagination. Have fun.
51. If your oc was to receive an award for something, what would it most likely be for? Have they received any awards in the past?
Theo’s won many different kinds of academic awards throughout school. Honestly… I don’t know any specific awards I’d give him…
52. In what ways does your oc cope with anger? How easily angered are they? Do they lash out?
Theo only lashes out when he’s scared, not from anger. Anger is an emotion that frightens Theo, that colors his cheeks with shame. He’s been on the receiving end of anger most of his life, so to feel it himself is… horrifying. I think Theo believes anger forces your hand, that it’s always this uncontrollable act of violence no matter what. He represses his anger frantically, desperate not to frighten anyone, not to hurt. He’s very hard to make angry and there’s next to nothing someone could do to make him act on his anger, even if it would be justified. He gets annoyed, he huffs, he rolls his eyes, he insults, but he never raises his voice, he never throws his fist, he never threatens.
53. If your oc was to host a podcast or TV show, what would it be about? Would your oc actually be good at it? What sorts of guests would appear?
Theo would rather watch paint dry than host any kind of show, let’s be clear. However, I think he has a very good podcast voice. I can imagine him doing a podcast where he reads to you until you fall asleep. No guests, just his voice.
54. How would you describe your oc’s voice to sound like? Do you have any voice claims for them?
Theo is soft-spoken. His voice is unassuming and haunting… you close your eyes to listen and feel the chills running up your arms. He pronounces his words almost delicately, giving an alluring color to his voice. Like a mirage in the desert, you want to drink it in, to hold it in your own mouth just to taste it for a while. When Theo speaks, you get the impression that he’s not all there, something disengaged in his tone. It drives people to take a step closer, wanting to hear more of it, to be worthy of his full attention. It’s a voice you could listen to every day and still find yourself drawing a blank when trying to imagine the avatar behind it.
No voice claims.
55. How sensitive to loud sound is your oc? Do they prefer constant high background noise, low background noise, or complete silence?
Theo is very jumpy around loud noises. If he isn’t prepared for it (like knowingly heading into a club where the music is going to be booming) he’ll flinch and turn his eyes to the ground quickly, shaking out his hands before going statue-still again. Theo prefers complete silence or quiet background noises like a fan or soft, melodious music.
56. What is your oc’s favorite color? If you had to choose one color to represent your oc, what would it be and why?
Theo’s favorite color is probably some shade of red. And I think a fiery orange represents Theo well. Theo reminds me a lot of fire… he’s someone who keeps standing still while smoke is pouring out of his ears, burning quietly in the middle of an abandoned room.
57. How good is your oc’s sight? Do they wear glasses? Do they need glasses? Do they have some form of night vision?
Theo has perfect eyesight.
58. How would you describe your oc’s appearance to someone who’s looking for them? What features would be most identifiable?
I’d probably start waxing poetic about him, honestly. I’d just be giving way too much detail… like:
Theo’s features are delicate and soft-edged. He’s slender with narrow shoulders and of average height. His skin is light brown with a dark smattering of moles all over. His face is round and ruddy cheeked. His brows are straight and dark. His eyes are a light golden brown, sometimes mistaken for hazel, with puffy bags underneath that give a youthful yet tired appearance. His nose is button shaped with a straight bridge. His lips are plump and full. His hair is dark brown and tumbles down to his collarbone in thick waves. His gaze is cool, assessing. He carries such an air of hurt around him that your heart aches when you see him. You could fall in love with him easily.
I think whoever I’m giving instructions to would forget half of what I’d said and only remember the part where I mentioned his long hair. And… hm… I’d say his ruddy cheeks are his most identifiable feature for sure.
59. How good at cooking is your oc? What can they cook/what is their favorite thing to cook?
I think Theo is very bad at taking care of himself, so he actually forgets to eat frequently now that he’s living on his own for college. Regardless… I think he’s decent at cooking. Despite his family having enough money that they easily could’ve hired help around their home, they didn’t. This means that Theo had to fend for himself at a pretty young age. He knows how to cook pretty basic food, but the way he cooks is… messy. He doesn’t have a favorite thing to cook.
60. How good is your oc at keeping track of time? Are they always late, always early, or always right on time?
Hm… I think Theo actually loses track of time a lot, courtesy of his drug use and memory problems, so he has a handful of recurring alarms set on his phone. He’s always on time because of that. He’d feel sick if he were ever late to something he was required to be at, actually… especially if it was a family event.
61. Is your oc more quick-thinking, or do they take longer to figure things out?
Theo catches on quickly. He’s incredibly perceptive and sees what others cannot with ease. Early on in Theo’s childhood he had to learn how to pick up on subtleties in expressions, on double meanings to words, on tone, on gestures… he had to pick everything apart to protect himself, and as he grew that skill of his did as well and aided him in seeing patterns. He’s able to find answers faster than most other people just from deduction.
62. How quick is your oc? Do they have faster or slower reflexes? What things are they quickest at?
Perhaps it’s due to his good eyesight or his peerless perception, but Theo’s reflexes are incredibly fast. He’s good at running, too, and is lightning quick on his feet. I think he’d have done amazingly in track and field if he ever went for it in school. He's really good at soccer for this reason. Despite his stamina being pretty average, Theo’s the kind of person who will push himself harder and harder even when his body’s telling him to pull back. If he dedicated real time to it, I think he could train for a couple of years and come back playing better than anyone.
63. How self-disciplined is your oc? Do they often think before they act, or the other way around?
Theo always thinks things over first and isn’t one for snap decisions. In fact, I’d say Theo actually makes himself sick from how much thinking he’s always doing. One of the many reasons Theo uses drugs is because of how effective they are at shutting off his brain. He’s inundated by the responsibilities of his life—of which he feels he has no control over—and loses whenever he tries outrunning the thoughts that swirl around in his head. Drugs are the easiest way he’s found to get it all to just… stop.
Theo is also very serious about his education, and, in that way, he’s admirably self-disciplined.
64. Which of the seven deadly sins does your oc fall under most? What about the seven heavenly virtues?
Hm… picking a sin for Theo is surprisingly hard. I think Theo’s strongest sin is… maybe envy? Definitely not gluttony or greed, though, that’s for sure.
As for the heavenly virtues, I think Theo best exemplifies fortitude, followed by prudence and temperance.
65. If you were to give your oc a new superpower, what would you choose and why? If *they* were to be able to choose, what would it be and why?
I think I’d want to give Theo something he could use to protect himself and that would offer him a sense of comfort. Maybe just give him invulnerability outright or something subtler that would make it easy for him to escape situations he doesn’t want to be in. Flight? Invisibility?
As for Theo, I think he’d want something repellant. A forcefield of some kind…?
66. What sort of advice would people go to your oc for? What sort of advice is your oc actually good at giving?
Theo isn’t good at giving advice and would shake his head at being asked.
67. How many people does your oc prefer to be around? A crowd, a few friends, or all on their own?
Theo is interesting in that he’s a loner but he also goes out of his way to enter clubs and join throngs of people in the ebb and flow of dance, blending in with them in the dark. I think Theo is actually lonely at his core and ultimately is unhappy being so solitary—a truth he neither acknowledges to himself nor to others. A small group of people who he trusts and loves would soothe him best.
68. What sorts of things would cheer your oc up when they’re down? Is your oc sad often, or is it more rare?
Calling Theo sad would be an understatement. Theo’s full of woe and has little in his life that brings him joy. I think he’s very used to the way he feels but… I do think simple things would make him smile. Something as easy as saying that he’s been missed would do the trick. Just… the implication that he’s been thought of and isn’t easily forgotten… yeah.
69. How energetic is your oc? Are they constantly tired, or constantly bouncing off the walls?
Theo has the weight of the world on his shoulders and is operating on just a few hours of sleep most days, so he’s pretty much low energy up until the moment he’s free of his responsibilities and can let loose. You can see him start to come alive when he’s partying, even while sober—his cheeks flush, his eyes light up, and his body moves fluidly. It’s only when he’s on uppers that he actually starts bouncing off the walls.
70. What about your oc’s lifestyle would they change if they had the ability? Why?
I don’t think Theo would even know where to begin…
71. What is your oc’s go-to for offense? What weapon, what style of fighting? Or are words more their weapon of choice?
I don’t actually think Theo has any offensive preferences, because he’s not really a fighter. That human instinct to fight back was trained out of him very young… so. Yeah. He does have a scathing way of speaking that can definitely be used to hurt, though.
72. What is your oc’s ideal environment like? Urban or natural? Fancy or rustic? What’s the weather like?
Theo wants to be away from it all. He wants to be unreachable. The further away he is from other people, the better. So… somewhere where there’s more nature than there are buildings. As for the weather… hm… Theo prefers cool weather as he likes bundling up, but he doesn’t want to be stuck in the snow all the time. A nice, mild climate.
73. If your oc were to be arrested, what would it most likely be for? Is it justified? Have they actually been arrested before?
Well… I think I’m going to have to say the drug use is probably what’d do him in. Is it justified…? Well, he does use drugs… but I personally don’t think drugs should be criminalized and instead believe in harm reduction.
