imshymorph

[imshymorph]

they never consider you. not like you do them.

always more than eager to please, to the point it almost feels like self-harm. you try to ignore the lump in your throat when you catch their smiles to each other, the way their eyes crinkle at the corners, the gentle nudges and touches and everything you’re deprived of.

they never save you a seat at the mess or offer to take you off base for a few hours after a particularly rough day; but you’ve more than once caught them doing that for each other. price cupping the back of simon’s neck, thumb gentle on his jaw as the stress of the day melts away off him. the way soap viciously guards the last pudding cup from the mess, making sure gaz gets the treat he loves so much.

it’s your birthday and they haven’t said a word. you understand — it’s busy, and even kate gives you a tight-lipped smile when she passes you in the hall.

(at least she acknowledges you).

it’s late, the stack of papers on your desk significantly smaller than it was this morning. you groan as you stretch your arms above your head, back clicking and cracking into place. you shake your hand out, rubbing at your wrists as you hope that maybe price would be okay with taking you to your favorite bar with the boys once you’re done. it’s close, after all. just one drink.

you think of the little cupcake you tucked away in the fridge earlier. you bought it yourself and even put a little bow on top; just something small to make your night a little better. it was 15 pounds; a bit ridiculous to spend on a cupcake, but didn’t you deserve at least that much?

a knock on your door, the hall light spilling in as price walks in, steps sure and measured.

“hey, kiddo,” he rasps, looking as tired as you feel.

you try for a small smile, relieved to see him after being cooped up in your office practically all day.

he doesn’t return it.

“sorry, i forgot about this,” he starts, hand coming out from behind his back.

your heart thumps hopelessly, that spark of happiness almost enough to crush you.

he stacks some papers on your desk, signature line empty and pages out of order.

“think you could take care of that for me?”

you swallow the lump in your throat, only able to nod as heat from shame and embarrassment flood your face, eyes stinging harshly.

“oh,” he says as he turns back to you, “soap ate this cupcake in the fridge. it had your name on it, but you know how soap is.”

you still, breath dying in your throat.

“i want those on my desk no later than 0800,” he says with finality, the door closing behind him.

your hands shake as you reach for the new pile of papers, words blurring past the point of recognition as tears slip down your cheeks.

maybe next year will be different.

[imshymorph]

Date Needed For Easter Reunion. Desperate.

Rating: E Words: 23.6k Tags: Soap x f!reader, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, unreliable narrator, unstable!reader, self-inflicted brainwashing, gaslighting, manipulation, strangers -> ???, non/dub con, cnc, wrestling, Erectile Dysfunction, Catholicism, biting, marking, non-consensual kissing, non-consensual marriage, religious delusion, oral sex (f and m receiving), piv sex, craigslist meet-cute, dirty talk, implied stalking, mild kidnapping, implied past abuse, on the run!reader, Johnny has a traumatic brain injury, breeding kink, unsafe bdsm dynamics, non-consensual sub training, fingering, cockwarming, hand jobs

Summary: You need an escape plan and respond to an ad online looking for a date. John Mactavish doesn't exactly offer you freedom in exchange.

<-Date needed for Easter reunion. Desperate.

[casual encounters]

“I'm a recently discharged, disabled veteran(medical: TBI) who never had time to date but has a very nosey (very catholic) family that asks a lot of questions. My mam just wants to know someone is taking care of me (can take care of myself) so I may have lied to her and told her I was dating someone. Which is where you come in.

You are:

-single

-willing to lie

-looking for a holiday in Scotland

-able to sit through mass

I will pay you in:

-my mam's cooking (it's good)

-free trip to the highlands

-whatever you want to steal from my sister's closet

Date is needed for my family reunion on Holy Saturday so I can reassure people I’m not going to accidentally die alone in my flat.

*

You stare at the man across the table from you and try to catalogue his features. If you don’t break him down piecemeal then the weight of his good looks might cause you to buckle. Two eyes, electric blue. Staring at them too long forces your gaze to wander away from them to other parts of his face. Two lips, pink and quirked into a crooked smile, showing off slightly discolored teeth. Coffee, you think, glancing down at his steaming cup. Your eyes drift up to his again, and again you find them drifting away. One bold pink scar at his temple, star shaped and cutting through his closely shaved hair in a single jagged slice. Your eyes linger on it until he reaches, almost sheepishly, to touch the thing.

“Aye, let’s get that out of the way first.” John agrees with your silent staring. You shake your head and focus on his eyes again, on the slight crease between his brow that speaks of unease.

“Oh, no it’s-” you hesitate on the words, “You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to, we can just ignore it.” He stares at you and you tack on, “I’m sorry for staring.”

“Nae the first person to stare, willnae be the last.” He hums. It feels like a reminder of sorts. For him you’re sure, but the familiarity of his tone makes you feel oddly… included. 

“Does your-” You stop yourself from asking if his family stares, that feels a little too personal in a way that you can’t be with a stranger, “-Does your family already think you have a girlfriend?” You ask instead. John laughs and it’s so deep and throaty that it catches your breath in your chest. 

“Aye, been tellin’ them I had you for a while now.” He nods, “Been dyin’ tae meet ya, but I kept putting it off.”

It’s your turn to nod. You understand that. It’s easier to keep a lie going than have a new one to tie together.

“Y’are a bonnie thing,” John mumbles, his lips catching against each other, his tongue weighted and his brows drawn low, he swallows before enunciating, “so sweet Ah cannae believe someone else hasnae sunk their teeth intae ya.” 

You’ve held his gaze too long, the violent blue shivers and shakes, with the strain of staring back at you. You feel your left eye twitch and jerkingly look down at your folded hands on the table. The color of your knuckles looks thinner, strained by the clench of your fingers against the wood. Anything to keep the anxious shaking at bay. Impatient to get away from the public eye, but grateful for the chance to meet a stranger with so many witnesses.

Your brain tries to latch onto John’s… compliment, and you brush it off. The doctor had said traumatic brain injuries make people impulsive, make it harder for them to police what they’re saying and doing. You can’t hold it against him if his inside thoughts roll off his tongue into the outside.

Actually, you feel sort of bad for taking advantage of the guy. You need him more than he needs you. The quick escape he offers isn’t one you take lightly, and this ruse is more reliable than anything else. It’s just… he seems nice. The way he fusses with his jumper reminds you of a puppy trying to walk with shoes on for the first time. He’s big and uncoordinated in a way that you should find endearing. His hands shake, his fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as a way to divert the energy. He squeezes his fingers into a tight fist when he notices you staring.

“Another gift from the bullet that had me discharged.” He huffs, “Makes mah mam worry seein’ me shake, made mah captain worry too.” The words are bitter in his mouth and you meet his gaze against your better judgement. “S’why they tossed me, cannae have a trigger finger this itchy.”

“Your mum must love you a lot.” You offer, the words feel hollow in your mouth. What’s that like, you wonder, having a parent that cares enough about you to worry over something like the tremor in your hands? 

John smiles, turns his gaze down to his fist and spreads his fingers out onto the table. It’s warm. The sort of expression that people with normal families have.

“Ah ken,” He shakes his head, “but she’s getting older, cannae have her running down to London for every doctor’s appointment.”

“Oh,” you frown, “that would be annoying.” Though you can’t say you aren’t envious. Had your family ever done the same for you? It was always a fight just to stay home from school, you know wouldn’t drop a thing for a doctor’s appointment much less driven across the country. 

“Ahm a grown man, dinnae need mah mam fer mah PT.” John insists. “Mah sisters are bad enough with all their badgerin’ me.” He sighs. “They mean well, Ah s’ppose, shouldnae fault them tha’.”

“Well,” you falter. It’s more than just taking advantage of one guy, you’re conning an entire family just to get yourself out of a situation of your own making. He should find someone else, someone better suited for dealing with a family that so clearly cares about him. But he’s not going to, you need this. You plaster on a smile and tell him, “It’s good you’ve got me, we’ll convince them you’re doing better than ever.”

John’s eyes flick to yours and you get the distinct impression of someone looking through rather than at you. It sends a shiver down your spine and you scramble to explain yourself before John can call your bluff. “I’ll make sure to tell her how capable you are, I mean.” You supply. John nods, his smile cut by his teeth in a way that feigns sincerity better than your mother ever could. 

“Gonna have to convince more than just mah mam and sisters,” he reminds you, “Plenty of kin for ya tae meet.” You must make a face because his smile grows to a size you’re sure must hurt his cheeks. “Got more than 50 people comin’ tae the reunion, more than that cannae take the time off for travel.”

You sit back in your chair with a rush of breath. Fifty? Fifty people. Fifty strangers you have to lie to for a whole day. Fifty names you’ll have to pretend to remember. Jesus.

