#Double leg takedown

[noneedtofearorhope]

[historicalfightingguide]

“ 0:00 - 1. Head Inside Standing Double Leg 2:17 - 2. Head Inside Knee Drop Double Leg 4:09 - 3. Head Outside Knee Drop to Standing Double Leg 5:34 - 4. Head Outside Knee Drop to Angle Cut Double Leg 5:43 - 5. Head Outside Orthodox to Southpaw Standing Double Leg 6:32 - 6. Head Outside Standing Double Leg 7:15 - 7. Following Up After Double Leg “ The video is focused on material meant for modern audiences interested in grappling and/or MMA, however this type of takedown is present across different martial arts and periods, including many historical systems. Folio 21r of the Codex Wallerstein is a type of a double leg takedown, and it’s present in Meyer’s system as well as just a couple of examples. Here’s an older post going a bit more in-depth in regards to Meyer’s and other historical versions of the technique.

Also importantly the video showcases a number of different variations of positioning, tactics and leverages one can use to achieve the overall technique. Being able to adapt to changing circumstances was relevant no matter what grappling system you trained with historically, even if sometimes the ‘rules of engagement’ may have been different.

In case you’re interested in historical forms of grappling and wrestling check out

Ringen discussiongroup! as well as  HEMA Grapplers  and Scholars of Fiore dei Liberi.

For anyone who hasn’t yet seen the following links:

Some advice on how to start studying the sources generally can be found in these older posts

Remember to check out  A Guide to Starting a Liberation Martial Arts Gym as it may help with your own club/gym/dojo/school culture and approach.

Check out their curriculum too.

Fear is the Mind Killer: How to Build a Training Culture that Fosters Strength and Resilience by   Kajetan Sadowski   may be relevant as well.

“How We Learn to Move: A Revolution in the Way We Coach & Practice Sports Skills”  by Rob Gray  

Another useful book to check out is  The Theory and Practice of Historical European Martial Arts (while about HEMA, a lot of it is applicable to other historical martial arts clubs dealing with research and recreation of old fighting systems).

Why having a systematic approach to training can be beneficial

Worth checking out are this blogs tags on pedagogy and teaching for other related useful posts.

And if you train any weapon based form of historical fencing check out the ‘HEMA game archive’ where you can find a plethora of different drills, focused sparring and game options to use for effective, useful and fun training.

Consider getting some patches of this sort or these cool rashguards to show support for good causes or a t-shirt like to send a good message while at training.

And stay safe

[deputy-buck]

Makhachev vs. Moises 7/17/21

[sprout-fics]

Tag, You're It: Part Two

(Poly 141 x F! Reader) 18+

Masterlist

Rating: Explicit, 18+ WordCount: 6.3k Tags: F! Reader, Minors DNI, Chase/Takedown, Hunter/Prey, Anal sex, Anal fingering, Dirty talk, Consent checks, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Semi-Public sex, Edging, Orgasm delay, Orgasm Denial, PriceGaz, Phone sex by technicality Warnings: Mild Consensual Non Consent

You manage to avoid Gaz and Price- up until you don’t.

It’s after sunset when you finally pause to take a breather, hidden in the shadows of the empty drill area. Darkness shrouds the shanty buildings and hastily constructed walls, slanting shadows through the distant flood lights that illuminate the rest of the base. 

You had caught some strange looks from some of the recruits earlier in the day, looking a little disheveled from your earlier encounter with Soap and Ghost. You can still feel the mess between your thighs, the drip of Johnny’s spend oozing from your entrance into your panties. You had managed to scrub most of Simon’s cum off your face, enough so it isn’t noticeable by anyone who you pass. Just as long as they don’t look too closely. It makes your skin shiver, a little embarrassed, shamefully turned on that you’re walking around with an ever-present reminder of their claim on you.

Cold air seeps into your lungs as you breathe, doubled over after your short sprint past the guards. The damp mist of it curls away from your lips like smoke, legs trembling a little with exertion. Yet beneath the fatigue there’s still a low, thrilling excitement at this game you’re playing, knowing that for now- you’re winning.

Price and Gaz have yet to find you. You gave them the slip earlier as they stalked you through the outer perimeter of the base, their forms slipping through the trees in search of you. They had been hard to spot, you hadn’t even noticed them sweeping the forest for you. Not a word had been spoken between them as they searched for you, and with your heart racing in your throat you had prayed simultaneously that they would pass you by and discover you hiding.

You’d pressed yourself flat against the dirt, shielded by ferns and through some miracle, they had passed you. That had been hours ago. Now, with darkness fallen, you know there’s no holds barred the closer the clock ticks to midnight, counting down the minutes until the end of this game. 

You hear it then, as you heave an exhale against the side of the hastily constructed buildings, intended for sweeping houses and sniper shoot outs. It’s distant, an unintentional crunch of boots against gravel, and it has your ears attuning to the smallest noise in the distance- a low voice that murmurs into a radio. 

“Roger, Cap.”