74. How would your oc act when drunk? What about when really, really tired?
Theo actually doesn’t get drunk very often as he doesn’t really like the taste of alcohol and would rather just use drugs. When he does drink enough to get intoxicated, I think the effect is pretty similar to how he is when he’s on milder drugs. Drunk Theo is unrestrained in how he moves, letting himself be as unrefined as he couldn’t be as a child. He waves his hands around and bounces his legs to let out some energy. He throws his head back when he’s feeling good without fear of being told to mind his manners. His inhibitions are all but nonexistent and he speaks whatever thoughts come to mind. All of those walls he’s built up around himself come tumbling down and he forgets why he was ever afraid to exist as he is in the first place.
Theo becomes sluggish and irritable (...more irritable than he normally is, anyway) when he’s stayed up for far too long. He has little time for anyone else and is focused solely on whatever it is that’s been keeping him up. He gets dizzy when he’s lacking sleep and has a hard time staying on task, though. He doesn’t normally let himself get this tired, but it does happen. He has a lot of trouble getting himself to fall asleep after he reaches this point. Whenever Matthias sees Theo like this, he’ll walk Theo to the bath even as Theo huffs and complains testily. He’ll wait for the tub to fill up while he brushes out Theo’s hair and kisses down his neck, speaking softly to Theo all the while. He’ll get Theo in the water and either slide in behind him or sit just outside the bath. He’ll wash Theo’s hair and gently scrub his body, unbothered when Theo’s head falls back onto his shoulder or against his chest, soaking through his shirt. Theo normally becomes fully pliant by the time Matthias is pulling him out of the water, staying quiet as Matthias dries him off, dresses him, and lays him down in the bed. Matthias will only be away for a moment to grab a book before coming back to hold Theo, blocking the door from Theo’s sight. Theo sleeps like a baby after all of that and Matthias lays awake holding him until noon.
75. What would your oc’s dream home be like? How big would it be? What sorts of rooms would be in it? Where would it be located?
Truthfully, Theo doesn’t like big open spaces. I think there’s a loneliness to big houses that unsettles him. He could never feel comfortable somewhere with too many doors, either… too many shadowy corners, not enough assurance that someone couldn’t be hiding in them. So Theo would rather live somewhere smaller, with just the right amount of space for him and all of his things. Honestly, his apartment is pretty perfect for him already.
76. What is/was your oc’s relationship with their family like? Was it happy, tense, or abusive? What living family does your oc currently have, if any?
Theo’s relationship with his parents has always been one of control. Theo doesn’t speak unless spoken to and falls in line at their every word. His father has plans for Theo to join him in his business and his mother begrudgingly allows it, though she would have rather had him following in her footsteps. Theo’s parents see him as a tool… of which they’ve had to beat into proper shape. Theo grew up under the tender care of his childhood au pair while his parents focused on their careers and their status, and it was only when Theo became old enough that he could take care of himself that they sent away his au pair and decided it was their turn to step in. He’d experienced abuse at the hands of his parents before, but his au pair had shielded him from much more than he was ever even aware of. When his parents would leave him to his own devices he found solace in isolation. His mid-teens were when things got worse for him, but his parents weren’t as physical with him past that as he’d learned to behave how they wanted. Now as an adult he’s no longer under their roof but still comes when they call on him. He’s desperate for their affection and approval, of which he never sees.
77. Does your oc like to wear any particular accessories? Hats, jewelry, scarves, etc.?
Theo likes to wear jewelry. He always has a pair of earrings on and will occasionally throw on a necklace. He doesn’t have any particular set he prefers to wear, but he does go for gold more than silver.
78. How socially skilled is your oc? Are they good at understanding social cues? How charismatic are they?
Theo’s actually very charismatic without trying to be and when he does intentionally turn on the charm (mostly when his parents are requiring him to be at their little soirées) he becomes irresistible. Being a moth caught in his light is… blissful. He picks up on social cues without breaking a sweat and is very good at playing along when he needs to.
But, on a personal level, Theo lacks a social life. He has the people he associates with at parties, but he doesn’t view them as his friends (even though they are…) and doesn’t communicate with them outside of the clubs they go to (even though they try to keep in contact with him). When he doesn’t have to play pretend for his parents, he’s actually pretty hard to get along with and most people resort to watching him from afar. He’s still charming, mind you, but he’s not… um, nice, exactly.
79. For what reason would your oc turn into a villain? And if they’re already a villain, vice-versa?
Honestly… Theo’s been put through a lot and he’s still good at his core, so I can’t imagine there’s anything that could turn him into a villain… that’s just not who he is.
80. What is your oc’s handwriting like? How easy is it to read? Can they write/read cursive?
Theo’s handwriting is even and strong. He doesn’t waste time by adding any extravagant details and has a print style that is consistent from letter to letter. He writes in print almost exclusively, but he does use cursive when he’s writing more formal letters. His cursive is similar to his print in that it’s written with a heavy hand and each stroke is dark and thick.
81. How good is your oc at drawing? What is their preferred art medium, and what is their artstyle like?
Theo’s never really sat down to draw before… or, at least, not since he was a child. Nevertheless, I do think he’d be good at it if he took the time to practice for a year or two. Theo puts his all into studying, so I imagine he’d work tirelessly at it. He’d do those one-drawing-a-day challenges and he’d push himself to think outside of the box. His art would be incredibly creative… I wish he’d allow himself that.
82. What would be your oc’s ultimate dream vacation? Where would they go? Who would they take with them? What would they do?
Theo doesn’t have an “ultimate dream vacation” in his back pocket… like, there’s nothing he fantasizes about. He can’t even think of a concrete destination that he’d want to go for a vacation. He would just get stressed trying to think of something and then he’d freak out about how far behind it’d put him academically… it’d ripple out to the rest of his responsibilities and he’d be lost. He can’t let that happen.
83. What is your oc’s favorite trait about themselves? What about their least liked? What would others like and dislike the most about your oc?
I’ve been thinking this over a lot, because, y’know, Theo really doesn’t like himself. He has a serious amount of self-loathing pulling him down, so it’s hard really coming up with anything he likes about himself. But I think Theo might actually like how perceptive he is, because it’s what keeps him safe. I’m not saying it’s his favorite thing, because that implies he’s got other traits he really likes and that’s really not the case. As for his least liked trait, I think Theo thinks his desires are sticky and pathetic and horrible.
In general, I think most people find Theo’s magnetism to be, well, very alluring. The combination of the way Theo carries himself and speaks has an appeal that draws people in. He’s interesting. At times he’s all sharp edges and closed off whereas other times he’s all blurry and open. As for what people dislike about him, it’s most likely how dismissive he is when you get off on the wrong foot with him.
Matthias in particular loves how intelligent and wry Theo is… and he actually likes how dismissive Theo can be with people. Really, he just likes everything.
84. Is your oc more masculine, feminine, androgynous, or something else entirely?
I think Theo’s pretty masculine, though he does wear some androgynous clothing on occasion.
85. What would history remember your oc for? How would they become famous? Or are they the sort that would really only be appreciated long after their death?
In the Echthroi universe, Theo isn’t someone who seeks the spotlight. However, that’s certainly something his parents want for him… hm. I think he’s well known in the upper echelons of his parents’ circle for his intelligence, his manners, and his arresting appearance. I think he’s also famous on his campus… I think a lot of people would like to covet Theo. I don’t think Theo would ever become proper famous, though… like, I have a really hard time even conceptualizing fame for him, just like I have a hard time seeing that for Matthias.
86. What would someone assume about your oc based on their appearance? Would those assumptions be correct?
Hm… on appearance alone, I think Theo gives off a sort of cool elegance. I think he seems doleful and… honestly, a little intimidating. He’s gorgeous, so… you have to be very confident to approach him. Most people would assume he’s dismissive and stuck-up… that he’s quiet… flirtatious…
I think he definitely does give the cold shoulder a lot of the time and he’s not very talkative, so those would be true. He’s not stuck-up, though… he does keep himself at a distance, but it’s not from some kind of arrogance or self-importance, but rather because he’s desperate to keep himself safe. He’s also only flirty when he’s intoxicated and it’s more reactive than pursuant.
87. What are some of your oc’s physical weak spots? What about emotional/moral ones?
Theo is weak to any kind of affection that’s all soft and sweet. He’s weak to being kissed, to being bitten, to fingers grazing behind his knees, to any kind of touch along his inner thighs. His skin gets sensitive when he’s touched and touched and touched. Emotionally, he’s weak to anger or violence. Morally, he’s weak to his own behaviors and can be unthinkingly cruel or hurtful without just cause. He’s weak to his parents.
88. Does your oc hold grudges? For how long? Does your oc have any rivals?
Theo will hold a grudge until his very last breath. He is very judgmental and forms all these little notions about people before they’ve even spoken a word to him… and then that influences every interaction they have with him afterward. So, you can be nice to Theo, but if he makes a snap judgment about you that’s unfavorable, then he’s going to blow you off. Is he wrong in the judgments he makes? Well… okay, so, not really? Theo is very good at reading people and there are very few times he’s wrong.
That said, Theo's grudges are only the petty, meaningless kind. When it comes to the people who really, truly deserve it, Theo is frustratingly forgiving. Or, not even forgiving, exactly, but rather... he just doesn't acknowledge the real wrongs that've been done to him.
89. What does your oc’s laugh sound like? How often do they laugh? Are they easily amused?
Oh, an angel’s choir. No, I’m kidding… kind of.
Theo’s laugh is very hard to come by because he doesn’t have very much to laugh about. He doesn’t even smile—like, really, truly smile—often. Theo’s pretty much stressed out and exhausted at all times. The only time he’s loosened up is when he’s using drugs to numb everything.