“Jesus.” You mumble.

“Aye,” John hums, “it’s His doin’ that Mactavishes are a fertile brood.” The way he purrs it makes your stomach clench. You’re missing the context that haunts his voice, and you shake off the feeling in favor of changing the topic.

“So how long is the reunion?” It’s inelegant but it gets the job done. If John notices he doesn’t show it, immediately humming and bobbing his head like he’s trying to think. He crosses his arms over his chest and you’re struck by how big this guy is. Not uncoordinated then. John’s biceps strain against the bulk of his jumper, his broad chest squeezed between the trunks of his arms in a way that makes him look bulky. His shoulders roll back to a broad, square set that makes his neck seem thicker. You should get the impression that he’s putting on a show for you, but there’s no flex to his musculature, just the unquestionable presence of strength.

Strength that always seemed to haunt the silent wishes of every other man in your life, now personified and stripped of the authority to use it.

You swallow down the interest that slides to settle warm between your legs. 

“I can drive up Friday night, then the reunion is Saturday, and Mass on Sunday.” He counts off eyes roaming around the shop. He- 

Well, you don’t know how to describe it. John’s mood seems to change as quickly as the wind, his bright bubbling air turning teasing then wistful or purring and now this serious tone. Business-like where you would have sworn he was flirting with you. You glance at the scar on his temple, the pink seam of it seeming more obvious with each symptom that adds itself to the list. You wonder if he’s also forgetful, impulsive, if he’s prone to short tempers. You wonder how his vision is, and the thought of him driving suddenly makes you very nervous.

“I can drive.” You tell him quickly. He blinks at you and you find the air changed again, his expressions more open than you’ve seen even in children --perhaps that’s it, perhaps it’s not his mood changing so much as it is an openness that you’re not used to, you tell yourself he wears his heart on his sleeve, and find the thought somewhat relaxes you-- a gentle parting of his lips and soft raise of his brow that says you’ve caught him off guard.

“Ya wouldnae prefer flyin’?” He asks, and you cringe. You had mentioned in your emails that you were looking at flights, and he’d generously offered to compensate you. At the time you’d been eager to snatch up the opportunity, but now? Now the thought of leaving this man alone, with his shaking hands and poor vision, to drive for hours up to Glasgow felt wrong. You were already taking advantage of his need for a body to get yourself out of trouble, you couldn’t let him die in a road accident too. 

“No, I-” You search for an inoffensive answer, something that doesn’t make you sound like the terrible person you are, “I think it would be better if we arrived together, right? Happy and in love?”

John studies you for a moment before pouting his lips briefly and nodding, he hadn’t considered that you suppose.

“Aye,” He says slowly before he tips his head ever so slightly, “an’ we are happy an’ in love people, aren’t we, hen?”

“Oh definitely,” You agree. There’s something nervous and fluttery in your chest at his tone. Something that squeezes tight and fawns before you can chase the feeling down. It makes him smile, and the wide toothy grin he fixes you with crooks your stomach as quickly as it crooks his lips.

“Then we’ll drive up together.” He agrees. 

*

Despite the short notice you manage to get a hotel booked for Easter. It makes you feel a little slimy, squirms in your stomach oddly, but you plan on dipping out right after mass and leaving John with his family. If they’re as doting as he makes them out to be then he’ll have no trouble finding his way home. Besides, he already offered his car for the drive, so it’s not like he’s totally stranded. You made your peace with the sort of person you are long ago, you shouldn’t feel so bad leaving some disabled veteran in better hands. 

It’ll be a nice little vacation in a beautiful place, you’ll do something touristy, and then start figuring out your new life. You don’t deserve the vacation, but you don’t deserve a lot of things. John does though, for all you’re sure he’s been through, so you make yourself happy to play house with him. At least he’s not bad to look at. You could do worse, and you have.

You’re almost surprised by how short the bus ride to his flat is. He’s so close-by but you’ve never run into him. You recognize one of the patisseries you pass and hesitate to continue the rest of your walk at the prospect of getting a slice of cake. You check your time and decide to stop in for a road trip snack. You can give John this kindness at least. You hope he likes sweets.

Of course your detour leaves knocking on John’s door feeling like a herculean task. You raise your fist and hold it there for what feels like ages, your mind running a million miles a minute trying to spin out all the worst case scenarios.

This is insane. Actually insane. You’re running off to Scotland with a man you don’t know to meet a family that might not even exist --though you did spend a good few hours googling the Mactavish clan and what do you know John’s face is front and center, along with his discharge notice (ouch)-- just to get away from- well, you know what you’re running from. No sense dwelling on it when you’re so close to your new life. You learned your lesson with the Austrian, you’ll get away from John as soon as you’re able to and disappear into the highlands. Maybe you’ll herd sheep.

You knock on the door with your confidence renewed and John pulls it open immediately, his eyes wild, his hair disheveled and his shirt on inside out. His breathing is haggard and you watch him quickly end a call with someone marked only by a skull emoji, the tinny voice on the other end sounds rough and unhappy before it’s cut off. John offers you an apologetic smile and scratches the back of his neck.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” He says by way of explanation.

“I, um-” you hold up the bag of biscuits, “I stopped for a snack, for the road.” You check your phone. “I’m only a few minutes late.”

“Right.” John shakes his head, blinking his eyes as his brows draw down, like he’s trying to clear it, “Sorry, that- of course you’re not late, why would you be late?” He trails off, muttering to himself as he turns and stalks back into his flat. He seems to remember you and turns back to the door. “Come in, Ahm just finishin’ packin’ up.”

“It’s just the weekend.” You tell him, shuffling into his flat. You keep close to the wall and try not to look like you’re looking around. It’s sparsely decorated. Honestly it reminds you of those “male living space” memes that float around occasionally. The guy has a folding chair set up at a card table and not much else. You try to tip your head to get a glance at the bedroom and catch the corner of a mattress set on the floor. You grimace at the thought. 

You hear him muttering to himself and do your best not to eavesdrop too much. You’re sure he’s stressed about going to see his family, and you’re even more sure that living like this isn’t helping. Maybe his mum is right and he really does need the help. You feel that ever present pang of guilt start to gnaw at you at the thought. Fuck.

You’d read up a bit more on traumatic brain injuries --always eager to go the extra mile for someone else where you couldn’t for yourself-- and the idea that John had been living with virtually no support, his family a hundred miles away and his house barely fit for habitation, makes you really fucking sad. This guy probably lost everything he’d been working towards in the army, and now he’s living in this shitty flat with nobody around to care about him. And you’re taking advantage of his desperation to prove he isn’t the incapable man his mum is worried about in order to get a free trip and a new life. You’re really despicable.

Looking around though it’s pretty clear he isn’t taking care of himself. You don’t see any PT equipment or pictures, there’s not even a second chair or dishes in the sink. It’s like no one lives here. Even you had keepsakes tucked away in your “weekend” bag. John’s got a whole lot of nothing. 

“Sorry,” John sighs, hefting a packed duffle bag over his shoulder, his entrance jolts you out of your thoughts and you nearly crush your biscuits in surprise, “movin’ y’ken?”

“Sorry?” you blink, “Moving?”

“Aye.” John nods, dropping his bag to rifle through it, he tugs a pillbox free and opens the Friday morning tab, shaking the couple tablets into his waiting palm. He takes the pills dry before zipping the bag. “Back up tae Glasgow, be closer to mah mam an’ all that.”

“Oh.” You feel heat burn your cheeks, that explains the empty apartment. Guilt pokes at you again, you’d put him in the same category as his mum, incapable of taking care of himself. God. Are you a bad person? You are. You know you are, but are you this sort of bad? The “tbi automatically means this guy is dysfunctional” kind of bad?

You didn’t think you were before all of this.

“That’s nice.” You cover. John hums as he stands. 

“Isnae nice, means Ah’ll ‘ave ‘er breathin’ doon mah neck, taggin’ along tae the doctor like she’s ne’er seen mah heid on straight.” There’s no anger in his voice, just a gentle exasperation that reminds you of a pouting puppy. You cover your mouth to hide the smile it inspires. John flashes you a grin and you know you’ve been caught.

“Dunna be blate, laugh if ya want tae.” You let out a short giggle and cover it with a cough.

“Are you going to get less intelligible the closer we get to scotland?” You tease. Another smile, and a roll of John’s eyes.

“Aye ya ken mah mam’s gonna love ya, now yer actin’ out.” John grabs you and pulls you against his chest. The action is so familiar and affectionate that it makes you stiffen. Your stomach drops and you go rigid. Something shifts behind John’s eyes and you have to tighten more to keep tremors from running through you. Those bright blues feel electric, a flash of lightning before thunder, an unstoppable natural force that bears down on you with no warning but that quick burst of light. He doesn’t release you, and you can feel the pop of his shoulders as he rolls them, tipping his head to the side just enough to properly look down on you. He clicks his tongue and a shiver rushes down your spine.