Gaz.

Instantly the air in your chest seems to freeze, and you barely stop yourself from sucking in another breath that the sergeant might hear, close as he already is. He sounds like he’s on the opposite side of the building, slowly circling to your position. With every heartbeat he creeps closer, tracing the scent of you through the evening darkness.

For a moment you consider a mad dash to freedom to escape Gaz’s slow but silent pursuit. Yet if your previous instance with Soap and Ghost is anything to go by, you know exactly how that will end. 

Then again, that’s the fun of it all.

A murmur, quieter this time, and you’re unable to make out the words. Yet it’s closer, and your heart hammers louder in your chest in response. You wonder if maybe he’ll hear it, hear your unsteady breathing, might somehow smell the arousal on you that rises with every shaky inhale. 

It’s no good. You’re too exposed where you stand, just on the outside of the building, out in the open as moonlight streams onto your wide eyes, your back plastered to the wall. If Gaz walks by he’ll spot you instantly. You can almost imagine the smirk of self-satisfaction at having found you, eyes twinkling with victory. It makes your eyes narrow, your blood rising with determination. 

You sink, crouch and listen to the subtle shift of him in the near distance. You think you hear Gaz’s footsteps somewhere behind the building, but it’s unclear which direction they’re headed. A gamble then, to make sure you flank him and escape. 

Your movements are slow, like a puma stalking through the undergrowth. You’ve learned your lesson from earlier- more careful where you put your feet, gentle with your breathing, ears attuned to every whisper of sound that comes from Gaz’s direction. As you round the corner of the edifice there’s only silence, and a peek reveals he isn’t there either. So, you stand, slowly, press yourself to the wall and slink along the exterior. 

A crackle of a radio. A huff. 

Gaz blinks abruptly into existence in the path ahead, nothing there until you suck in a breath and he’s just there. His form coiled, ready and before you can even finish processing that damned smirk he launches himself at you. 

You yelp, bolt in the direction you came, but surprise dulls your movements, has your feet skid along the dirt. It takes mere moments for Kyle to seize you by the back of your shirt, spin you off balance and push your front up against the outside of the building. 

“Target captured.” He huffs into his radio, pleased, and there’s a pause and a crackle before an answering huff of laughter greets your ears. Price. 

“Good work sergeant.” The captain praises and oh. That makes sense. No doubt Price is somewhere nearby, watching, observing, reporting your movements as Gaz does the dirty work of stalking you through the training area. You should have known. 

“Hi Cap.” You breathe, torn between annoyance and amusement. You hear Price chuckle on the other end of the radio, and you know that sound. Know the feeling of it rumbling through you with his chest pressed against yours, his weight pushing you down into the mattress. It melds with the scent of Kyle clouding your senses, making your eyes flutter and your gut stir with a silky, slick desire. 

“Made it easy for us, didn’t you love?” Price taunts, and you grunt at that, wiggling in Gaz’s grip with little success.

“Ah ah.” Kyle scolds, tightening his hold on you until a hiss of pain threatens behind your teeth. “You’re not getting away. We’ve been tracking you since we saw you escape the warehouse.”

You pause at that, blinking as you process Gaz’s words. That had been hours ago, you thought you’d shaken them more than once, but now you realize the game they’d been playing the entire time. Getting close enough to drink in your scent and then smiling to each other, letting you escape out from under them, if only to prolong the excitement of the chase just a little longer. 

Toying with their food.

You go lax in your surprise, and Gaz’s hands soften on you as a result. It’s a split-second decision on your part, entirely instinctive as you thrash and somehow shake him off, boots skidding as you bolt.

Gaz yelps with surprise, reaching for you and coming up only with air. You hear Price bark an order at the sergeant, but Gaz is already moving, giving chase. 

You manage to make it around the corner, and not weighed down by the same gear Gaz is wearing you manage to put valuable distance between you both. Yet Gaz is still hot on your heels, huffing a gritted little “Why you little-” somewhere behind you. It makes an almost hysterical laugh bubble up your throat, breathless, choked on a toxic combination of delight and adrenaline.

You weave between the shanty buildings, taking sharp corners and trying desperately to shake him. Yet it seems every time you manage to get just enough of a gap on him, Gaz manages to close the distance, Price chattering in his ear and informing him of your every movement.

It’s the captain’s words, then, that pilfer away the remainder of your luck.

You run around a corner and run straight into Gaz’s chest with a breathless little ‘oof’, reeling backwards a moment too late. Gaz reaches out, catches both your wrists in his fists, hauls you off balance so he can press your back up against a wall, his knee wedged between your thighs. 

“Going somewhere?” He asks cheekily, panting past the delighted, thrilled smile that spreads across his face.

“Trying to.” You answer, equally breathless. Gaz huffs a laugh at your reply, and raises his knee just an inch higher, enough to make you shudder a gasp of sensation as it grinds against the apex of your thighs.