When Theo’s using, he smiles all lopsided and watery, but there’s no light behind his eyes. He’s put together all wrong, you know? He doesn’t really laugh, but he makes these quiet huffing noises when something’s funny to him, often a private joke he’s told himself in his own head.
When he’s sober and he laughs… it’s kind of devastating. The sound of his laugh is similar to his voice, all light and captivating, but there’s this quality to it… this unbridled feeling that Theo almost never shows… that catches everyone off guard. He laughs almost like a child, gasping with it and full-bodied. In that same way, Theo’s happiness and joy is clumsy and innocent. There’s no artifice to it, no rehearsed grace, nothing held back… he laughs until there’s tears in his eyes… and then he just starts crying.
90. Does your oc have any objects they could never give up? Why is it so important to them? Do they have any family heirlooms?
Theo’s deeply attached to his things so there’s a lot that he wouldn’t want to give up. If I had to pick just one object… hm… I think it’s a tie between his memory journal and the perfume his mother gave him when he was a teenager. His memory journal is what’s keeping him together at this point and he relies on it a lot. As for the perfume, it was a gift from his mother after he was accepted into Yale. He’d never be able to part with it (despite it not being to his taste) because it’s the only gift she’s ever given him.
He’s not in possession of any family heirlooms, but if he were then he’d worry himself sick over them. He’d be terrified of something happening to them and being responsible for it. God… he’d be a mess.
91. What is your oc’s typical posture like? Do they slouch, or stand straight? How much space do they usually take up, both physically and figuratively?
Theo has a respectable upright posture and doesn’t slouch at all. If he’s around his family he’ll stand rigidly with his hands behind his back, holding onto one of his wrists as he listens to the conversations around him. On his own, he tries to keep his hands down at his sides but often finds himself moving to cross his arms over his chest. He doesn’t take up much space physically and keeps himself rather contained, but figuratively speaking… well… Theo has a compelling presence and in that way he’s felt all around the room.
92. What trait does your oc appreciate or admire the most in others? Why?
I think Theo admires when people can just… exist with ease. That freedom he sees in others makes him feel envious and he wishes he had that for himself.
93. What is your oc’s preferred learning style? Observation, hands-on, instruction? Do they take notes or memorize?
Theo prefers to learn via instruction and direction. He wants to be able to read each step carefully and then double back when he needs to. He takes a ton of notes as he uses repetition to help him learn, so oftentimes he’ll go back over his own notes and write them out again.
94. Does your oc rely more on a logical or emotional mindset? What situations would this be the opposite?
I’d say Theo’s more on the logical side than the emotional side… but the way in which he uses logic does stem from an emotional place, if that makes sense? Deep down Theo is scared and just wants to keep himself safe, so he leans on logic more than emotions as he feels that emotions make him weak.
I think Theo’s walls come down in the face of genuine love and affection.
95. How is your oc about keeping someone else’s secret? Are they the gossiping type, or do they hold true on their promise to keep things quiet?
Theo’s someone who has a lot of secrets, so he’s very good at keeping them. I think he’d never want to break someone’s trust by gossiping. I mean, he also doesn't really have anyone he’d gossip to in the first place… still. He’d keep it to himself no matter what.
96. Describe your oc in three words. What three words would they use to describe themselves?
Oh, well… in order to describe him to others, I’d say Theo is reticent, touchy, and hungry at his core for something he hasn’t yet allowed himself to name (this isn’t one word, but you get it).
Theo has an unstable sense of self and has a very hard time understanding who he is, so when asked to describe himself he wouldn’t know what to say. Questions like this put him under a lot of stress… I think he’d dissociate just from being asked to try.
97. How old is your oc physically? How old are they in mental maturity? When are they most mature, and when are they the least?
Theo is in his early twenties (I don’t have an exact estimation for him, but somewhere between 21 at minimum and 24 at maximum). Mentally… there’s a lot of conflict and inconsistency there (intentionally done!). I’d say Theo is incredibly independent but he’s also financially reliant and emotionally dependent on his parents. He had to grow up at a very young age and in that sense he’s mature, but he also has a lot of childhood trauma and it’s definitely stunted him in some ways. I think Theo has… a very interesting mentality. He’s all over the place and he’s constantly at odds with his own self. There’s a lot going on with him at any given time. His mind is always racing.
98. Is your oc the type to have a lot of fairly good friends, have a small group of close friends, have one or two best friends, or have no friends at all? Who are they closest to?
Theo refuses to let people get close to him and believes himself to be unworthy of even platonic love, so no… he doesn’t have any friends. Or, rather, Theo doesn’t have anyone he thinks are his friends. In actuality, Theo has four friends that he’s picked up from his time clubbing. He doesn’t see them unless they’re in a party setting, so that might be why Theo views them as being mere acquaintances and nothing more… he puts his nightlife into a little box and tucks that box away in his mind.
99. What is your oc’s morning routine usually like? What do they eat for breakfast (if they have breakfast)? What time do they usually get up in the morning?
Theo wakes up and is kind of out of it for a few minutes. He lays in the bed and has to take stock of where he is first, because some mornings he finds himself in someone else’s bed. If he’s at someone else’s place, he’s dressed and out of there in under five minutes without so much as a goodbye. If he’s in his own home, he lays in bed for a while, staring without really seeing whatever’s in front of him. He gives himself those few minutes of peace and then he’s sluggishly pulling himself out of bed and getting ready for whatever’s on his schedule. He’s normally up by 7AM and doesn’t eat breakfast.
100. Does your character ever swear? How often? How vulgar is their swearing?
Theo swears occasionally but it’s not, like, in every sentence. He’s not particularly vulgar and instead just says the standard everyday swears. I think he says damn it under his breath more than anything.
#river dipping#ts4#theodore doe#echthroi#a burning house to live in#oc extras#s: echthroi#cw child abuse mention#cw drugs mention#MOVE OVER MATTHIAS TIME TO GET TO THE MAIN EVENT <3 hiiiiiiiiiiii theo *twirls hair*#it's to be expected due to the length of this (11.5k...) but we're learning a lot about theo here :)<3#rereading all of this while listening to his playlist got me down to song number 18 which is soda by nothing but thieves (tho i did end#up stopping to edit some things here and there) in case anyone wants to try and beat my time 🏁#but anyway. it feels so good to finally be done! i've been staring at these for nearly two weeks and doing next to nothing else#it's been crazy... expect me to me soooo annoying in everyone's activity feeds now btw... like i'm gonna start catching up either later#today or tomorrow depending on if i start feeling better soon (...i didn't mention it i don't think but i've been sick the last three days)#(pretty sure it's bc of the horrible air quality from the fires up north and my drafty house... love that <3)#but again i'll try to space out my catching up when i get to it
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Harley D. Dixon 1
• Gen Tags. Found family, Daddy issues, Hurt and comfort, Gore.
• Summary. Harley D. Dixon is a tough yet sweet little girl who until the dead started eating the living, thought she had seen it all.
Alongside a mismatched group of survivors in rural Georgia, Harley and her Dad are forced to leave their small life behind and learn how to survive all over again through the horrors of the apocalypse.
An amazing edit inspired by this story! (Cred to Cora_Line99)
Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board!
Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!
📖Chapter List.
❤️Cross-Posted from Ao3.
Author's Note. Here we gooo! Argh, I'm so excited.
I've been wanting to write something like this for a long, long time. I've read just about every 'Daryl has a daughter' story out there, and now I've finally got my own to share. I just love Daryl, and Daryl with a kid is a whole other thing. We all know he wouldn't be the perfect parent, so you bet I'm gonna play right into that. He's gonna swear, he's gonna be strict, and he's gonna mess up. As for Harley (Yes, as in the motorcycle brand), I love her too. So ready to write her.
This story will cover the general plot of the show. To keep things fresh, I've made sure that almost every canon scene has undergone at least one small change. Plus, of course, many new scenes. Occasionally, I'll make bigger changes just to keep you on your feet! Nobody's safe! I'm also gonna be expanding on all the characters. And lastly — FOUND FAMILY! Piles and piles and piles of found family, eventually. I live for found family.
Please enjoy reading! :)
My Uncle Merle died today.
I'm sitting in a crinkly green camping chair, watching embers die.
I don't wanna think about my Uncle right now, so I think about something else.
The fire was built last night by Glenn and Morales. Then Lori came along this morning very quietly and made it alive again with logs and wads of notebook paper. Thinking about facts is easy. It's like sucking on a plain candy that tastes like nothing. There's a navy-blue blanket across my lap with three holes in it, perfect for nibbling, poking, and ripping. Dale gave it to me when the cold settled in this afternoon. He told me he reckons it's around June, as he covered my shoulders, which used to be his niece's birthday.
He says she looked a little like me. That means she's dead. So many people are dead, now.
A thin log in the campfire cracks and tumbles over after trying to stay upright all morning. I hope I don't look like that log.
I can hear Officer Rick approaching. My stomach becomes a stone.
I can tell it's Rick because he's got one of them power walks that you can hear coming from a mile away, which I think makes him pretty stupid. He's loud, and loud is dangerous, and dangerous is stupid. My Dad's not like that. Unless he's angry or running, ain't nobody hearing my Dad coming; especially not no squirrels.
He's almost as big as my Grandpappy Dixon, who people used to say was as big as a house, and he wears super heavy boots from a hunting store near our house — but he's still not loud, or dangerous, or stupid. Not like Officer Rick.
"Hey, Harley."
I think I hate Officer Rick. I think I hate everyone.