“Relax hen,” it’s an unkind suggestion coated in false charm, “it’ll never fit if you’re wound this tight.”

“What- what?” You stutter, fingers shaking to find the right place to push to get him to let you go.

“Ah thought we were a happy loving couple,” John reminds you, “Cannae flinch like this.”

“Right.” You settle your hands against his chest and push. It’s like trying to move a brick wall. He barely budges, in fact you think his arms might tighten their hold on your waist.

“Got plenty of time tae get ya used tae me, yeah?” He hums, and leans closer. You duck your head to avoid meeting his gaze, or anything else, and feel his nose against your hair. He takes a long inhale and you squeeze your fingers into fists.

Impulsive, you remind yourself, he has a brain injury that makes him unable to control his impulses. That’s all it is. That’s all it can be.

“Do ah scare ya hen?” John’s voice rumbles so low in his chest that you feel it under your fingers. The question startles you enough to jolt you back to his gaze. 

You’re free of his grasp as soon as you look up. John’s bent to grab his duffle off the floor and you have just enough room to catch your breath.

“Of course not.” You lie. You’ve dealt with far worse than an overly touchy man with a brain injury. Overly touchy men giving out brain injuries, for one.

“Good,” John nods, tugging his bag up over his shoulder, “We’ve got a long drive ahead, no sense gettin’ scared now.”

Right, the drive. You’d almost forgotten about it. At least you can rest easier knowing John’s probably not stupid enough to let his impulses take over if you’re driving.

*

John’s hand is on your thigh as soon as you get out of his garage. He barely moves it when you complain about not having room to shift gears. It’s big and warm and entirely too high on your leg to not be distracting. Your traitorous body reacts to it immediately, your pulse quickening as your cunt throbs. It’s been a while, but you still remember what it feels like to have a man touch you, and it feels an awful lot like the wide spread of John’s fingers across your thigh. 

“So um,” You try to think of anything to talk about while John’s thumb rubs hot against your thigh, “we should probably get our story straight.”

“Told everyone the story already.” John says, and you struggle to find what that might mean. Is his hand moving higher on your thigh? You can’t keep your thoughts straight when he’s touching you like this. “Dating for six months, met in a coffee shop, you’ve been wanting to meet mah folks but time’s never been right.”

“Right.” You mumble, “John, um-”

“Johnny.” He cuts you off, “You call me Johnny.”

“Johnny,” You restart, “could you, uh, could you move your hand?” He gives your thigh a squeeze so tight it almost hurts, and slides his fingers up your thigh to rest just at the junction of your hip.

“Already know your lines,” he jokes, you think it’s a joke, God you hope it’s a joke, “Just gotta ask me if ya want somethin’, hen. Ahm a doting boyfriend after all.”

“Right.” You repeat, your knuckles creak with how tightly you grip the steering wheel.

His hand leaves you and your body reacts to the loss almost as violently as it had the initial touch. A chill crowds the space Johnny’s hand used to be, and threatens to wrack through your spine. You squeeze your thighs together quietly. It’s fine, you’re fine. He said he’d start getting you used to being touched, that’s all it is.

“So what are you into?” You change the topic. 

Johnny is silent for a while, so long that you chance a glance over at him. It makes you nervous taking your eyes off the road, but you lose a moment tracing the strong line of his nose as you watch his profile. He glances at you and you lock your eyes on the road again.

“Art.” He says finally. You nod. Art is good, you like art.

“What sort of art?” You prompt. You can’t fault him a stilted conversation you suppose, you did change the subject rather abruptly.

“Sketching,” he tells you, before thinking better of it, “pencils and charcoals. Never got into painting, too hard to take into the field.”

That must be it, it’s a reminder of his time in the military. You’re bringing up bad memories with such a simple question. You must have a talent for sticking your foot in your mouth if it’s this easy for you to stumble upon touchy subjects.

“That makes sense.” You nod and attempt to end the conversation, “You’ll have to show me some of your sketches sometime.”

The shift in the air is immediate. Even in your periphery you can tell Johnny’s perked up at the idea.

“Really? You’d want tae see ‘em?”

“Of course,” You shrug, keeping your eyes forward, “I like art.”

“Maybe ya could pose fer me sometime,” Johnny grins. “Ah’d make sure ya looked as bonnie as ya dae now.”

You laugh at the compliment, a weak attempt at covering your discomfort. You don’t need any buttering up, the false affection of it rings so hollow in your ears that it’s almost painful. It’s an unwanted politeness, an engagement in the conversation that makes you sick at the thought of engaging with. You don’t need to see yourself in graphite, it’s bad enough seeing yourself in the mirror. 

“Or maybe ah’d draw ya nude,” Johnny muses and you shut your mouth hard enough to hear your teeth click. “That’d be braw.” He hums, looking out the window, “Could have ya spread those bonnie legs and show me yer cunt. Ah’d make sure tae get real close and get a good look, talk tae ‘er real nice ‘til she’s drippin fer me, no fun drawing’ ‘er dry.”

Your eyes flick to him, your chest tight. He’s looking out the window, his chin cradled in his hand, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You could almost believe you imagined it, but there were too many words, too detailed, to delude yourself into thinking you’d misheard the rumble of the engine.

You press your thighs together, fix your eyes on the road, try to ignore the man in the seat beside you. What are you supposed to say? Do you say anything? Is he hoping you’ll pull over and open your legs, pull his head between them and let him make good on his desire to talk to your pussy? 

The thought sends a shiver through you. You can’t say if it’s good or bad but it certainly catches Johnny’s attention to see you shudder. His teeth flash in the sun, and you know you’ve been caught.

“Aw hen, ya like when Ah talk like that?” His hand finds your thigh again, too high for you to mistake it as anything but what it is, a promise, “Ya want me tae tell ya how good ah am with mah tongue? Or are ya wet just thinkin’ about it?” He’s leaned closer, his hand squeezing your thigh so tightly it hurts, his shadow taking up too much of your periphery. “Fuck ah can smell it on ya-” His hand jumps to cup your cunt, and you freeze, “-warm, wet, little cunt. Stupid little girl. Should’ve worn a skirt so Ah could stick mah fingers in that pussy of yers and have a taste.” 

Your heart is beating out of your chest, your face burning as hot as the rest of your skin. He’s right, fuck he’s right. You’re aching, barely holding back from shifting in your seat and rocking against his searching fingers, all from a little dirty talk. You can’t open your mouth, can’t turn, can’t even move from the rigid position you’ve found yourself in, too scared that the barest twitch will make Johnny pounce,

And make the car crash.

You can’t be responsible for another death.

Johnny’s mouth opens, his body leaned far over the center console of the car (too far to survive a crash) and you feel his teeth scrape your neck.

Your body moves on its own, your shoulder jerks and you loosen your hand from the steering wheel to push him away. He goes willingly, laughing as he falls back into his seat and his hands leave you.

“Are you trying to kill us?” You demand, you can barely catch your breath, barely hold onto the boiling heat in the pit of your stomach.

“Ach, just havin’ some fun with ya hen,” He placates, “won’t it be easier holdin’ mah hand now that we’ve got that over with?”

You glare at the road and tamp down the heated humiliation that threatens to rise over you. No, you don’t think it will be. Especially not when you catch Johnny palming himself, and just know that’s the hand he’ll grab you with.

You can read the full fic here

[imshymorph]

My followers know I hate talking about politics and current events, and generally refuse to do so, but this is important.

A bill has been introduced in the US that would make all pornography a federal crime. Owning it. Creating it. Distributing it.

Under this law, fanart of nude characters would be a federal crime.

Under this law, depictions of homosexuality or simply being transgender, would be considered pornography and a federal crime.

This bill is not going to pass.

However, the reason for this bill is to continue to push the "overton window". The reason for this bill is to make banning pornography seem more and more normal to everyone until they can actually do that.

And remember, they consider depictions of gay characters and transgenders characters "pornography" in any context, including platonic.

They have been working on this for a decade now and it has been working.

If you are one of the people in fandom who thinks that "nasty" porn on AO3 should be banned because it's "icky" or "immoral", then this mental scam is working on you.

Censorship is never about protecting people.

Censorship is always about control.

Do not let the rising moral panic affect your mind and make you weak to propaganda that lets others control you and control what you watch and read.

Do not fall for the scam.

When they say they are going to ban "pornography" it means they're going to ban anything they don't like by calling it "pornography" and they don't like you!!