“Atta boy, Gaz.” Price rumbles in Gaz’s radio, and he also sounds pleased, drinking in the easy victory.

You crane your head a little, unintentionally baring the bare flesh of your neck to the sergeant- a mistake. Gaz leans forward abruptly, mouth pressing against the skin there and letting his tongue go flat over the spot he’s seized before he seals his lips over the spot and sucks.

Your knees tremble under you unexpectedly, and you moan at the bite of pain and pleasure as Kyle sucks a dark hickey into your neck. His entire front is flat against yours, bracing you against the rough brick of the wall behind you, allowing you no escape from his onslaught. The wavering, licking flame of need inside you blazes brightly at the sensation, shuddering as the heat pulses low in your core, slick and warm and empty. It only grows when Gaz shifts just enough for him to expertly roll his hips into your own, teasing you with just a moment of dizzying, needed friction.

“Let’s take our captive somewhere…a little more intimate.” Price encourages darkly as Kyle parts from you. You shudder at the tenor of his voice, with Kyle pressed flat against your front, your hands caught in his, his breath fogging against your shoulder. You’re already panting, a little dizzy off a few touches alone and it’s unfair how Gaz can do this to you when he’s this wound up, laying his intentions into your sensitive skin until you puddle into his touch.

“The building to your right, with the window and the desk.” The captain goes on, and Kyle grunts as you hauls you to him, your feet skidding as you attempt to thrash him off. It’s useless, and the thought that maybe you’ll manage to evade them again dims quickly into nothing. 

It doesn’t take long for Gaz to bend you forward over the desk, forcing your hands up above your head so they grip the opposite side. His lips trail the shell of your ear and you shudder, containing a sound of want that bubbles up inside you. 

“Keep them there for me, won’t you, doll?” He breathes, and gods, the lust in his voice is so evident it renders you soft, malleable under him, a quick and painless surrender that forces the air from your chest in a sigh. 

“Good. I can see you.” Price’s voice filters through the radio, and Gaz takes a hand to tilt your head towards the window, to the rise in the distance from which the moon hangs low in the sky. 

“Smile for the captain, pretty girl.” Gaz taunts, and you feel heat rise to your face at the realization Price is going to watch, going to tell his sergeant exactly how to defile you before he drags you to his captain like a prize.

It’s as if Price can read your mind, can see your expression through his scope in the distance, for you hear his voice rumble through the static with a chuckle. 

“That’s right, love. Gaz here is going to warm you up for us, and then bring you in like a proper soldier. Isn’t that right, Garrick?”

“Yes sir.” Gaz breathes, and before you can even make a sound his hand seizes the waistband of your trousers and drags them down over the swell of your ass in one quick movement, baring your bottom to the cold night air. You suck in a bright gasp of air but make no motion to try and stop him as you did with Soap and Ghost- Gaz is gentler, more tender, might mistake your feigned protests for genuine distress. Instead, you levy him a look over your shoulder with heavy, lidded eyes, a wordless temptation in your gaze.

C’mon then, soldier.

Gaz grins.

“Looks like Ghost and Soap had their fun already.” He teases as a finger trails through your cum-slicked folds and you jerk a little at that, automatically trying to squirm away a little in embarrassment. Yet Gaz merely hums at the mess he finds there, finding the smeared drip of Johnny against your hole and pressing it back inside.

“No moving.” Price admonishes when you squirm, press back towards Gaz in a mild attempt to try and get his fingers a little deeper. You try to heed your captain’s warning and stay still but you can’t- not when Kyle’s fingers circle your entrance and find a fresh wave of arousal coating his fingers, his murmur of “Oh, good girl~” makes you whine and squirm, flush with the praise.

You yelp, however, when there’s suddenly a hand landing sharply on your exposed asscheek, fingers gripping the corner of the desk just as Kyle settles his weight behind you, the growing hardness in his crotch bumping against your ass. 

“You heard the captain.” The sergeant reprimands smugly, soothing the area with his palm. “Stay still for us.”

There’s a pause then, over the radio, and you wonder if Price is trying to collect himself at the sight of you splayed forward, out in the open, with his sergeant gently stroking your pink asscheek as he rocks into you from behind. You whimper.

“Color.” Is all Price supplies after a moment, and your answer is ready, face hot, limbs trembling, need coiling sharply in your stomach at the strain in his voice. 

“Green.” You breathe. “Green, fucking green, cap, god- please, I- ah!!”

You gasp loudly when Kyle’s hand lands in the exact same spot, body jolting as the noise trails off into a groan, low and heady, head falling forwards in surrender. 

“That’s no way to talk to your superior officer.” He laughs, and you glance over your shoulder at him accusatorily, only to catch the playful bright glimmer of his eyes.

Price hums over the radio, the sound smoky and gritty in the best of ways and the sound alone has you moan, unable to contain yourself despite the lecherous shame of being so open, so ready for them.

“Where did Soap and Ghost leave their mark?” Price asks smoothly, and once more Gaz’s fingers dip into the mess of your cunt as you struggle to keep yourself upright against the desk.