And I think I might be crying now, too. I focus on twirling the blanket strings around my finger so I have something very simple to think about, which is that it hurts real bad when I twist it tight. I see Rick crouch down in front of me. He takes a while to say anything else, and it's prolly 'cause he's tryna be real careful, so he don't make me cry even more.
If my Dad weren't out hunting, he'd prolly slap Rick and everybody else that's tried badgering me today dead for tryna do his job for him. I feel like, just by sitting here, I'm disobeying him. Rick ain't my Daddy.
"We, uh..." He clears his throat. "Me and Lori, and some other folks are uh... Well, we're all a little worried about you, honey, okay?"
I imagine a small group of folks gathered by the RV right now, watching me and Rick; wondering if he's gonna be the one to get through to me.
I'm worried for when my Daddy comes back. When he finds out about Uncle Merle, he's gonna be fuming. He's gonna be like one of them cartoon characters with the bright red faces and the smoke comin' outta their ears, stomping all around, and he's prolly gonna kill somebody. It's prolly gonna be Rick. He always told me cops are bastard liars, and that they can't help us.
I look up at Rick. Yep, I've been crying.
Rick's all blurry, but I can still make out his ugly Sheriff's badge and his scary blue eyes and his frowning eyebrows that look like clenched fists, and I can tell he's been waiting to be the one to talk to me. I bet he thinks it makes him better than everyone else; better than my Uncle Merle, who he left to die just 'cause he ain't like him. I wanna kick Rick right in the face. I think he knows this, but he doesn't move.
"First off, I wanna say that I'm sorry about what happened to your Uncle Merle." Rick says all nice and gentle.
Nothin' happened to him.
It weren't no freak accident, which is what Uncle Merle used to say happened to my Momma.
Rick killed him.
"I know he meant a lot to you. And I'm sorry. If I had'a known he had a niece to come back to, maybe I woulda been a little wiser with my decision makin'. But Harley," He tilts his head and puts a hand on my knee for this part. "You gotta know, like I know, that your Uncle was a danger to us all."
There's a little angry parasite inside of me. It's been growing and growing ever since the group came back from Atlanta, and I couldn't find my Uncle Merle in the crowd. I've never noticed my Uncle Merle so much than when I realised he wasn't there. It was like there was the wrong amount of space left in the air and Rick was taking up the too much of it. Ever since the cars showed up, everything has been wrong, wrong, wrong.
Ever since Rick showed up.
"If I hadn't stepped in when and how I did," Rick says, "Your Uncle wouldda gotten us all in a lotta trouble."
Another log crumbles in the campfire. My finger aches and pulses around the string.
That hungry little parasite — hungry for Rick to hurt like I'm hurting, needing it more than anything — makes me tell him, "I wish he did." And again, because it feels good. Rick becomes even more blurry, as my voice makes an embarrassing hicking noise. "I wish you died."
I expect to be hit. That's what happens sometimes, when little girls don't know their place.
Tellin' adults I want them dead — That ain't my place. And I know it. I just don't care.
My Uncle Merle wasn't a danger, he was just Uncle Merle; Has been since I could talk. He used to feed me bits of his sandwich out on the deck back at home, like the tomato, 'cause he ain't like the taste. He used to fix my bike when it was broken. He used to make sure I was the first one to open presents at Christmas, and help me wrestle the wrapping when there was too much tape. He used to pull my wobbly baby teeth out for me and let me outside without shoes. He wasn't mean, or bad, or loud, or dangerous, or stupid; at least not always. He wasn't the one that got my Momma killed. He was good. And now he'd dead.
If someone had to die, I wish it had'a been Rick — Stupid, noisy, idiot Rick who ain't shed one single tear after what he done to my Uncle Merle.
I wanna get hit. I want him to hit me so bad that I'm allowed to hit him back.
"Okay." Rick says, and I can't breathe.
I feel like everything goes silent throughout camp, like the chairs and the cars and the people are all holding their breaths like I am. He actually looks a little sad, which feels really, really bad, because I wanna be angry.
"Okay. That's okay."
But as I think about my Uncle Merle, and the tomatoes, and my old bike, and what Christmas used to feel like, and my Daddy, and how he ain't even know about Merle yet, I realise I'm just really, really sad.
I can't even see Rick anymore, my eyes are so watery. My whole body hurts from being sad. I feel like I'm sick and I need to go to the doctor, but I don't even know what for. There aren't even any doctors here. Just two bastard liar cops, some campers, and a space where my Uncle Merle should be.
I think, after a while, Rick leaves.
My Dad still keeps his wallet.
It's in a backpack under his sleeping cot. He says that everything inside that bag will keep us alive some day, if we ever need to leave the quarry camp. He said I need to know exactly where it is so that I can grab it if he can't. He showed me everything the night we got here, because he forced me to, because it's important. The other kids don't learn stuff like this from their parents. It makes me feel smart. I'm in on a secret. He showed me the bug spray, which keeps our skin healthy from bug diseases, and he showed me the flashlight, which has two batteries and a big black button. He showed me the compass, the box of matches, the big knife, the little knife, the rope, and the map. It's like a Jenga tower. If we lose even one thing from the backpack; everything topples, and we die — I die. You gotta listen t'me, chicken. My Daddy's always been like this.
But the wallet made no sense.
We don't gotta pay taxes no more, like Merle said. I don't know what taxes are, except they're bad, and gone, and nobody liked them anyway. And I saw my Dad burn all his money in a campfire one night, so it can't be that.
It's the pictures, Dad told me. He flipped it open like a book, and we looked at 'em together on top of his sleeping bag. I felt like crying for a second because we forgot all my storybooks when we left our house, but Daddy hates it when I cry, so I dried up. Crying is for babies, and I'm a big girl. He showed me a photo of an actual baby, and after he touched the baby's face with his fingertip, he said the baby was me. I didn't think I could look like that. He stopped talking for a while. I listened to the cicadas in the trees to pass the time while he touched the photo. Then it was bedtime.
I'm looking at the photo now, waiting for him to get back.
I was a very pink baby. I was only the size of his forearm, which in the photo, hasn't been tattooed yet. The tattoo of my name is missing, which goes up his wrist in curly letters. Harley Davidson Dixon. It's the name of a motorcycle. The tattoo of the skull and the bleeding angel are missing, too. He's fixing my baby blanket around my chin. I guess he's been doing that since the day I was born. Every night, at least up until last week, my Dad tucks me into bed and sings me the same song. Hush little baby, don't say a word. Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird. I like his voice when he sings to me. Usually, he's yelling, or grumblin', but in those twenty seconds before I have to go to sleep, and nobody else is listening, he's softly whispering the lyrics to me, and touching on my ears and my cheeks. In the photo, he's crying down into his smiling mouth. That's something he doesn't do anymore.
The next photo is of us at the zoo. I know it was taken on one of the weekends I was at my Dad's house, because my Momma's not in this one. Just my Dad and two of his friends, I think, who are throwing rock star hands in the air. I'm wearing a black shirt with a videogame character on it that my Dad likes, and brown pants. I'm sitting on my Dad's hip as we pose in front of three giant elephants. My Dad's got a tiny purple backpack over his shoulder that makes him look sorta funny. It used to be mine. I'm looking at the elephant's long, silly-straw trunk as it tries to sniff us, but my Daddy's lookin' at me. I wish I remembered this day.
The third photo is a school photo with a swirly blue background. I remember this one. My Momma did my hair that day.
I know why he keeps his wallet, now. Just like how we need the bug spray, and the matches, and the rope, and the knives, and the map, and the flashlight to stay alive — I think my Dad needs these photos. They won't keep him warm or stop bugs from chewing on him, but he needs them.
I shove the wallet back where I found it, 'cause I'm not meant to be goin' through my Dad's things.
My Dad comes back while I'm vomiting under a tree.
At first, he doesn't see me. He calls for me to come get my little butt over there, so I can help him and Uncle Merle stew up some rabbits for dinner but when he hears me retch, he comes running over. I hear his crossbow drop and some more people call after him.
One minute, Lori and Amy are holding back my hair and patting my shoulders the best they can, and the next, my Daddy's forcing his way in. I'm rocking and I'm swaying like I'm on a life raft in the ocean, and I can hear Rick's voice and then Shane's and then Dale's. My Dad grabs the back of my neck and squeezes it, the way Lori and Amy would never know how to do, and tells me to lean forward some more. It works. I vomit up a chunky puddle of peaches and jerky into the dirt.
Then, I'm empty, and I'm crying — crying hard — into my Dad's lap.
"Someone wanna tell me what the Hell's goin' on here?" He snarls at whoever's around.
Feels like half the camp is here.
"How 'bout we all just try—" Shane's suggesting, but my Dad cuts him off.
"How 'bout ya'll just spit it out? And where the Hell's my brother?"
That makes me bury deeper into my Dad's legs, moaning and hiccupping. He puts a hand over my head. He's clocked the problem.
"Where the Hell's my damn brother?"
"Look, Daryl," Shane levels, "I'm just gonna come out and say it, alright? There was a problem in Atlanta."
My Dad's panting, now. "What fuckin' 'problem'?"
"Listen—"
"He dead?" Underneath me, my Dad's muscles are lurching and stopping, lurching and stopping, like he wants so much to just jump up and knock Shane to the ground, but he won't bring himself to leave me. The camp has gone completely silent.
Shane stammers. I've never heard Shane stammer. "We're— We're not sure."