[imshymorph]

About the porn ban post in US. How do they categorize literal art (drawing sketching etc) and writing as pornography??? It doesn’t include living people like??? How do they include it, it’s so confusing?!?! Like it’s literally a drawing hello? Are they going to ban historical paintings with nudity too? Huh huh huh. America is so weird.

The important thing to remember about bills like this is that it's not really about the actual definition of pornography. This is what we in the business call a "push bill" something that pushes at public perception of normalcy and tries to get its foot in the door. The idea of "banning porn" is one that has been steadily growing as conservative values become more normalized, and this bill is an attempt to keep pushing at that idea, to keep pushing people to think about banning porn.

Now the actual practical enforcement of this ban is this: they will write the definition of "pornography" such that they can charge any political opponents with consumption/creation/peddling of it an throw them in jail. The reason theyre including drawing and writing as pornography is because this bill directly mentions and targets the creation and distribution of LGBTQ+ anything. It could be educational material, it could be a picture book of two male penguins raising an egg. It is directly targeting queer individuals in order to criminalize them.

The end goal of a bill like this is voter suppression at best, and a complete irradication of political dissidents at worst. They are trying to throw you in jail. They are trying to make it a felony to be gay or talk about being gay. They want to create a legal pathway to get rid of a minority class the same way they are currently doing with migrants. They are looking for a final solution, and porn is a great foot in the door.

You can dress up a porn ban by saying you're protecting children, or stopping sex trafficking, or halting the moral decay of the populace. It can look really good, really appealing, but it is meant to be used as an additional charge for anyone arrested at a protest, or a drag show, or kissing their same sex partner in public. Everyone, and I mean everyone, looks at porn. It is an incredibly easy thing to find on someone's computer. Which means they can charge anyone, with evidence, of porn possession, and throw them in jail.

Thats why theyre casting as wide a net as possible.

[imshymorph]

You're both already wrecked, sweat slicking your skin, your hands clawing at his back like you're trying to pull him deeper, even though he’s already buried to the hilt.

You’ve been at it for a while now—lazy, slow thrusts that feel more like worship than fucking, his mouth hot on your neck, murmuring filth and little nothings in that rough voice that always makes your stomach flip.

He’s so deep it’s making your head spin. Every drag of his cock feels like he’s carving himself into you, like he wants you to feel him long after he’s gone.

And maybe that’s why it slips out. Maybe that’s why you say it.

You don’t plan to. You just feel so full, so warm, so ruined, that it tumbles out between moans without warning.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Everything goes still.

Simon stops mid-thrust. Doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

You blink, panting, your hands still on his shoulders, confused by the sudden tension in his body.

“…Simon?”

He pulls back.

Not just his hips—his whole body. Just enough to look at you. His face is blank, eyes wide and dark and unreadable.

You feel cold all of a sudden.

“I—what?” he says. But he heard you. You know he did, because he’s already pulling away.

You try to keep your voice steady. “I said I love you.”

He’s quiet for too long...too fucking long.

Then he exhales, low and shaky, and steps back like you just slapped him.

“Don’t,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Don’t say that.”

You stare at him, still half-naked, still aching, still open. “Why not?”

“You know why.”

You feel it start to break—something inside your chest, something you’d been holding together for weeks with sex and silence.

He grabs his shirt off the floor without looking at you. “This was never supposed to be that.”

“And what is it supposed to be, then?” Your voice is rising now. “Just convenient? Just something to do when we’re lonely and bored and pretending it doesn’t mean anything?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just pulls his shirt over his head and avoids your eyes like a fucking coward.

“So that’s it?” you breathe. “I tell you I love you and you just… leave?”

Simon finally looks at you.

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something—maybe explain, maybe apologize—but then he just swallows, jaw clenched, and turns away.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says.

And then he walks out the door.

You don’t call after him, you don’t chase. You just sit there, still aching from where he was, still wet, still shaking, with the taste of I love you still on your tongue like it’s poison.

PART 2

------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

[imshymorph]

Idk honestly I could probably write a really in depth analysis on the prevalence of the blue/brown eyed Ghost debate, and what it means in terms of fandom politics especially when coupled with whether Ghost is a natural blond or a brunet, but I doubt anyone wants to hear about the political implications of people pushing most popular character in the series as aryan...

well, i for one would absolutely love to hear about it, but to be fair my degree is in media studies so fork found in kitchen

but tbh is it surprising that this kind of discourse (along with the whole Gaz “not being interesting enough” bs) is a prevalent discussion in a military propaganda game fandom? probably not lol

i also agree with your take that his eyes are brown as part of his character development and that it feeds into the complexity of the dynamics between them

anyway, don’t feel pressured to talk more about it if you don’t feel like it, just wanted to let you know that at least one person would read all of it lol

Much love!!

- Morph

Ghoul thoughts under the cut because I love media analysis and rambling

You hit the nail on the head by bringing up the Gaz "not being interesting" bullshit in relation to this entire thing because I absolutely see the crux of the brown vs blue eyed Ghost debate being a debate over which eye color is "better" which has inherently racist roots.

And as an immediate disclaimer: I am not saying that headcanoning Ghost with blue eyes makes you racist, I am not saying that headcanoning Ghost as blond makes you racist. I am simply pointing out that the way we view certain traits has been and will be filtered through a lens which requires an examination of our own values/beliefs.

It is so intensely interesting to me that in a fandom with a history of racial exclusion, for a media property that upholds whiteness as the pinnacle of virtue, that upholds western ideals and values as the height of moral purity, that places the good guys in a position where they can do NO WRONG despite having a higher torture rate than the bad guys, that a faceless character would be arbitrarily assigned blue eyes and blond hair despite textual/in game evidence to the contrary (yes there is evidence).

Now maybe I am just sensitive to certain things because I paid attention in school and know what a dog whistle sounds like, maybe that's all this is. However, within a fandom that seems to cater so hard to white women and has racist bullshit popping up every other week, I think... maybe we should examine why we want Ghost to have blue eyes.

I find that with faceless characters headcanons always exist within the hopes of making them more attractive. The idea that they would be ugly under the mask is antithetical to the wish fulfilment of fandom, so it makes sense that people would come up with a face for them. But then why are so many faceless characters made into skinny white blonds? Surely people would want some diversity- oh no, wait...

So we make Ghost blond. Alright, I mean he was a brunet in the comics and in the one scene where we see him take his mask off he's got dark hair, but I guess there were too many people with dark hair on the 141 already, so we gotta mix in a blond. But then why the blue eyes? He has blue eyes in the '09 comic, but in every cutscene we see in the '22 remake his eyes are brown. There's already two members of the 141 with blue eyes, so we don't need another one for diversity. So then why give Ghost blue eyes? If you want him to be closer to the '09 version why make him blond as well?

It's because people want to make him attractive, and in the dominant racial zeitgeist blue eyes are attractive. Which... I mean do I need to ask why? It's because they're a white european trait and people still hold white features as the attractive ones. Same with the blond hair. That's why WW2 Germany designated Blond hair and Blue eyes as the "true German" traits and created a whole class for them "aryan."

So what are the political implications of creating an aryan character out of the most popular character in the series (one who has minimal voice lines and minimal canon backstory in the reboot) within a fandom that regularly disregards/ignores the main black character? It's the continued upholding of whiteness and a specific kind of whiteness as more valuable than others. I'm not even going to say more valuable than blackness, I would say more valuable than other white traits. Why are blue eyes more attractive than brown eyes? Because they're more "white." Why is blond hair more attractive than brown? Because it's more "white." Why is a blond haired blue eyed Ghost such a popular headcanon despite evidence to the contrary? Because he's more white that way.

Now I like blond haired Ghost. I think it's an interesting addition to the color pallet of the team, and I like that it makes him look more like a ghost to be so washed out. But I think fandom has a habit of following what becomes popular within head canon spaces and making it fandom canon, and so many of us don't examine why a headcanon might pop up. Where did Ghost having blond hair come from? When did we all decide that was what we were going with? Why is it even a debate whether or not he has blue or brown eyes, and why does it matter?

If I said right now that Ghost 100% in canon of the '22 game has brown hair and brown eyes, would people get mad at me? And why? Why would it matter if he had brown hair and brown eyes? Does that make him less attractive? Why? Why does it matter? Why do you want him to have blond hair and blue eyes? Why do you care? What is the difference between blue and brown that makes it so important? For God's sake look at the societal conditioning that you've been put through! Why does it "make more sense" for him to have blue eyes if he's blond? Why?

Every single idea we have of what is and isn't attractive has been designed for us by the society we live in. Consider what ideals are being upheld when deciding that the "hot" character is blond and blue eyed while also discarding the black character. Being anti-racist and dismantling your own racial biases is a long and constant process, but it is so vitally important. And once we start examining those biases all sorts of shit starts popping up.