“Her pussy, sir.” Gaz answers perfunctorily, and for some reason it’s so arousing the way they’re talking over your head so casually, like you aren’t even there.

“Open her up then, sergeant.” Price orders, and you hear how his voice is caught in his throat with a dark, yearning hunger, wanting to sink his teeth into you and take, take whatever you can give him, and then somehow demand more.

“Yes, sir.” Gaz breathes, and he shifts so he can pull something from his vest, a little pop as the thing opens. You remain where you lay, legs trembling a little, breathing uneven and dizzy with desire, eyes blinking hazily as the aphrodisia of them both washes over your senses, muffles them in a spinning, avid want that boils low in your stomach, needing more. It tightens across your hips, sears inside your chest and when Gaz’s hand smoothes over the sting of your ass you hiss at him to just get on with it-

Another smack, this one gentler than the one before but still enough to make your voice rise abruptly, fingers clenching at the edge of the desk. 

“Shh, shh, shhh.” Gaz hushes sweetly, and before you can regain your bearings there’s the cold, wet drip of something against your asshole so sudden it makes you flinch.

“Easy, doll.” He tries again, pressing low and warm over the arch of your spine, craning up so his lips flutter on your nape. “Gonna make you feel good, promise. Just be good for us. Yeah?”

You force yourself to breathe as Gaz’s finger circles your asshole, spreading the slick of the lube salaciously there, not yet pressing in, gentling you to his touch.

“Yeah?” He asks once more, nose buried in your hair as the hot, shuddering breath of him blankets across your nape. It draws you down heavy into omnipresent need, sinks you further into his touch until you’re limp, lost to him. 

“Y-yeah.” You whine back, voice high and reedy as you feel him smile into your skin. 

“Good girl.” 

You feel him press his finger against your hole, and despite the resistance there he manages to wiggle the slicked digit inside, making a moan drop against the metal surface of the desk. It’s a little bit of a stretch at first, but Gaz is gentle as he gently pushes in, pulls out, bit by bit as he gets you used to the intrusion. 

“You need to relax, gorgeous.” He reminds you, a hand reaching over your head to tangle his fingers between yours as an anchor as you force yourself to breathe, relax, legs weakening under you. “There we go, that’s it.”

“Doing well, love.” Price murmurs over the radio, and that sends a flash of something that purrs low and hungry in your core, the praise that your captain gives you, more toxic than any other. Yet then his voice turns wolfish, dragging low across your senses as he adds “Such a good captive for us.”

You brace your head on the desk and whine.

“Oh, I know.” Gaz hushes you, raising off you so his warmth vanishes from your back, his hand settling on your nape instead and keeping you pinned to the desk. “I know it feels good, doll.” As he draws his finger back, squirting more gel between your asscrack so he can gently press a second one beside the first.

“F-fuck, Kyle, please-” You beg, not even sure at this point what you’re asking for. It’s just so much- being out here in the open, bent over for him as his captive, his endless endearments and praise, the lewdness of him fingering open your ass while Price watches-

You moan, loud and long, shameless, not caring if any lingering rookies around the training grounds hear you. It’s met with a sound of delighted disbelief from Kyle, a “That’s it, that’s the way-” as Price’s rumbling, pleased hum crackles through the radio. 

“God, you should hear yourself.” He tells you, his own voice wrecked at the sound of you, at the obscene squelch of him drawing his fingers out, only to push them back in. “Sounds like sin, doesn’t she, Cap?”

Price growls, and the drag of the noise from his chest is only accentuated by the radio’s echo, making you grip the desk and look to the hill where you think he is. 

“Keep your eyes up here, soldier.” He tells you, and you can hear the ravenous hunger in his voice. You wonder if he’s palming himself through his pants, getting himself off to the sight of Gaz fingering you open and smoothing his hands over you like he’s admiring a prized weapon. 

“W-wouldn’t have them anywhere else, sir.” You manage between breaths, and you can imagine his smile tugs at his lips. You wonder if he’s smoking, imbuing himself with the taste of tobacco and the sight of your debauchery.

Then Gaz presses low across your back, his warmth pressing into your spine just as his teeth skim over the shell of your ear. You shudder, try and arch under him prettily, encouraging him to touch you more, to lose the restraint he clamps onto with a soldier’s resolve. There’s a low, pleased tenor vibrating low in his chest, and with his other hand you feel his fingers press at your lips with a small “Open.”

You do, and without prompting your teeth secure on the material of his glove, securing it as he tugs free. It drops onto the desk beside his other one, and soon his thumb presses down on the cushion of your bottom lip, loosing a little shivering exhale as you take it in, begin to twirl your tongue around the digit shamelessly. You can hear his bitten back little groan above you at the sight, your eyes half lidded, mouth parted so your uneven exhales spill onto his open palm. 

“Bloody hell-” You hear Price bite over the radio, voice snappish, strained. It startles a barked little huff of laughter from Gaz above you, pinning you down to the desk with his full weight, preventing you from moving. 