The silence just keeps on goin' and goin' and goin', and somehow, it's even scarier than the yelling.
"There's no easy way to say this," Rick says, voice lowered. I wonder what my Dad looks like; if I was right about the cartoon thing.
Dad presses my head further into his stomach. "Who're you?"
"Rick Grimes."
"'Rick Grimes'." He spits, like it's an insult. It is. Bastard cop liar. "You got sum' you wanna tell me?"
"Your brother was a danger to us all." Lies Rick. "So I handcuffed him on a roof; Hooked him to a piece of metal. He's still there."
After he says this, something in the air must have changed; something must have snapped without even makin' a sound, because Lori's whispering to me that I should follow her back to camp, like we're running out of time. She tries to pull me away, but I kick her; kick her hard, in the shin. She tries again. I realise she's trying to separate me from my Dad. Then, I realise he's sorta shaking. Lurching, stopping, lurching stopping. Silence, silence.
"Lemme get this straight." Dad whispers, and it's not the nice kind, like when he sings. "You're tellin' me that you handcuffed my brother to a roof."
Glenn's pulling at me now, too. Nobody else moves a muscle.
"And you left him there?!"
This time, he lurches and he doesn't stop. Glenn catches me as I'm flung from my Daddy's hip, and he passes me off to Lori as Dad goes lunging at Rick. The brown pebbles go flying up into the air. My Dad tackles Rick at the waist, and they crash into the leaves and the twigs, and his fist — The one with my birth date tattooed on each knuckle — goes smack, smack, smack, into Rick's cheek. There's yelling; scrambling. Glenn and Shane pull my Dad off of Rick, and that smacking sound stops. Dad beats Shane offa him and then, —
"Watch the knife!" T-Dog yells. Now there's a swishing sound, and grunting sounds, and I was right — My Daddy's gonna kill Rick.
My Daddy's killed someone before. He did it on accident, 'cause he got so angry that he didn't stop until the guy was dead and gone, which means that it was aggravated manslaughter. It was in the afternoon, just like it is right now, and I was playin' in the front yard in the sprinklers. My Dad and Uncle Merle were in the open garage, smoking and poking at their bikes with tools. Ronnie lived two trailers down. I was small, and easy to pick up, so I don't remember much, but Ronnie snatched me up right there in the yard. My Daddy says he was gon' take me. But he didn't let him. Ronnie got chased into the woods, and for two days, my Daddy and Uncle Merle searched for him. Then they beat him so bad his Momma ain't recognise him when the ambulance people dragged him out in a big black bag, and the cops took my Daddy away while the sun rose. I wasn't allowed to see him for four and a half years.
I need my Dad. Suddenly, I'm shrieking at him to stop, even though I want Rick dead so bad. By now, Shane's got my Dad in a chokehold up against a tree. Are he and Rick allowed to take my Daddy away? Lori and — I think that's Amy — are shushin' me, but I just keep hittin' on them and shouting.
I writhe in the dirt. "Stop! Daddy!"
"Damn pigs!" Dad growls. "You're stressin' out my kid, now! Lemme the Hell go!"
Shane laughs. "Nah, I think it's better if I don't." Then he turns to Lori, because what my Dad said is true. "Get Harley out of here."
I don't let her move me when she tries.
Dad struggles. "Chokehold's illegal, bastard!"
"You can file a complaint later." Shane scoffs. "We got all day here."
Rick steals my Dad's knife off the ground and gets in his face. His cheek is all red and purple. The fight's over. "What I did was not on a whim," He tells my Dad straight. "Your brother does not work and play well with others. I did what had to be done in the moment, to keep us all alive."
He's lyin'. He's lyin' again. My Uncle Merle chopped these people's firewood and brought them meat. He worked well.
My Dad shoots out a foot to try hit Rick in the crotch. He misses. Shane pushes his face harder into the tree.
"It's not Rick's fault." T-Dog holds up his hands, coming close. "It's mine. I had the key. I dropped it."
"You couldn't pick it up?" Dad sasses.
"It fell in a drain." T-Dog serves up this answer like it means anything at all. I hate him.
"If that's 'posed to make me feel better, it don't."
"Well, maybe this will." T-Dog's lookin' at me, now, too. "The door to the roof — I locked it with a padlock so the geeks couldn't get to him. There's a good chance he's still alive."
I heard this all before, when all them people kept coming up to me at the campfire. Lori told me to get some food in my stomach; the peaches and jerky. Shane tried to make me go play with Carl. T-Dog said sorry over and over again. Dale gave me the blanket. Rick made me cry. I know how this goes, though. Gettin' someone killed and killin' them with your actual hands are the same thing. I know that.
"To Hell with all'a ya'll!"
He shakes Shane off and beelines for me. He takes me from Lori with bloodied hands — Rick's blood — and I let him yank me by the back of my shirt to my feet, and I fall into his chest when he crouches. His breath is heavy on my neck. Even his skin is hot.
Lori's pale as an egg. I think she's scared of my Dad.
He takes a big breath, stands up, and drags me by the hand back to our tent without sayin' another word.
#the walking dead#twd fanfiction#twd#daryl dixon#daryl dixon twd#daryl dixon fanfiction#daddy issues#rick grimes#fanfic#ao3 fanfic#daryl dixon daughter#parent daryl dixon
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JJK Miscellaneous Headcanons: Kento Nanami
Miscellaneous headcanons about Kento Nanami. Single character because I have so many thoughts.
For more characters please see my tag 'JJK Miscellaneous HC'
Tags:
Warnings: angst interspersed with humor.
Kento Nanami
A very reserved and quiet man. He's developed a habit of failing to find agency in his own life. Especially after the death of Haibara.
Self loathing hidden behind a professional charm. He knows he enables a system that sends children to their deaths. He would give his life for anyone younger than him on any day.
Trolley Problem Answer: Pull the lever.
Kento is a man of routine. Incredibly strict on a week to week basis. If his routine is interrupted it is very capable of ruining his whole week.
A firm believer in the ends justify the means. His own morals are flexible for the sake of the greater good. There is a limit to this however.
He does not see Geto's defection as part of the greater good. Even if his eventual goal of a world free of cursed spirits is a noble one.
Quickly disillusioned to the world around him as a teenager. Did not come from a sorcerer family and even before learning both options were shit, did not have high hopes for his future.
Kento did not plan to become a grade one sorcerer. He didn't think he was capable of it even. Haibara's death forced him to readjust, seeking his own strength to protect those younger than him.
He is lenient towards those born into sorcery. But thinks those that willingly chose it are idiots.
Back in school he used to keep in touch with Megumi and Tsumiki because he had no faith in Gojo's ability to not accidentally let those kids die.
A big foodie. Going out to places and cooking. One of the few things that make adult life enjoyable is a damn good burger every once in a while.
Social smoker. It was a habit he picked up to fit in at the office. It's not a habit he's proud of.
Doesn't understand why people like Ino and Yuji look up to him. Despite that the last thing he could ever do is let them down.
He's tried and failed to pick up so many hobbies. He enjoyed poetry for a while but work and being an adult drained him.
In terms of martial combat, excluding techniques, Nanami is stronger than Gojo.
Cat person, but would actually prefer less standard pets such as ferrets or rodents.
Big football (soccer) fan. Particularly playing it at least.
Would have a Pinterest board for his dream wedding. Venue, decoration, attire. He would rather die than anyone know that though.
He's actually just a bit of a romantic.
Highly emotional when not on a job. Quiet about it, but a crier for sure. Quick to regain his composure as soon as he needs it.
Photographer. He loves pictures of things he enjoys. Views, nice meals, a day with people he cares about. He looks into phones entirely based off their camera specs.
Sings in the shower. In fact the shower is one of his favorite places. It's quiet it's comfortable and there's no one around to judge him.
Reached out to Satoru to become a sorcerer again shortly before Geto's death. He was still doing some independent work from time to time before that even if Business Man was his main identity.
Prefers tea to coffee.
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＊ 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐌 / 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐍 . ＊ independent , selective , private . ː 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧 from rockstar's 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 ➁ . penned by kat , she/her , 28. a study in ː the reclamation of the self , preservation of the moral code in sedition , and the perpetuation of circumstantial change .
i always knew you had to be willin' to die to even do this job . but , i don't want to push my chips forward and go out and meet somethin' i don't understand . a man would have to put his soul at hazard . he'd have to say : ' o.k., i'll be part of this world . '
⁰¹⋆ carrd. ⁰²⋆ pinterest. ⁰³⋆ spotify. ⁰⁴⋆ prompts. ⁰⁵⋆ hcs.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤtruncated rules under the cut.
⁰¹⋆ on followers + following . no minors please . in fact , i'd be more comfortable with people over the age of 21 due to my own age . i am not interested in keeping a large following of people i do not interact with , or who do not at least like my posts every once in a while . whenever i'm on the dash , i try to do the same courtesy . also , sometimes i don't keep up with developments in the rpc , so if you ever see me interacting with anyone who has been proven to be problematic in the past or even recently , please let me know so that i can cut it off .