And before someone comes in and tells me it isn't that deep: maybe you should look at why you need it to not be that deep, does it make you uncomfortable to think that you might be feeding into these biases without realizing? And who does it benefit to have it not be "that deep" is there perhaps a group of people that would want you to not examine your preference for blue eyes and blond hair? Some sort of brotherhood perhaps...

[imshymorph]

they do it on purpose too, just to see the little grimace as you wipe the wet feeling away

and don’t complain because next time they’re 100% holding you by the back of your neck and straight up giving your cheek a fat lick

i headcanon that simon and/or price give wet kisses that leave that gross sticky feeling on your cheek oh naw 💔

[imshymorph]

Here it is! The second part to this fic! The Soap comfort (and some more hurt before that tbh) you’ve all been waiting for! probably not but who cares

Opposites attract pt2

Johnny’s frown deepens as you walk away, disappearing into the crowd. He stands there for a moment, processing what has happened before he’s pushing through the patrons himself to go and find you. He moves outside with ease, greeting some familiar faces along the way, his eyes skimming the area before he finds you.

He’s quick to be by your side, giving you a bit more distance this time. He studies your expression, noticing how you keep avoiding his eyes. He crosses his arms, deciding to give you time to break the silence.

Except you don’t, too busy with looking down at the cracked pavement, trying to swallow the knot that has firmly formed on your throat. In this moment you’re thankful that those that come out to smoke seem to gather on the other side of the door, the last thing you wanted right now was someone who knew Johnny to spot the both of you, to see you like this.

He keeps watching you, feeling how the silence hangs heavy between you two. He can’t take it anymore, so he reaches out, fingers lightly brushing against your chin to try to get you to look at him. “Hey”, he says, his voice probably the softest you’ve ever heard it before. “Talk to me, hen”.

Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t. You can’t even muster the words, so you just give a light shake of your head, your hand moving up to hold his, to avoid having to tilt your head back and look at him.

There’s no way you’d be able to handle it. If your gazes were to meet, you’d come crumbling down, the already-frayed thread that held you together would unravel, and you would be left in pieces. Pieces that no one would be interested in, much less him. Pieces you’d have to gather and mend on your own.

Johnny sees the way your hand trembles against his, how your fingers grip onto him tightly, as if holding for dear life. He knows you’re struggling to hold it together, noticing how the facade you’ve put up is starting to crack.

He takes another step closer, closing the distance between you two as he had done earlier in the pub. He’s gentle as he pulls his hand away from your grip, instead placing it on your waist, guiding you so you’re fully facing him now. “Look at me, please”.

That’s it, you think, because you know you can’t keep avoiding it. At some point you’ll have to either confront it or run away. Given the way he’s holding you, how it pulls you to him like a magnet would, only one option remains. So you give in, your head tilts back and you finally look at him.

Just like you had expected, it makes you feel a thousand times more stupid than you did before, because as soon as your eyes meet his beautiful ones, your breathing grows shaky and your eyes get glassed over.

Johnny feels his heart falter when he sees you look up at him. Your tear-filled eyes and the shaky breath you take pierce through him. He’s seen you cry before, this unconventional relationship having lasted long enough for that, but there's something different this time. Something that feels more heavy, raw.

He tightens his grip on your waist a bit more, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, to brush away the stray tear that had managed to escape. “Hey”, he calls, barely over a whisper, soft and careful as if you’d break if he spoke louder. “What’s goin’ on, bonnie? Talk to me”.

You have to take in a shaky breath to try to still yourself, to gather enough strength to mutter the words that have been on your mind this whole time. “I shouldn’t have come”, your voice comes out ridiculous, so tiny and shaky, barely even audible with all the noise going around you. You have to take in another shaky breath, your eyes closing as another rogue tear spills and you inevitably lean into his touch. “I should have known this isn’t for me”.

Johnny's heart sinks at your words, his hand freezing on your cheek. He can feel the defeat in your tone, the exhaustion and frustration. "What do ye mean?" he asks, his voice just as soft as yours. His touch, the gentleness in which he regards you, coaxes you to open your eyes, his gaze meeting yours. "What's not for ye?"

You can feel it, the way the thread thins out, just fraying further as little bits snap. “This”, you murmur, your hands raising in a halfhearted motion, gesturing at the space between the two of you. “I should’ve known it wouldn’t work”.

His brows furrow as he considers your words, his hand still on your cheek. "Ye think this isn't working?" He asks, his voice hesitant, almost uncertain —it catches you off guard, the idea that he might actually feel surprised at your confession—. Your eyes almost close again when he runs his thumb over your cheek, his touch still gentle. “What makes ye think that?"

You remain silent this time, your gaze shifting away from his as you try to collect your thoughts. You can’t just blurt out the words that take up your mind. Words like you’ll just get bored, or you’ll eventually leave me. Those are words that wouldn’t do anything but make you look pathetic, that would make evident the way you had clung onto something that everyone else could’ve easily known would never work out. So you just settle for a half truth. “I just do”.

Johnny can tell there's more to it than just the words you're saying. He knows you well enough to see through the half-truth, his hand dropping from your cheek to your waist again, pulling you closer once more.

He studies your face for a moment, the way you avoid his gaze and the way you seem to retreat into yourself. He lets out a soft sigh. "Ye ken I'm not jus’ gonna let this go, bonnie", he says, a hint of teasing in his voice, trying to bring the lightheartedness back into the conversation. Trying to see if your usual dynamic could take you out of the slump.

He knows it wasn’t the right move when he doesn’t get much of an answer from you. Instead your eyes focus on the mostly empty street, on the dim light of the streetlights and the fuzzy hue they seem to get due to all the smoke coming from the cigarettes of the people standing a few meters away.

You don’t understand what’s happening tonight, why today of all nights was the one making you this sensitive. Why you couldn’t handle any teasing, any quip. Whatever the reason was, it was really affecting you, because every time the playful tone was brought up, your chest tightened. Something inside you screaming at you that he wasn’t laughing with you, making you feel like you were the joke, like you had always been.

Johnny takes in the sight of you, your attention focused on the street, the way you seem to detach from the moment. He can see something is eating away at you, but he's unsure how to approach it, neither of you have ever been this open. So he knows the only thing he knows how to do, he steps closer, closing the distance between you once more. He places his hand under your chin, gently coaxing you to look at him. "Hey", he says, his voice firmer but still gentle. "Look at me".

“Johnny”, you mumble, and you’re not sure if it’s meant as a warning or pleading, whichever it is, it comes out a little strained. You’re not sure how much longer you’ll handle this back-and-forth, but the tight knot on your throat makes you think you’ll end up breaking sooner rather than later.

His heart clenches at the sound of your strained voice, the way you use his name sending a wave of concern through him. He can see how much this is taking a toll on you, the facade of strength finally cracking. He takes another step closer, his body now pressed against yours. His thumb rubs soft circles on your waist, a gesture that tries to be of quiet reassurance, his gaze locked on yours. "I'm right here, hen", he says softly. "Talk to me”.

All you can do is shake your head, because your throat constricts and your eyes get red-rimmed and glassy once more.

You just can’t do it, you couldn’t say everything that has been eating at you because it would just prove the voice in the back of your head right. You weren’t made to be with someone like him. You were too delicate, too weak and too naïve. He’d leave the moment you let your walls come down and showed your soft core, because he deserve someone strong and resilient like him.

Johnny can see the pain in your expression, the way your eyes fill with tears once more. He can sense your struggle to keep it all inside, to keep up the facade, and he feels lost on how to make you notice you don’t have to keep them up any longer. One of his hands returns to your cheek, big and warm as he cups it, ready to dry any tears that might roll over. "Enough with the head shakin’", he scolds lightly, his voice firm but gentle. "I ken ye're strugglin’, hen. That's why I'm askin’ ye to talk to me. Please, bonnie, just tell me what's on yer mind”.

Gods, you hate it. You hate how the soft pet names and the gentle tone wakes you inside and makes you melt, how his pleading makes you want to bear all of you to him. You hate the sniffle that leaves you and how the tears start to pour. You hate this, hate how tiny and shaky your voice is when you finally say what has been eating at you since the first time you both had gone out. “It won’t work”.

His heart breaks as he watches the tears pouring down your face, hearing the shaky vulnerability in your voice. He knows you're struggling, he can see it in every trembling line of your face. He brings his hand around your waist, pulling you closer to him, to the security of his chest. "What won't work, bonnie?" he asks, his voice a gentle coaxing, trying to keep pulling at the little piece of thread you had revealed. "Why are ye so sure about this?"