“Like what you see, Cap?” He asks smugly, and Price hums low and dark over the radio like approaching thunder. It’s a warning, a reminder. Kyle may be touching you, may be lighting your skin on fire with smooth little touches and honey sweet praise, but it’s Price who’s making the calls here, watching you be taken apart piece by piece by his trusted sergeant until you have no choice but to surrender completely. 

“Let’s give Price something to really look at.” Gaz whispers in your ear, low and sultry, and you whine as his fingers retreat from your ass. Before you can try to question him his arm snakes under you, hauls you up against his front as he stands. You toss your head back against his shoulder as bare palm snakes under your shirt to grab the hem, pushing it up past your collarbone. You shiver at the chill of the air, feel Kyle roll the swell of your naked breast in his hand, fingers dipping into the supple flesh there. 

“Kyle-” You try, hands reaching up to secure on his forearm, trying to find an anchor as he kicks your legs a little wider apart under you. Gaz nuzzles up against the underside of your jaw, affectionate with dizzying desire, nudging it to the side so he can teeth over your pulse. “Kyle, please-”

“Please?” He asks, just a little mocking as he grinds his erection into your ass so you can feel the full length of him press into your form. “Please what?”

“Fuckin’ hell Kyle-” You manage as he revisits the bruise he’s sucking into your skin. “Just touch me already, fuck-”

“Have to ask the captain for that, doll.” He tuts, rolling his hips into your back with a grace that feels effortless. You teeth your lip, eyes scrunched shut, feeling the drip of lube between your asscheeks, feeling slick pool low between your legs as you clench around nothing. With the absence of Kyle’s fingers, you feel the emptiness inside you intensify, build upwards with a need that has no satisfaction.

“Please Price, please let him fuck me.” You plead, voice cracking with just a hint of desperation that you try to choke back, to no avail. 

“Think she deserves it?” Price asks Kyle, ignoring your little whimpered plea as he doesn’t answer you, fixing his scope on the sergeant instead.

“Dunno.” Gaz pants, rolling a nipple between his wet fingers. “But you’re gonna have to give me something here, cap. Getting a little impatient.”

“At ease, sergeant.” Price replies silkily, and how he appears so in control of himself despite the circumstances is beyond you- a concentrated focus driven from years and years of experience, an unwavering fixation on the mission before him. “Go on then.”

“Thank you sir.” He manages, using one hand to quickly pull at his pants, shoving them down just far enough to free his cock. You hear him fumble with a wrapper for a moment before rolling a condom down over his length. Yet even then he strokes it a few times, up and down against the swell of your back.

“Bleeding Christ, Gaz-” You snap, twisting just a bit to try and look at his half-lidded smirk, eyes cloudy with lust. “Get on with it.”

He only laughs, a little wicked, a little daring in the face of your impatience wearing thinner than his. 

“Since you asked nicely, darling.” He supplies before scooting you forward, helping you lift a leg until your boot plants on the table, spreading yourself as he lines up the head of his cock with your ass. Yet then his voice dips low, a little more serious as he offers “Deep breath.”

You do as instructed, and with a little whine and a press, the flushed head of his cock manages to pop inside the ring of your asshole. He gives you a moment to adjust, kneading gentle circles into your hip as encouragement before pressing a little further, a little deeper, his voice a long, low, muffled groan against your bare shoulder. 

“Y-yeah, that’s it.” He pants, hauling you back against him so he can angle himself just right. You can feel the pulse of him inside you, warm and slick as he presses further into you. “F-fuck I’m not gonna last long with you wrapped around my cock like this.”

“Describe it to me, Kyle.” Price purrs over the radio, and Kyle’s sweaty forehead drops against your nape as you shudder and gasp under him. 

“Tight.” Kyle strains, fingers now digging into the meat of your thigh, fit to bruise. “Hot, tight, f-feels good.”

Yet then he braces his chin over your shoulder, letting his fingers wander to your front and grasp lightly at your neck to hold your head upright. 

“You good?” He asks gently, so different than the mocking, teasing tenor of him just moments ago. No, this is your Kyle. Sweet, indulgent, adoring and focused entirely on you and nothing else. You nod against him, biting back the small amount of discomfort before he achingly rolls his hips into you, a slow, drawn-out motion that allows you to adjust to his length buried inside you. There’s a little whine of something, caught between pain and pleasure that you don’t choke down in time, and before Gaz can react you hear Price’s voice pressing up into your ear, Kyle’s radio close to your face.

“Give her something to distract her.” Price suggests, and wordlessly Kyle’s hand falls to the spread folds of you, his slick thumb rolling, searching as you buck your hips with the slightest amount of pressure that spikes electricity sharp in your veins. 

“There it is.” He huffs smugly as his thumb presses down on your clit and you jerk reflexively at the bright, searing spark of pleasure there, clenching down on him and forcing a cracked little moan to breathe across your nape. He presses a kiss there, tender and sweet, before he begins to grind the pad of his finger in neat little circles, finally giving you the friction you so desperately desire.