⁰²⋆ on shipping . like everyone , i love shipping , but i'm not someone wants to jump into it without proper development beforehand . i prioritise and often populate my blogs with primarily platonic or non-ship-oriented threads . i practice ship exclusivity , which means i will only ship with one version of a character , and i expect the same courtesy . if your muse ships with another arthur , unless you are a very very close friend , i will not ship him with that muse , period . [ … ] on a related note , please don't ask to write smut if we barely know each other and / or haven't written any "regular" threads together . i do write smut with those i ship with , mostly on discord , but pwp doesn't interest me at all , so save us both time and don't ask . i'd write 10 fluff threads over a smut thread any day . my thoughts on the matter . i am also not open to shipping if we don't at least write threads on here . again , i am not interested in immediately shipping if we don't have something built up first , and it makes me feel like people don't appreciate it if they don't at least try to answer asks that i send or write some form of thread on here .
⁰³⋆ IMPORTANT . i understand that arthur is a canon character and everyone's interpretations of him are different . but please do not impose what you think arthur would do or how he would react on my interpretation . please also do not try to ship without first plotting out a thorough friendship between them , because both i and arthur need chemistry in order for that to work . otherwise i personally will not be invested . arthur is demisexual and won't form any sexual attraction for anyone until he has a strong connection with them , and no , just saying "they've been friends" is not good enough for me .
⁰⁴⋆ on content . triggering content will be present on this blog , due to the nature of the game and my own writing . i tag all my triggers with "trigger //" for reference . most importantly , there will be mentions of terminal illness // here .
⁰⁵⋆ on activity . i work a full time job , monday-friday . please respect that in regards to my activity . my other blog is penddraig . hi . :)
⁰⁶⋆ if you could like this post after reading my rules , i would appreciate it . this is not mandatory , for those of you who are anxious about it . i just like knowing and i like a little interaction . i hope my rules don't sound too harsh to all of you . i promise i'm not mean !! i'm just old , i've been in the rpc for a long time , and want to nip issues i've encountered in the bud before they start .
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the house of snow (7) ✧ coriolanus snow
the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3
pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader
series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his.
chapter summary: snow is pushing his luck with you, but you will not let his attempted slights go by.
word count: 3,004
series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later
chapter warnings?: breaking wedding superstitions, you and snow get in an argument, jealous!coryo, pet name (petal), not proofread
“Oh, you actually look like a bride!” your mother exclaimed as Tigris led you into the sitting room.
“She has always looked like my bride,” Snow said.
When you received word that Tigris had finished making your wedding gown and was ready to start the fitting process, Snow had insisted that it be done at the palace. Another form of control over you, you were sure.
Tigris, who was helping you gather the skirts, reached over and squeezed your hand, careful not to let Snow see. You did not know what had caused Tigris’s and Snow’s relationship to become so strained. You remembered, at the Academy, that Snow and Tigris were quite close. At least, as close as Snow would ever allow a person to be to him. He was very good at keeping people at arm’s length. The only person that he truly wanted in his inner circle, it seemed, was you.
“Is there not some saying about it being bad luck for a groom to see the bridge in her gown before the wedding day?”
Of course, you were fine with a healthy smidge of bad luck. This entire ordeal was doused in it. But it also annoyed Snow any time you tried to deny him something, and that was joy enough for you.
“I won’t come to the final fitting,” Snow said.
“I don’t think you understand how luck works.”
Snow hummed. He rose from his seat on the sofa and crossed over to you. When he reached for your hand, you allowed him to take it. Tigris took a few quick steps away from you. He lifted your joined hands above your head, and you began to twirl. He hummed again.
“I do not need luck when I have a bride as beautiful as you,” he said. To Tigris, he said, “You have outdone yourself this time.”
“Thank you, Coriolanus,” Tigris said.
Snow’s lips curved up into a smirk. “Hmm, see how easy it is? Calling someone by their name?”
“Tigris is your cousin. She is family. It is not inappropriate for her to call you by your name.” You looked back at Tigris. Guilt settled in the pit of your stomach for placing her in the middle of this dispute, but Snow started it. You were smart enough to finish it. “You are an incredibly impatient man, Snow. We are weeks away from the wedding. Are you truly that restless for me to say your name that you cannot wait that long? My, it’s a wonder anyone thought you were disciplined enough to be King.”
Tigris tugged on your skirt, trying to urge you to be silent. You wondered if she had seen Snow when his anger was at its worst. Was that why they were no longer close? Because she had looked into the beast’s eyes and was terrified by what she saw? Perhaps you would be better off holding your tongue. Yet, a part of you liked this challenge. You enjoyed discovering new buttons you could push.
But Snow only laughed, and that alone was infuriating. He looked at his cousin and remarked, “She always keeps me on my toes.”
Tigris’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “Well, I suppose someone must keep you in line.”
“Of which, she is an expert.”
What a terrible expert you must be then. Had you ever kept Snow in line? You had certainly told him off before, made certain he knew how little you wanted this kind of life. But to keep him in line? The thought was laughable. The man was King. The only way he could lose his power was to something so particularly heinous the Electors would be forced to remove him, or if he died.
Snow reached for your dress, his thumb running over the embroidered designs. His smirk slowly became a smile as he traced one of the roses. “Do you think you could add more of these?” he asked Tigris.
“Of course. I’ll go draw up some more designs,” Tigris said.
“Can I take this off now?” you asked. At Snow’s nodding, you turned, Tigris gathering up your skirts so that it would not drag across the floor.
You and Tigris quickly reached the room where she had been helping you dress. It was not far from the drawing room. Irritation had been bubbling up inside you the entire short walk. It drove you insane how much control Snow had over you now. How was this fair? Why did you have to be a little puppet that Snow could pull the strings on?
“He drives me mad,” you said. Perhaps you shouldn’t admit that to his cousin, one of his only family members, but if there was anyone who could understand, you figured it would be Tigris.
“Coriolanus is a maddening sort of person,” Tigris admitted, shutting the door behind you once inside the room.
You could not stop yourself. If you could not understand Snow himself, you might gain some insight from his cousin. “Is that why you are no longer close?”
Tigris looked up at you, her pale eyes turning sad. “He changed. After he came back from his time with the Peacekeepers, I mean. Before, I was hopeful for the kind of man he could become. We…We had hard lives before all of this. Coriolanus would never let anyone know, of course. Too prideful. Too sure that he would get us out of ruin. He was successful in the end, but I think he lost a part of himself.”
Your brows pinched together. “Do you know what happened?”
Tigris shrugged. “No one does. He keeps that part of his life close to his chest. All I know is, when I saw him upon his return, he did not look like little Coryo anymore. He looked like his father.”
You had heard stories of Crassus Snow. He was once a friend of your fathers in their youth, but grown distant as Crassus became colder. It probably had something to do with the peasant uprisings. From your understanding, Crassus was as prideful as Snow. Perhaps more. When he was able to enlist, he quickly rose through the ranks until he was a general. He had the power of the army clenched in his fist. He might have won the war singlehandedly had he not been caught in a rebel trap.
“But…” Tigris paused. She shook her head. “Never mind.”
Well, that just couldn’t do. Tigris couldn’t just begin to put the pieces of Snow’s personality, his motivations, for you, and yank away one of the final pieces.
You reached for her hand. You gave it a gentle squeeze. “Please, tell me. I am going to marry him soon. Do I not deserve to know what I’m getting into?”
“Coriolanus is different now.”
“How do you mean?”
“He’s…kinder with you,” Tigris said as she skillfully undid the fastenings to your gown.
You stifled a snort. “That hardly means anything. A lion might let a gazelle run free, but that does not mean he is any less a beast.”
“You think I’m a beast?”
You fought the urge to jump. One might think you should have become accustomed to Snow’s sudden appearances. Yet, he always managed to catch you off guard. Instead of revealing your shock, you turned your head to where Snow stood in the now opened doorway. “Only a beast would interrupt an unmarried woman as she is undressing.”
Tigris grabbed your hands, pulling you behind the dressing screen. You maintained eye contact with Snow the entire way, careful to make sure he wouldn’t try to follow you. He already kissed you before the wedding. Who was to say he wouldn’t do something more heinous? Snow was very insistent that he could do with you as he pleased.
“Does it matter if you are unmarried when I am going to marry you regardless?”
You decided to not deign his question a response. How many times had you had this conversation with him? Telling him to be respectful of societal expectations, him deciding he knew best. Oh, was this what your life would him would be like? Would he ever give you peace? Maybe if you gave him a few children…Though, you supposed, Snow would want more than a few. He seemed the sort of man that desired a dynasty. A legacy that would be firmly cemented. That could only be done if you played your part to the letter. And if you didn’t…
“Why are you here? Besides to be a Peeping Tom.”
You heard Snow chuckle. “Clever little thing, aren’t you? I came to ask if you would accompany me to the opera tomorrow evening.”
“Quite a late invitation, don’t you think? Perhaps I have a date with a suitor.”
Tigris’s head jerked up as she helped you step out of the wedding gown. She shook her head. Well, too late now.
“You would not.” Oh, you could hear the poison leeching into his tone. This was fun. (At least, for now. You imagined he would make you regret this impropriety later.)
“You seem so convinced that I am going to leave you for Sejanus. Perhaps I have decided to actually give you a reason to be upset.” Tigris helped you into the gown you wore to the palace, trying to put it on you as quickly as possible. You really needed to wait to pick these fights until you were alone. You hated to make her collateral. “It is not very becoming, you know, to be so jealous.”
When you turned to step out from behind the privacy screen, you jumped. Snow was already standing there, his face an amusing shade of red. His usually pale blue eyes were much, much darker. You weren’t sure you could see any blue at all.
“Take it back.”