“Us”, you mumble, hating how it comes out in the shake of a soft cry. It drives you crazy, the way he can coax you into letting it out. The way his touch makes you feel grounded and safe, comforted even if it had been the overwhelming trigger earlier in the night. The thing that had brought you to this point. It all drives you crazy. It’s inevitable, you just become a fool when you’re around him. “We won’t work”, you say, shakily and small in between sniffles, “you’ll get tired of me”.

Johnny's heart sinks as he hears the words come out of your mouth, the raw pain in your voice a dagger to his soul. He holds you tighter, pulling you even closer against him, cradling you against his chest. He lets out a heavy sigh, knowing he had to solve what he had unwittingly been reinforcing this whole time. His hand adjusts, now rubbing soothing circles on your back. "No, bonnie”, he says softly. "We will work. I never get tired of ye. I never will”.

You let him pull you close, even if you know it would be smarter to move back before the thread can fully unravel. Before you break in so many pieces you’ll never be able to put them back together in a seamless way. Despite knowing it’s only a matter of time before he loses all interest, you can’t help but lean into him, into the comfort and safety his embrace brings you. Almost as if to enjoy the last rays of the sun before it’s covered by storm clouds. “It’ll get boring eventually”, you cry against his chest, feeling stupid as your words come out muffled and between quiet sobs. “This game”.

His hand comes up to get tangled in your hair, his other arm holding you tight against him. He can feel the way you lean into him, the way you seek comfort in his embrace, even if you're convinced it won't last. "No", Johnny says softly, his voice firm. "There is no game, lass. Nothin’ to get bored of. I'm not leavin’. I'm not getting tired of ye. I love ye”.

You can almost feel your heart stop, the little bit of thread that had been keeping your pieces together finally snapping as those three little words leave him. Somehow, you just cry harder. You’re not sure why. Maybe out of relief, or maybe fear of what it could mean in the long run. Whatever the reason, you hold onto him like a lifeline and cry as you fully crumble.

Johnny holds onto you tightly, his arms encircling you in a secure grip. He can feel the way you tremble in his arms, the way you cling onto him like a lifeline. And with every sob that wracks through your body, he can feel his heart break a little more. He gently pulls you closer, lowers you both to sit on the step of the curb, cradling you in his lap. He presses soft kisses against the top of your head, murmuring soothing words. "I've got ye", he whispers. "I'm here, bonnie. I'm not going anywhere”.

He finally manages to prove the nasty voice on the back of your head wrong, because he continues to soothe you, his hand gently stroking your back as he holds you tightly against him. He doesn't know how much time passes as you sob in his arms, but he doesn't rush you, he doesn’t give up nor pull away because your walls have come down. He just holds onto you, his touch a silent promise of his unwavering support.

After a while, your sobs start to subside, your body trembling slightly with what he’s sure is exhaustion. Johnny waits for a moment before he speaks, his voice soft, his lips brushing against your forehead with his words. “Feelin’ any better, bonnie?"

You give a small nod, your face is still pressed against his chest, your eyes closed as you focus on the familiarity of it all. The feeling of his skin against yours, the mix of his cologne and laundry detergent with something uniquely him filling your nose and the calming beating of his heart against your ear. “You love me?” You eventually dare to ask, your voice strained and hoarse after all the crying. You just need to hear it again, to feel the reassurance to finally be able to fight back and quieten the voice.

Johnny softly threads his fingers through your hair, his touch gentle and soothing, knowing the kind of touch that helps you relax. His heart clenches at your question, the vulnerability in your voice tugging at his heartstrings. “Aye”, he affirms almost immediately, his voice softer than usual. “I do. I love ye”. He takes a deep breath, his hand continuing its stroking motion, the arm around your waist tightening a bit more to make sure you feel secure against him. “And I’m not goin’ anywhere, hen”.

You can’t help the sigh that leaves you, the one that makes you feel like a heavy weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Your head slowly leans back just enough to look at him, so your red-rimmed eyes meet his while one of your hands moves up to rest on his chest, right where his heart beats. “I love you too”, you mutter, feeling like —for the first time since you had met him— you were free of all worries and insecurities.

Johnny’s heart skips a beat as he looks down at you, feeling the warmth of your hand on his chest. Your words, so softly spoken, cause a wave of overwhelming emotion to wash over him. He brings his hand up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb tracing a soothing path across your skin. "Say it again," he whispers, his voice barely above a whisper. "Say it again, lass”.

A small smile pulls at your lips, one that hadn’t been there for a long time now, at least not one this sincere, that reached your eyes like this one did. “I love you”, you whisper once more, leaning into his touch, your head turning a bit more to press a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I really do”, you reassure softly, lightly nuzzling your cheek into his touch.

His heart swells with a mix of love and relief, the sincerity in your smile and your words soothing the worry that had settled in his chest, the possibility of having made a mistake that would push you away having worried him.

He lets out a soft breath as your head leans into his touch, the feel of your lips against his wrist sends a shiver down his spine. "I’ll never tire of hearin’ that", he murmurs, his gaze fixed on you. He gently cups your chin with his free hand, tilting your face up to look at him. "I love ye. More than ye ken”.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, taking in your tear-streaked face and the flush of color brought to your cheeks through crying. There was a vulnerability about you that only made his love for you grow even more. He shifts slightly, lifting you up in his arms so that you are sitting in his lap more properly, your bodies now completely intertwined. He brings his face closer to yours, his breath warm against your skin as he speaks. “Ye're my bonnie", he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. "And I'm not lettin’ ye go. Not now, not ever".

He leans closer, pressing a kiss to your lips, one that is almost meant to seal his words. It’s surprisingly slow and tender, such a stark contrast to the usual passionate and playful ones you’ve shared many times before. But it’s not like you’ll complain about it, instead you melt into his chest, expressing the same level of care and love as you return the kiss.

When he pulls back, his usual little smirk is back on his lips, one of his hands resting on your back and rubbing random patterns. “What do ye say if we leave here and head home, put on one of those movies ye like?”

He doesn’t give you much time to answer, mostly because he knows it would be a yes. So he stands up, easily taking you along in his arms before gently setting you on your feet. One of his arms comfortably wrapping around your shoulders as he guides you to his car, parked just at the end of the street.

As you walk with him, comfortably tucked into his side, protected from the chilly night and the self-conscious thoughts, his words resonate in your mind. We head home, that’s definitely something you could get used to hearing.

[imshymorph]

No wonder Johnny is only allowed to work on demolitions and close combat, the ONE time Price let him take the sniper position (because Ghost was out on medical) was a mess.

He absolutely forgot like half of the stuff he needed for his post, not being used to have to carry that kind of gear around. One of the main things he forgot was the little tripod piece to stand his rifle on.

So instead he bent you over and in half like a lawn chair, face down ass up and set the riffle on you. “Be nice an’ still, aye bonnie?” His voice on your ear, his weight keeping you in place.

I mean he did get the tango, but he also made the two of you almost an hour late to rendezvous —almost having a whole squad sent in your search—, because he had to reward you for doing such a good job.

[imshymorph]

Alright, so this ended up being way longer than i thought it would be, so it’s gonna be a two parter!

Plan was hurt/confort with Soap! There’s part two now! (this part is hurt the next will be comfort)

Opposites attract

“C’mon, bonnie jus’ take the glasses off”. Johnny says, his brows raising in amusement at your continued refusal.

You don’t think he knows why you’ve still got them on, that's precisely why they’re there for, anyway. You had no idea how you had ended up in this situation, You had always been on the calmer side, you enjoyed your alone time, loved your job at the small book shop a few streets from here and spent most of your friday nights at home, with one of you confort movies on and making a fancy dinner for yourself. You were one for picnic dates and slow dancing in the kitchen, not for one night stands and situationships.

It’s a wonder you get along with someone like Johnny, let alone have a relationship with him… or whatever this was. You didn’t quite know how it happened, how he always managed to talk you into doing whatever he had planned for the two of you. But you did, which had landed you in a pub full of people just like him, loud and rambunctious, not scared to make their presence known and, of course, military.

“Just take ‘em off,” he insists, and god dammit moments like this make you hate how convincing the confident grin on his lips can be. Still, you manage to stay strong. “It would mess up with my outfit, though”. It’s the best excuse you can think of, and it makes you internally cringe because you both know you’re not one to fuss about outfits, much less about sunglasses.

You seem to get away with it though, mostly because a few already-drunk and fatigue-clad men walk by, almost bumping into the both of you. You adjust your glasses, making sure they stay up to hide the uncomfortable and slightly anxious way your eyes move from one side to the other of the pub. At least the rowdy group gives you an excuse to move away from the quickly crowding bar area and to a more secluded corner.

A laugh leaves Johnny as he chats with a couple of the drunk blokes, because of course he’d know them, the social butterfly that he is. He looks around for a second when he finds the spot where you had been seconds ago empty, but it barely takes him a moment before he has spotted you, a smile on his lips as he goes to you.