It feels good.

Gaz has a certain mastery with his fingers that comes with his adoration of weapons. He caresses you the way he would a prized rifle, traces his fingers along the joint of your thighs, feels the kickback of you as you moan and writhe on his cock. His forefinger presses down featherlight on the trigger and you feel yourself ready to release on his hand. Yet he keeps you at bay, refuses to take the shot. 

Instead, he ruts into the swell of your ass, uses one hand curled around your hip to fuck you forwards into the other, fingers delving between your folds and collecting arousal between the pads. His nose buries against your nape, where he chants an endless litany of yearnings that sets fire to the underside of your skin. The slick, wet, coiling pressure of your desire spills across his hand, drips wet down the inside of your thighs as the hilt of his hips presses deeper every thrust. You open up for him, sweet and gentle, until at last you feel his pelvis lay flat against the curve of your ass. 

You can’t stop making noise, too gone to care about some base patrolman out after dark ensuring no recruits are skulking around the training area. Your voice drops heavy and long from your chest, rising into high little keens with every passing graze of Gaz’s fingers on your clit.

Unexpectedly, Gaz groans loudly into your ear, his hand on your hips clenching down with bruising intensity as his voice asks: “Enjoying yourself, Sir?”

You blink glassy eyes forward, not sure how you didn’t hear it until now, the lewd shlick shlick shlick barely audible over the radio as Price tries to time his thrusts with Gaz. You buck forward into Gaz’s hand at the reminder you’re being watched, that Price is enjoying this just as much as you are, at Kyle burying himself inside you while you rock your hips forward onto his hand in search of release. 

“Affirmative.” Price grunts, and you can hear the gritted arousal in his voice as he strokes himself to the sight of you broken apart on Gaz’s cock. Gaz rolls himself with a sensuous mastery of rhythm, his front plastered to your back with every deep, slow, unyielding thrust into you. Every rock forward has him pressing his fingers down on your clit, drawing you back with every retreat, keeping your orgasm at bay as you grip at him blindly, trying to seek purchase against the unfurling warmth in your core. 

“The sight of you both.” Price growls over the radio, and you can’t even begin to imagine yourself. Bare, legs spread, the glisten of your arousal dripping between your thighs, head thrown back and lip swollen from your teething. Behind you Gaz pants in low, ragged exhales that trickle down your spine, brow scrunched in pleasure and concentration. There’s a thin sheen of sweat that covers you both, has you glowing in the moonlight like nocturnal, wild animals. 

It’s ruinous, Gaz plays you like a fiddle, breathes in your desire like it’s his own. It rises in you like the crest of a wave, but every time you think your climax will break he pulls his fingers away just in time, sending you hurtling back down into nothingness. You whimper your protest, trying to find the breath between words to plead with him.

“Kyle, Kyle please. I just- I’m so close.” You beg, voice cracking high in your throat.

“Not yet.” He grunts into you, and picks up his pace with little warning, chasing his release to match yours. 

“That’s it, Kyle.” Price drawls over the radio. “Get our girl nice and ready for what comes next.”

You buck forward reflexively at the spike of pleasure that thought summons in you, the reminder that after this there’s still more. The day, despite its low hanging darkness, is far from over. The wild chase that began at dawn doesn’t end with sunset. No, it’s only at the midnight hour that you’re finally released, set free into the gentle embrace of their arms. 

Besides, Price hasn’t had his way with you yet.

“P-Price.” You whimper in a plea as Kyle’s fingers retreat again, and the pressure boiling inside you flattens into a low simmer once more. Kyle’s forehead presses into your shoulder, and for a moment he adjusts his grip on you, pausing before he resumes his pace faster, little shallow thrusts that have you choking on every cracked inhale. “Price-”

“Pay attention to your sergeant, love.” He reminds you, but his breathing harsh too, as you can hear the wet slide of his fist over his cock on the radio. 

“I-I can’t.” You try, grinding yourself down on Kyle’s fingers as they touch you once more, for only a few meager moments as your breath rises-

And your climax is taken away again with no end guaranteed. 

“Please.” You sob with a watery gasp, but Gaz is too lost to notice your pleas, his cock dragging with precise little punches of his hips as he groans a shuddering gasp into your back.

“Fuck this was a good idea.” He snaps unexpectedly, and you feel him twitch inside you, a little grunt swallowed as he tries to contain himself. “Can’t wait to have you again after this, doll. Watch everyone else have their way with you-”

His words are interrupted by Price, his own want echoing sharply over the radio with a crackling, forced exhale. 

“The things we have planned for you, darling.” He tells you wickedly, and you force yourself to breathe, mind running wild with imagination of what they’ll do to you, how they’ll fracture you down and down and down until there’s nothing left except wordless gasps of pleasure and the slick feeling of your release onto their waiting hands. 