“You know what the truth is, Snow. Why should I have to keep repeating it? I am your fiancé. We are going to be married by the end of the month. I have promised you to be on my best behavior. That would include, I assume, not leaving you for another. And yet…The simplest of teasing turns you into a mad man. It was all in jest. A joke about a last minute invitation.”
“It was last minute because I was arranging for a private performance for ourselves and our loved ones.”
You blinked.
Oh.
Oh.
Well, you hadn’t expected that.
“I beg your pardon?”
Snow did not look away from you, never breaking eye contact. He stepped closer. You could feel his breath. Somewhere behind you, you could hear Tigris shuffling around. “You still enjoy the opera, don’t you?”
“How did you know I—?” You shook your head. That was not important at the moment. “Yes. I do, very much so. I…Thank you. That is uncharacteristically kind of you.”
Snow snorted, looking away for a moment as if to collect himself. But when he turned his gaze on you again, his eyes were softer. Back to their usual pale blue. “You cannot even compliment me without an insult.”
“It is so easy to insult you. It is fun to see what will burrow the furthest under your skin.”
He hummed. “For now, let us move on to lighter conversations. Who would you like to invite? So that I may invitations sent out before it is too late for anyone to accept.”
“If the King sends an invitation, anyone would accept.”
“And so too shall the Queen,” Snow said. A fond smile crossed his face. He reached for your hand. His thumb stroked it, in a way that was if your hand brought him comfort. “Who should you like to be there?”
You thought for a moment, considering your options. “My parents, which goes without saying. I have a few cousins that would like to come. The Dovecotes, the Cardews.” You spoke the next name quickly, hoping to hide it in your rush. “The Plinths, naturally. I think we should invite the Ravinstills, as a gesture of good faith. To show the former family mingling with the current.” You hoped that that line would delay Snow’s realization of who you slid into the list of invites. “I don’t want the Creeds there.”
Alas, your efforts were not successful.
“The Creeds will not be there if you do not wish it. Everyone but the Plinth family, however, will be extended invitations.”
“The Plinths will be there. You said I could invite my loved ones.”
“Our loved ones, petal. I said our loved ones. And, let me make this clear, I bear no love for the Plinths at this time.”
“Because of Sejanus?” you asked.
Snow’s jaw ticked. “It does not matter why. I shall not send them any invitation.”
“Then I shall send one myself. I shall personally invite them, and I shall ensure that Sejanus is allowed to sit right next to us. If you are doing this as a proclamation of love, then you should not try to hurt me by excluding someone I care about.”
“And you try to hurt me by including someone who is trying to take you?”
“She is not a prize for you to win, Coriolanus,” Tigris snapped.
You had forgotten she was there. Why was she still there? Anyone else would have run for the hills the second a lover’s quarrel with the King broke out. Of course, she was his cousin. She grew up with him. Tigris probably knew more about Snow’s temper tantrum and their fallout than anyone. Perhaps you should take her presence as a blessing. Perhaps you should worry about what that might mean.
Snow squinted his eyes at Tigris. “Because I have won her. I am only ensuring that no one tries to steal her out from under me.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you scoffed with a roll of your eyes.
His attention snapped back to you. “I will ask you kindly, just this once, to please exclude the Plinth family from your list of invitees. If it means so much to you, I will allow his parents to be invited. Just not him.” He paused. “Please.” It almost sounded like it pained him to utter the word.
“If you do not invite Sejanus, I will,” you repeated.
Snow’s eyes flashed. You were pushing too hard. Probably. But you could not find it in you to care. Snow was already getting everything he wanted. Was it necessary for him to rip every comfort you had away from you?
“Sejanus will not be invited to sit with us,” Snow hissed. “You cannot manipulate me as you did your mother.”
Did Snow really think that you would bend to his will so easily? Had he learned nothing from all of your spats in school? From how often you went toe-to-toe with him the last several weeks? You knew Snow was not an idiot. Far from it, in fact. He was easily the top student at the Academy, clearing over the children of Panem’s best and brightest with seeming ease. The only person who stood behind him was you. Snow should understand that this was not going to be something you back down from.
And to bring your mother into this? You were not sure what she told him. It would have been about your engagement ball, of course. That was the only time you attempted to change who your mother believed she could invite to the ball. But you were sure that whatever she told him only further cemented the idea in his deluded mind that you were helplessly in love with Sejanus Plinth.
“He will! Coriolanus Snow, I will not allow you to slight our friend like this. He might be interested in me. And I might have considered a marriage with him if you were not here and my parents allowed it. And I might have fallen in love with him if we did wed. But you are, and it is insulting that you think so little of me—”
“I do not think little of you,” he interrupted. You nearly rolled your eyes.
“—then, that you are so insecure that you cannot pull your head out of your ass long enough to realize that I will not do anything to harm this relationship, however much of a sham it is, for something that might work out even less than this. My Mama told me you want my loyalty. Well, this is as close as you will ever get to that. Do you understand? I know you value your reputation, and mine, and I know you care about how you, we, are perceived. I may not bend to your every will, but I will not do anything that would reflect poorly on the Crown.”
“I want more than your loyalty.”
“This is all you will get it, and you should be grateful. I could make this a lot more difficult. I could live everything moment to ruin your life. But I am not stupid. I know the security that comes with a title and money. I am grateful that I will want for nothing if I all do is act a dutiful wife. You should be equally grateful for the power and trust of the people that will be granted to you for appearing to be a family man, a good husband, and an eventual good father. This is not a marriage of love, and it never will be. I have accepted the convenience of it all. You should too.”
“I will not invite him.”
Well, there was only one option left to change his mind. If he would not listen to reason, it was time to be irrational.
You took a step closer to him. Snow squeezed your hand, almost in warning, as if he could anticipate what you were about to do.
“You will send the entire Plinth family an invitation, or I shall not come at all. Do you wish for your attempts at romanticism to be in vain?”
#the house of snow: a royal coryo au#coriolanus snow imagine#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus snow x fem!reader#coriolanus snow x female reader#coriolanus snow x y/n#coriolanus snow x you#coriolanus snow fanfiction#coriolanus snow fan fiction#coriolanus snow fanfic#coriolanus snow fan fic#coriolanus snow fic#starrywrites#starryevermore
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A/N: Well, hi there! Okay so Joe needs to apologise asap! This is his attempt I guess… idk what’s happening anymore man
Based on the actors portrayal/hbo show and written with no disrespect to the real life veterans. Also all images found on Pinterest.
TW: I don’t think there are any…
Tags: @malarkgirlypop, @panzershrike-pretz
Made of Glass
Chapter nineteen: An Itchy, Army Issued Blanket
Their barracks were dark and quiet when the ladies returned. Charlotte was all but dragged to her bed by Connie and Betty, who then immediately started getting ready to pass out on their own cots.
Lucy and Blythe were inseparable, snuggling together on a bed too small for the two of them, by now all the women had noticed the lovey dovey behaviour between them. No one said anything, no one minded.
Bernadette had spent the entire cab ride sniffling and wiping at her face where stray tears fell. No one had mentioned what had happened with Liebgott, though all of them witnessed it, except Charlotte who was in a world of her own and wouldn’t remember anything from this night.
She changed her clothes and brushed out her hair, too tired to walk to the bathroom and finish her nighttime ritual. Before Birdie could climb under the covers of her awaiting bed, Frankie made eye contact with her. She shook her half empty pack of smokes at the mousy haired girl and flicked her head toward the door, a silent invitation.
Bernadette sighed and joined the Italian woman outside. She might feel better if she spoke about what happened. She hadn’t quite figured out why his words got to her so badly, perhaps talking to Francesca could help. They sat on the wooden steps as they usually did. Rossi lit a cigarette and passed it to her friend, then lit her own.
Francesca wouldn’t push, of course she wanted to know exactly what was said and what tone was used, but she wanted to avoid more tears if possible. Seeing Birdie quietly crying and then trying to pretend everything was okay, upset her more than she cared to admit.
“I don’t know why I cried.” Her words were void of emotion. Frankie only hummed in response, waiting for her to share what was on her mind.
“He’s always been kind of mean. I thought he actually hated me…. But then something changed.” Frankie was more than curious, she thought back to the uncomfortable night she watched from the shadows. Rossi liked people watching, she picked up on hidden feelings or underlying vibes easily. Whatever had or hadn't happened between Birdie and Liebgott perplexed her. And apparently, she wasn’t the only one.
“Joe was really… I-I thought maybe, just maybe we could've been friends.”
“But?” Francesca prompted, eager to hear more of this odd dynamic.
“But, he thinks I'm the worst.” The words cracked as the downcast woman spoke them, her eyes focused on the floor, her shoulders sagged in defeat, even her bottom lip protruded in a pout.
“I’m sure that's not true…” The older woman consoled. Bernadette was sweet and witty and an oddly likeable person. Francesca had specifically tried not to make friends with anyone but Birdie managed to wiggle her way into her heart and now she couldn’t imagine not being friends with the little firecracker.
“No, it is. The words he used were: Arrogant, conceited bitch.” She didn’t even have one second to feel sorry for herself as Frankie instantly counter argued.
“Ha. You are the least arrogant, conceited person I've ever met. And you're definitely not a bitch.”
“Not according to him.” Now she was sulking, pouting and feeling sorry for herself. The attitude change was phenomenal. From Francesca’s perspective, Birdie had always been confident. Not overly but enough to tough it out with her self righteous Captain.
“Why do you care what he thinks of you?” Maybe Rossi would have to give the poor girl some hints, she obviously hasn't picked up on her own feelings for the man who bullied her. It would explain her need for his approval and why his comments affected her the way they did.