He seems so natural here, the way he easily moves through the crowd, getting nods and cheers from the groups in the different booths and tables. You’re sure he’d tell you that this place is a second home to him. A place where he feels free and surrounded by his own people. Well, his own people except you, of course, that one you were still trying to figure out. After all, what would someone like him see in someone like you?

Your thoughts are quickly interrupted when he stands before you, stopping close enough that he towers over you. He leans even closer, if that’s possible, until his mouth is just centimeters away from your ear –you’re sure he’d justify it as him making sure you can hear him through the loud music and crowd at the bar–. “Come on, bonnie, you’re acting like a poser right now”, he says, that damned little smirk on his lips when he pulls back enough to look at your face.

“A poser?” You ask with a light huff, even if you know he’s only saying it as a nice way to call out your shitty excuse from earlier, “you know how dumb that sounds?”. And you know you’ve fallen right into his trap when that ever-present smirk turns into a full on grin. “Says the one wearing fake glasses,” Johnny instantly retorts, leaning back on the edge of a table, not quite sitting. His arms cross over his chest as he looks down at you, a playful grin on his lips as he studies your every movement –or well, as much as he can while you’re wearing the sunglasses–.

“They’re not fake, they’re sunnies”, you correct him, because there’s no other thing you can think of saying. Before you can try to add any other half-assed excuses, he talks again, “Aye, sunnies at night, in a pub”.

Your mouth opens but no further excuses come out, and he’s still got that stupidly good looking grin on his lips when he pushes himself off the table and moves closer to you again. If someone looked over now they’d definitely think you were a couple. How the hell did this even start? “C’mon, lass. Take ‘em off.”

You don’t get to argue this time, because as the words leave his lips, his hands reach up and gently pull your glasses off. You take a slow deep breath through your nose, trying your best to ignore the way your stomach churns with nervousness at the idea of being more vulnerable than you already feel.

The smirk returns to Johnny’s lips when his eyes can finally make direct contact with yours, his irises seaming an even more vibrant blue now that the polarization can’t mute them. He neatly folds them to place them in his pocket, one of his hands finding your waist to pull you closer, being careful to avoid causing any unwanted attention from any of his acquaintances.

“Look how bonnie ye’re”, he murmurs in a tone so amused that it makes you doubt if he means it or just says it to mock you. His free hand moves up, his index finger landing under your chin to tilt your head back, looking down at you with a gaze that makes your knees weak. He has to know how much power he has over you, how easy he gets you to do whatever he wants.

“You suck”, you murmur with a light huff, it mostly comes out lighthearted, but it’s partially heartfelt, mostly because you hate the way you can’t help but lean into his touch. You don’t understand it, you don’t understand why it feels right with him of all people. It’s not just about the different backgrounds, it’s how different you’re in every other way. You can’t explain what he sees in you, but you like this thing too much to have the guts to really tell him to fuck off.

“Yeah? What are ye gonna do ‘bout it, hen?” He teases, lowering his voice to that tone that makes your brain short circuit, tilting his head so he’s leaning closer and invading your personal space. You can feel his breath against your skin, the warmth radiating from him, the way his thumb tenderly brushes against your chin.

You’re convinced now, he has to know the effect he has on you, for sure. There’s no way you’re really hiding how your body gravitates towards him instinctively. “You’re way too cocky, you know that?” you ask with a little scoff, trying to convince yourself as much as him of how confident you supposedly feel.

The reality is that if anything, he’s the one making you feel safe and confident now, because you quickly discard the idea of pulling back from him and heading to the bar for a drink on your own to make a point, not feeling bold enough to shuffle through the crowd.

“Oh, I'm aware, lass.” Johnny retorts with his stupidly good-looking smirk. He’s still doing it, holding you close, giving you that look. “‘S part of my charm, right?” There’s something in the way he looks down at you, in how his head lightly tilts to the side. He’s in control, he always is, and it just makes the palm of your hands feel sweaty.

“If that helps you sleep at night”, you retort, trying to reflect his teasing tone, to portray yourself as confident and playful as he always is. But internally you’re screaming at yourself because why won’t you just step back and pull away, set a bit more space between the both of you. It’s like your mind gives the order while your body does its own bidding. And that’s when it begins, when you start to feel stupid for not doing something, anything. For not being more like him.

“I sleep just fine, bonnie”, the scott replies, followed by an amused scoff, the smirk still there. He seems to revel in the situation, how he easily traps you between him and the wall, how he keeps you close to him with barely any effort. He can sense your internal conflict, see the way your eyes flee around the room, and he can’t help but find it endearing. “Are ye getting nervous, hen?”

“Oh, fuck off”, you huff, once more playing it off as playful, giving an eye roll that makes your decision seem more confident. And surprisingly, you manage to do something this time, even if that something is only turning your head to look at something, anything else, but him.

A chuckle leaves him, and you two are so close that you can almost feel the vibration of his chest against yours. “What, can’t handle it, lass?” Johnny taunts you, his tone sarcastic as he watches your gaze turn away from him. He’s amused by it, he always is, maybe that’s why he keeps you around. “C’mon, don’t get shy now”.

You can feel your stomach churn, something in the sarcastic tilt of his voice, the fun he seems to have with your anxiousness, being enough for your body to finally respond as you take a step back to try and create some more space between you. “I don’t know why I came”, and despite saying it in a slightly exaggerated tone to make it sound like banter, there’s more honesty than you’d like to admit in the words.

You know you’ll be exhausted by the time you get home, with the way your mind is rushing and your chest tightening, you’ll feel emotionally hungover for the next couple of days. You liked being with Johnny, you really did, and you knew a part of you really enjoyed the teasing. There was something to the trepidation your complex relationship caused that kept pulling you in. But at the same time you despised it.

It wasn’t because of him, but rather how none of his answers ever seemed definitive, always teasing, always changing. You hated it because of the way it fed that nasty little voice in the back of your head. The one that was adamant on how you didn’t belong together, the one that kept reminding you about how different you two truly were. That same one that would bombard you late at night, once you were all curled up in bed, ripping sleep from you as your mind flooded with thoughts of how he’d leave soon, how he’d grow tired of you. Afterall, the back and forth could only be amusing for so long, right? Johnny would eventually find someone he truly belonged with and you’d be discarded.

You’re too deep into your thoughts to notice the way his lips pull into a grin, how he follows right behind you despite your step back. His lips are barely a couple centimeters away from your ear, his hand finding its place on your waist once more, his grip a bit firmer than before but not too tight. “I think we both ken why”, he murmurs in a low voice, his eyes still focused on yours, making you feel like he can look straight into your soul.

He knows how you feel, loving to push and pull to see how far he can take it, how long you’ll hold off before putting him in his place. “Ye can’t get enough of me, can ye, bonnie?”. You can’t help it when you roll your eyes, not so much to keep the playful appearance this time, but rather as a reflex when the little voice just grows louder in your mind. It’s not like you wanted to give your doubts any validity, but the teasing tone in his words, the ever-present smirk on his lips… Maybe it was just a game for him, a cat-and-mouse pursuit where he’d eventually catch you, and then discard you as soon as it was done. It was just a matter of time before he forgot about you.

You keep your head to the side, looking at the dart game going on in the other corner of the pub, at the rowdy groups occupying the booths and the pool table and the constant influx of patrons that moved in and out for a smoke. Whatever kept you from looking at him or thinking of how ridiculous it had been to come to this place.

“Look at me,” Johnny says, his voice firmer this time as it pierces through the surrounding noise. His free hand comes up, his touch gentle when he takes hold of your chin, but still firm as he turns your head so you’ll focus on him. He can tell you’re lost in your thoughts, notice the way the self-doubt and insecurities bubble to the surface.

He moves a step closer, and you can feel the brush of his chest against yours now, “Stop overthinking. Jus’ look at me, hen”. Your head goes with the flick of his wrist and before you can think about it, the moment your eyes find his, the words spill out, much more honest than they had been before. “I shouldn’t have come”.

You can’t catch yourself in time and you try to muster up any excuse, any funny retort to give it the banter-y tone you should’ve kept. But it’s too late, because his gaze softens and his grip on your chin loosens a bit. He knows. Johnny can tell you’re conflicted, can feel the way your words become heavy with uncertainty. He doesn’t let you retreat, though.

Instead he takes another step closer, closing the remaining distance between you, his body now flush against yours as he keeps his eyes on yours. “Ye’re here now”, the scott says, his voice steady, much more than yours has been all night. “So stop overthinkin’ and focus on me.”

“Easier said than done”, you mutter, but you stay in place. You don’t pull back or move away, despite the way the little demeaning voice tells you to. Despite the light tremble in your hands and the way your stomach churns with nerves. This time it’s you giving the order to stay in place, even when your whole body screams at you to pull away.