“Getting close, cap.” Gaz announces quietly, his hand anchoring to your front clenching and releasing, trying to hold himself back until his captain gives the order. 

There’s a few moments of silence that have your breath hitch in your chest, wondering if Price is even listening, if he’s considering or just trying to chase his own release. Then-

“Go on sergeant, fill her up.”

“Yes, Sir.” Kyle enunciates, and gives a series of rapid, brutal thrusts before his hips stutter against you, his cock twitching inside you with his imminent release. You hear Price grunt a feral, broken sound, and it makes the rising pressure of your orgasm flare higher inside you at the thought of his own pleasure spilling across his closed fist at the sight of you both.

“Please please please-” You choke, trying to rock onto his hand, trying to chase your own orgasm with fervent desperation, rendered to nothing more than a blind instinct to find the end of yourself against his touch. 

Gaz presses his hips flush with yours with a loud, groaning sigh as his orgasm at last washes over him. He offers a few final, parting thrusts, gentle rolls of his hips forwards as he presses down on your clit wrong- intentionally staving off your climax. 

“Fuck-” You snarl at him, waspish, trying to close your hips, to press back, forward, something to find your release. “Gaz, Price, fuck. Just let me-”

“No.”

You feel the world shatter around you as Price’s voice cuts through the fog, blinking your hazy eyes open to look to the rise where you think he is, hoping he can see the confusion and devastation on your expression. Before you can protest Gaz is withdrawing his fingers from you completely, gently steadying you as he extracts himself. Whatever words you have next are interrupted with a little whine of discomfort from the motion, but Gaz only shushes you gently,  laying his hand flat against the underside of your thighs as he lowers it back to the ground.

“No-” You try, feeling your pleasure begin to simmer into nothingness, desperation clawing at your throat. You grasp blindly at Gaz for a moment before snaking a hand down to your clit to try and finish what he started.

Gaz’s hand only smacks yours away with a chiding little ‘tsk’ and you sob in dismay, clench your thighs and rock forward against nothing in a frenzied bid for release. 

“Sorry love, captain’s orders.” Gaz tells you, and at least there’s some sympathy there, just not enough to summon back your imminent climax. 

“You asshole-” You bite at him, spinning on your heel to face him. Gaz is ready for it, and he presses you back so your bare ass hits the edge of the table, forcing you to lean back. Your eyes dart down to where he hangs between his hips, his cum collecting in the rubber sealed over him. 

“Well, yours really.” He snarks back, and you frown severely up at him, trying once more to reach down to yourself in protest. Gaz snatches your wrists before you can, grins down at you with a dark mischief you’d forgotten he possessed. 

“Best secure her hands.” Price suggests idly, and you want to snap at him too, at the way his tone is so unbothered by your ruined orgasm. Without another word Gaz reaches down to his belt and produces a set of zip-ties. With practiced alacrity he spins you, forces your hands behind your back and secures them, far away from your pulsing core. A curse bites on your tongue, and you allow it to slip through before you can stop it. Kyle looks bemused at your voice, but it’s Price’s voice that speaks up next.

“That’s no way to speak to your superiors, soldier.”

You pause, muscles going rigid at the displeasure in Price’s voice, the stern, heavy rasp of him over the radio. It’s the same tone he uses when you’ve done something wrong, and it shudders shamefully through you as you realize you’ve made a fatal error in judgment.

You still have to face Price.

“Time to bring in our captive, sergeant.” The captain announces abruptly, suddenly all business again, brushing aside his orgasm from only moments ago. It whiplashes through you, the way he can just turn on his heel like that, have you whimpering for him one moment and then issuing orders the next. 

“Wh-wha-” You try, failing to find the axis on which to balance as Gaz goes about getting you dressed once more, taking off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders, pulling your pants on one leg at a time but stuffing your panties in his pocket with a devilish smile. You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, face warm and skin itching with unsatisfied need and annoyance. His eyes merely twinkle at you, delight and lust dancing clear across his gaze.

“Let’s go, pretty girl.” He tells you darkly, reaching for some strange, soft material in his back pocket and stretching towards you. “I think our captain has some questions for you.”

Darkness covers your sight.

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[cerastes]