“I-” She couldn’t answer, she didn’t know how. Why did she care so much about what Joseph Liebgott thought of her? “Because, I- I don’t know.”
“I think I do.” She would have to tell the southern girl, it was her duty as best friend. She couldn’t let her go on like this, it was down right embarrassing.
“Enlighten me.”
“You like him.” The George company woman spoke plainly, no point sugarcoating it.
“What? No, you're way off, he’s so- But he’s- He is a pigheaded jerk. I-I don't like him.” Birdie spluttered, stumbling over her words and giving Frankie an incredulous look.
“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself? Either way, I don't think it's working.” She paused to let the words sink in, “Come on, you need some sleep.”
————————
Letting go of Birdie’s arm and watching her walk out the door, surrounded by her girlfriends, caused a pang in Joe’s chest.
He was at fault and he knew it. Joe didn’t mean the harsh words and he shouldn’t have said those things about her, whether she was listening or not. And now, he sat at the bar, gulping down whatever alcohol came his way.
“Liebgott?” No answer, he preferred to mope in peace. But Tipper wouldn’t sit by and watch his friend beat himself up over a girl, especially because he had money on the two getting together before they were deployed.
“She’ll come round.” Ed wasn’t really sure what else he could say to soothe the situation. But he had noticed the girl in question harboured feelings for his brooding friend, and he definitely knew Joe felt some type of way about Birdie.
The issue was getting them to recognise their own fondness of each other and stop messing up. It was like the pair were stuck in blatant denial, not even considering the reason why they were always so drawn to one another, constantly needing to make comments to gain the others attention. To Ed it was transparent, which is why he was so confident about the running bet in Easy company, Joe and Birdie; Will they? Won’t they?
“I think she hates me now.”
“What? She didn’t before?” Tip was trying to lighten the mood, but Joe wasn’t having it. He continued to feel sorry for himself, drinking yet another pale yellow beer.
“No… I don't know- she was, we were... It doesn’t matter now.” The alcohol was affecting him, he couldn’t think straight and his words came out as incoherent mumble.
“You should apologise.”
“You think I don't know that?” Joe’s snark was intact regardless of how much he drank.
“Hey, I’m just saying.” Ed paused, “If you made a meaningful gesture… something only known between you two…” He trailed off, letting Joe put the rest of the thought together in his mind.
“Yeah? Like what? In case you didn’t notice, we don't exactly have the best track record.” Liebgott was mad, not at his friend, just in general or at himself. His patience with Tipper’s chit chat was running thin.
“Well, what do you have?”
—------------------
While weekend passes were more common now than back in Toccoa, they were still highly sought after. Joe had a plan to smooth over the mishap with Bernadette and it meant spending a precious pass at the library reading, instead of getting shitfaced at a bar.
He prayed it would work, that Bernadette would forgive him and let his unkind words fade away. Joe had already decided on a place and time and now he needed to convince one of her friends to bring her to the spot. She probably wouldn’t meet him there if he asked, so he’d have to be sneaky.
Approaching Francesca Rossi was intimidating. She had a reputation of not taking shit from anyone and Joe had hurt seemingly her only friend. Plus, Birdie most likely told the Italian woman about his colossal fuck up, so he doubted she would be on his side.
“What do you want?” Her eyes narrowed at the man walking toward her.
“I was hoping you would help me with something.” Joe knew he had to be straightforward with the George company woman, put his cards on the table and hope for the best.
“Why?” She hadn’t stopped glaring.
“Look, I’ll be honest. I fucked up, with Birdie. I said some things I’d rather not repeat… And I’m just trying to apologise.”
“What do you need?” He hadn’t expected it to be that easy, so he stood still for a moment processing, before he explained his plan to her. It felt dumb to say it out loud, but when Rossi gave him a nod and a half smile, promising to do her part, he thought: maybe he was doing the right thing.
“One thing before you go…” Francesca called out to him as he turned to leave, he stopped and looked at the woman over her shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“You hurt her again…. I will kill you.” There was no hint of a joke in her tone, no curve of her lips. She meant it and she wanted him to know she would follow through. Birdie meant alot to her, she didn’t have many women friends so she would hold onto the southerner for the rest of her life, kill for her, die for her if necessary.
“I know you will.”
“Good.”
—----------------
The night came. Joe was nervous. He told himself it was due to all the facts he had to memorise and his anxiety was about messing up in front of an expert.
Something in the back of his head said her name and the idea of his nerves coming from his need to impress this specific woman ran through his brain. Maybe it was a little bit about Bernadette, but he couldn’t dwell on it too much. He had places to be and apologies to set up.
—--------------------
Francesca was good at keeping secrets and hiding things. So when the time came, Birdie suspected nothing. Frankie told her friend she needed her help with something and led her outside and into the dark with no explanation. Birdie didn’t question it, Francesca wouldn’t steer her wrong, she trusted the woman with everything she had.
After a few minutes of walking, the two women came upon a clearing with an olive green, Army issued blanket laid down upon the grass. A gas lantern lit up the immediate area.
Just as Bernadette began to wonder what was going on, Liebgott came into view, stepping into the light that shone from the source on the floor. Birdie’s jaw hung, she looked between the man and her friend who had brought her here, feeling somewhat betrayed.
“Frankie? What the hell?” Were the words she finally managed to get out.
“You got two options, Birdie. Stay here and hear him out… or we walk away. I’ll punch him in the throat too, if you want.” All three of them considered the words carefully.
“Fair.” Joe shrugged, knowing he deserved it.
Francesca eyed the younger woman as she pondered her options. She knew the outcome, it was plain to see which one Birdie would go for, the look on her face said it all.
She was curious, Joe intrigued her beyond words and even though he had said some things that hurt Birdie, she still craved his attention, to be around him, to listen to whatever he was about to say.
Bernadette didn’t have to say it, she just gave Frankie a look and the black hair woman was on her way, not before shooting Liebgott a stern glare.
“I didn’t mean it.” Joe broke the silence that was growing between the two.
“But you still said it.” She couldn’t let him get away that easy.
“I know… I shouldn’t’ve. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you.” Birdie had already decided she’d forgive him but she wanted to drag it out, see him sweat. She knew first hand how scary Frankie could be, the fact that he had talked her into this project of his was apology enough in her books.
“I am so sorry, Birdie.” His words were genuine, he truly was sorry. He would have said it a hundred more times if she wanted him too. His pride aside, he wanted her to know it. Talking about her like that was not something that would be repeated. Hurting her had hurt him, maybe Tipper was right, maybe his feelings for her ran deeper than he thought.
He wanted to be her friend of course, she was always so smiley and happy, it was easy to get along with her. Joe enjoyed his time around her, even before, when all the words they said to each other were dipped in sarcasm. He actually enjoyed the witty comebacks she came up with, he liked that she wouldn’t let anyone walk over her. She always had something to say and he found himself wanting to listen more and more as time went on.
“What’s that for?” Birdie nodded her head to the blanket, trying to steer away from acknowledging the apology.
“Huh? Oh..” Lieb looked behind him, “Come here, sit. I want to show you something.” He sat and patted the empty space next to him. Birdie followed instruction and lowered herself onto the itchy blanket.
Joe leaned back, propping himself up with one arm and pointing skyward with the other. Birdie copied his stance, turning her chin up and watching where he pointed to.
“See that? That’s the Little Dipper-“ Birdie’s attention was pulled from the stars above them and to the guy casually dropping constellation names.
“Wait… it actually is… how did you know that?” She imagined Joe, head in a book, studying star clusters so he would have something to talk to her about and it made her stomach flip. Had he really done something like that for her? She was vaguely aware that he didn’t care for studying or reading novels, so if he had done that it was solely for her benefit.
Lieb let his arm drop, turning his head to face her. The eye contact made Birdie want to twirl a strand of hair with her fingers and giggle like a schoolgirl- Damn, maybe Francesca had been right about her liking Joseph Liebgott.
“Magic.” His face was stoic and serious as he whispered the word to her, like it was a secret. Then, his infamous smirk broke onto his face and Bernadette couldn’t help but grin back at him, the butterflies in her tummy were going crazy, but she tried to play it cool.
“Ah okay. I see: This is your apology? Impressing me with your new found knowledge of the stars?” Said with feigned disinterest. Joe hadn’t stopped watching her, her mannerisms were endearing. Yes, he definitely wanted to be friends with this girl.
“It depends.” He broke eye contact, attempting to give his heart a moment to catch up.
“On what?” The country woman had completely forgotten about the twinkly lights above them, something else was far more interesting at this moment.
“Is it impressing you?”
It most definitely was. Joe pointed out several well known constellations and even gave a couple backstories. Birdie already knew everything he was telling her but she humoured him and listened with interest at the tales he told her.
At one point the two lay down for a better view of the starry black sky. Their arms brushed up against one another and neither attempted to move away. They ignored the shared touch, pretending it wasn’t happening but the pair could feel exactly where their bodies met and they revealed in the warmth.
A/N: does his apology suffice? I think stargazing is going to be a Birdie/Lieb thing from now on.
I love hearing from you guys, so please feel free to comment or dm me!
~ next-autopsy ~
Chapter twenty
#band of brothers#easy company#hbo war#joe liebgott#made of glass#band of brothers fanfic#fem oc#oc#next autopsy#made of glass chapter nineteen#ed tipper
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