Johnny notices your trembling, the way your body betrays your facade of calmness. He sees all of it, the nervous tension on your features, the slight tremble on your hands and chin. And he loves it, all of it, excited to see when you’ll snap back.

He knows you’re resisting the urge to pull away, how you hold onto conviction and stay in place. You both do, your gazes locked. It’s a battle of wills now. With a smirk, he decides to push just a little bit more. “Stop thinkin’. Start feelin’, lass”.

A small huff leaves you, a sarcastic retort about how you would have never thought about it if it weren’t for his help dying on your tongue, because the insecurity has comfortably made up camp on your chest now. “As if it was that easy”, is the closest you manage to grumble, with less bite than you would’ve liked.

But you can’t help it, can’t make it more sharp or decisive, because the way his stupid smirk pulls the corner of his lips just makes bile rise on your stomach. The voice has convinced you now, it’s all a game. A dumb cat-and-mouse game where you’re always the prey, not only that, but the one that gets caught time and time again. The voice is screaming at you, telling you to realise that a game like that never ends well for the mouse.

Johnny’s grin widens, because he knows you’re battling your own thoughts, but he also knows how to get a rise out of you. It’s just a matter of time before you bite back. He steps even closer, trapping you between his warm body and the wall behind you, both hands on either side of your waist now, “Stop resisting, bonnie. Ye’re only fooling yerself”.

You have to look away this time, because maybe on a different night you would have enjoyed the thrill of not knowing how serious any of this was, the constant push-and-pull and being poked at. But right now all you can do is feel stupid for ever thinking you had a real chance.

Somehow it was always fun for him, he could go as far as he wanted. You could bite back every time if you wanted to, start banter as much as he did, and he’d always take it in stride before dishing it back. It seemed like, no matter what, it was only you being left to deal with a heavy chest and a knot on your throat by the end of the night.

You’d usually take it, deciding that it was worth it, that the thrill of the adrenaline pumping through your veins made up for all the fears that took over once you were back home. But right now all you could feel was like you could throw up any minute.

His smirk faded into a light frown, his grip loosening a bit, becoming more gentle. He could sense that something was off, it wasn’t like your usual banter, you would have already put him in his place if it was. The scott takes in your expression, noticing the way you avoid his gaze.

There’s something different this time, something more than just your usual back-and-forth, something deeper than you being out of your comfort zone. He takes a step back, creating some space between you, but staying close enough to still touch you. “What’s going on, bonnie?”

That’s all it takes to make you feel like your heart has dropped, because he has noticed now. He has seen you, all weak and vulnerable and nothing like him. The knot on your throat tightens at the same time the bile burns the back of your throat. “I need some fresh air”, you mumble, barely loud enough to hear over the pub’s noise.

You don’t give him time to answer, barely any time to process your words even, before you’re walking past him, your head low as you manage to weave through the crowd and out the door.

[imshymorph]

I really appreciate you reblogging that post about how difficult it is to quit an addiction. I myself am currently struggling with a sugar/caffeine addiction, and I drink way too much coke cola (and if I can't get my hands on some, energy drinks). It's nice to be reminded that it's not just me who is constantly thinking about how good it would feel to have juuust a little more, even if I said I would stop. I've tried to quit it multiple times, and each failed attempt disheartens me greatly and makes me feel weak willed, even if I rationally know everyone battling an addiction has those moments.

Sugar addictions often aren't treated as seriously as the "scary" drugs or smoking, but it's just as damaging to your health and difficult to quit, especially when the human brain is hardwired to want sugary, fatty foods. I hope one day to be strong enough to resist those cravings and get my health back on track.

You can become addicted to anything that makes you feel good. People are getting addicted to AI chat bots for god's sake, it doesn't even have to be quality stuff as long as it gives you that rush of dopamine it can reel you in. Now, some things are better designed to addict you, drugs and alcohol, sugar and caffeine, but that doesn't mean you aren't still getting that good feeling. Even if you don't get it every time, even if you only get that hit the first time, humans will chase that first high for the rest of their lives. It's the reason people stay in abusive relationships, things will never be as good as they were at the start but there's this silent promise that they might be.

Anyone can become addicted to anything. And I'm not saying that to scare anyone, but more to make the point that no one is above addiction. Addiction is not a moral failing, or a weakness, it's a human survival tactic. We want the thing that makes us feel good, that keeps the loneliness at bay, that stops us from feeling bad things even if they do that by keeping us from feeling anything at all. Our brains want that dopamine shot, even when reasonably we know whatever is giving us that shot is bad for us.

Getting past an addiction is hard no matter what that addiction is. I try to tell people that they need to find something to redirect that craving towards. For one of my loved ones we're working on finding a painting class and a book club because they've realized that a lot of their relapsing comes from feeling lonely. For you, maybe having a chew fidget would help, or keeping fruit on hand, or (if you're like me) purging your house of all sugary snacks. I can't keep sugar in my house or I'll eat it, so I don't buy it. It sucks, I want it, but I know myself and I know that the best way to keep myself from doing something is to try and remove as much temptation as possible.

It's much harder for me to justify leaving my house to go get candy than it is for me to get up and get a chocolate from the pantry. Or if I really want a sweetie, I have to figure out making it myself. Which means I can try and figure out a healthier option to make. Idk it's a long road, and something like sugar/caffeine/alcohol is so ingrained in our society that it feels impossible to avoid.

I have a friend who used heroin (now clean, I'm so proud of her) and she always said the hardest part of recovery was giving a shit about herself. She said there was always going to be part of her that wanted to use, so she had to make the rest of her louder, had to find reasons to care enough not to go back to her old habits. She got a lot of tattoos during her recovery, reconnected with her mom.

Not to say that addicts don't care about themselves, or that you don't care about yourself, I always thought she meant it more in the way of a parent caring for a child. You know, you don't let kids do something just because they want to because you care about keeping them safe. In the same way you sort of have to parent yourself. Say you've got sugar at home even though you don't, promise you'll make yourself donuts and then quit as soon as you get home because you don't want to boil oil. Learn to make croissants and then never make them again because they're such a fucking hassle. idk

You're not weak because you have trouble telling yourself no, people generally have trouble with that. You're just a person trying to listen to your body. It's just too bad your body isn't always a great judge of what's good for it.

[imshymorph]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies; masterlist

john price x fem!reader | outlaw/cowboy and preachers daughter | read on ao3 | pinterest board

All your life, you have known nothing but the Word of God and your father's short temper. Every day, you are forced to turn the other cheek for each minor mistake you make within your father's gaze; the old wounds hardly have time to heal before he gives you new ones. Yet, as a devout follower to God and your father, you have no one else to turn to. When the owner of the saloon tells you about some strangers lurking around town, you decide to take your chances with these wayward men in the hopes that they'll save you. But they are dangerous, conniving bandits; a fact you learn a little too late. You should have known that sheep who stray too far from the flock are at the mercy of the wolves. Better sharpen those teeth of yours, little lamb.

a/n: please heed the warnings on each chapter; overall; religious trauma; domestic abuse; reader is christian; western!au;

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten

extras:

moodboard made by @syoddeye

updated: 2/25/25 follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[imshymorph]

Soap is the last person anyone would expect to want a wife as desperately as he does but oh. Does that boy think about marriage more than anything else.

[imshymorph]

hi, i’m once more talking to the void in case someone reads this and actually cares :)

I’m in my last year of uni, had to go through the whole moving back to my hometown thing last week and right now i’m juggling having to do my bachelor’s thesis and my new job, which will go on for the next few months.

So i’m very slowly working on things and i’m writing down all the new ideas i get. i’m not sure when i’ll post nor how frequently, just know i’m not in a hiatus or anything.

i’ll try to post decent stuff soon enough, much love!

[imshymorph]

Saw something similar on my dash and needed a Gaz version

[imshymorph]

Price's Lil Wife Masterlist

Original post

Shenanigans based on original post

More

The boys take your side

you get hurt and they gotta come help

How they react when others hit on you

Finding out Simon's Birthday

Lil wife visiting base

Poly!141 based on the Original Post above These are all assuming they are living/sleeping together

How poly!141 began

Price's Rules

Poly!141 comfort - The reader gets jumped and comes home to her men

Period comfort

They find you reading dark fantasy books

You try to fix the dishwasher without them

Lil wife wearing a shirt with a military insult on it

Tag list: @skeletonsucker @goatgoesmbe @unclearblur @xxravenxstarxx-blog @deadpoolissohot @leon-thot-kennedy @katerinavel @jswizzledizzle @lucienofthelakes @mestrecadumaverick @calisnewworld

[imshymorph]

This blog is pro tits and anti Nazi