It’s true though, Tomimi’s design is apex horny but I cannot think of her in any sexual light 20% because I’m a thin, long tail kinda guy, and 80% because she’s actually fucking hilarious, all I associate Tomimi with is “endorphin”, she’s a Caster but excels in hand-to-hand combat, to the point where she managed to take over several Sargonian tribes by beating them, cunning enough that she managed to do that in the lowdown without a lot of people noticing, canonically knows how to operate a surface-to-air missile launcher, canonically operated a surface-to-air missile launcher to shoot down her crush because she (correctly) assumed said crush could survive not just getting hit by a missile, but also the subsequent plane crash, she did this after she got her crush to come by plane at her own repeated insistence, met Doctor and unlike the vast majority of characters, immediately perceived them as a LETHAL THREAT but not because she sensed anything wrong with them or managed to peek into their past or anything, it was simply because Doc and Gavial are canonically good friends, and since Doc is also pretty fragile physically, Gavial was taking extra care to make sure they were alright in the harsh conditions of Sargon, which made Tomimi supremely jealous, and the moment she goes an “uuuu uuuu uuuu why don’t you ask ME if I slept well”, Gavial immediately chokeslams her with “bro you are literally a warlord, I’m positive you’re fine”, oh, yeah, Tomimi is a warlord, also the moment the GIG IS UP, Tomimi goes “my psionic warriors! Seal this booboo bear within my bedroom! I command you!” but then Gavial and Eunectes do a beautiful reenactment of Dynasty Warriors 3 and beat the absolute shit out of numerous tribes while Tomimi rapidly starts freaking out in real time because SHE knows it’s up, she’s getting owned in front of girls, she’s getting owned in front of the girl she LIKES, by the girl she likes, and by the end, she gets spanked in her fat tail by Gavial (around 800000 newtons of force) and says FINE and applies to Rhodes Island instead if she can’t keep Gavial in Sargon.

And what do we learn in Rhodes Island? She knows how to fucking work a grill. She canonically can operate a surface-to-air missile launcher AND a grill, and everyone loves her! And when getting evaluated to be a Caster, since her style of magic is “hook to the liver into double leg takedown and transition into triangle choke”, the evaluators were like “mmmm so that’s not quite what we do here...”

but then

“...But also that was dope as all fuck and I think we, as Casters, ought to get BUFF and learn HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT as well, funny alligator girl has a point” and they let her be a Caster even though her signature spell is Suplex.

So this absolute goober shoots your plane down with a missile launcher, then tries to kidnap you, THEN fails so fucking hard at her job interview that they go “we’ve never seen anyone do it this bad, you’re fascinating”, actually gets the job, under you, because that’s where they put the weirdos, and turns out to be a grillmaster that is only born once every one hundred years.

There is actually nothing about Tomimi that isn’t fucking hilarious and I will wingman for her at the cost of everything, I will risk it ALL.

[swift-creates]

@chrumblr-whumblr day 8: blood covered hands

wc: 613 | warnings: gunshot injury, blood, swearing, stitching and dressing a wound without anaesthesia, medical inaccuracies | characters: Jason Todd (pov), Dick Grayson

—

Jason staggered into the Batcave, holding onto one of the railings with one hand and holding his guts in with the other. Figuratively. He hoped. One of the thugs had gotten in a lucky shot during his latest drug lord takedown, and he'd dragged himself all the way back here like an injured dog. It was just past one. The night was young; Duke would be asleep and the others would still be out on patrol.

He pulled open a drawer and yanked out one of the first aid kits, then took a wad of dressing and pressed it to the wound, letting a breath hiss out through his teeth. Blood covered his gloves and jacket, and some of it was slowly dripping down onto his boots and the metal floor. He watched the red spots bloom on silver idly.

"Jay?" His head snapped up at Dick's voice. Too fast. The movement sent a stab of pain through his side, and he had to fight not to double over. "What?" he forced out through gritted teeth. "You're back early-" Dick's eyes widened as he saw the blood. "You need help? What happened?" "Got shot. I'm fine." He limped two steps toward the lift, then promptly crumpled.

"Jason!" Dick lunged to catch him, steadying Jason against himself. "You don't seem very fine." He maneuvered him over to a couch and set him down, then darted to retrieve the first aid kit.

"Let me see." "I don't need your help," Jason growled. "Your fucking gunshot wound says otherwise. Let me see." Dick returned his glare, and Jason gave up, lifting his shirt to reveal the bloody hole. "It looks worse than it feels." His brother gave him a look.

"Breathe." "I am breathing. What you need to worry about is if I stop." "Stop deliriously mouthing off and listen to me. That's a lot of blood, Jason." Worry crinkled the little line between his eyebrows as Dick leaned in to put pressure on the wound. "-'m not delirious," he ground out, fingers digging into the plush cushions beneath him. "Sure, little Wing." For once, he didn't have enough energy to protest at the nickname.

Dick took a needle and thread from the box, then tied a knot as Jason panted. He wiped carefully at the wound for a moment, then looked up at him. "Breathe." This time, he didn't bite back. Jason counted the stitches as Dick made them, if only in an effort not to scream. It failed on stitch six.

"Shhhh. All done." Dick cut off the thread and put away the needle, then made as if to cradle the side of Jason's face, but stopped short at the sight of his hands soaked in blood. He gave the tiniest wince and wiped them clean on a cloth, then set about dressing the wound.

Jason closed his eyes and listened to the faint din of Dick bustling around the Batcave. There was the soft tap of fingers against his leg, then a pad of gauze to his torso. The sound of tape being pulled out and torn off, then the slight pressure of a piece being stuck on top of the gauze. He stopped paying attention after that, he was so tired, more tired than he'd realised before, and-

"Done. You get some sleep, Jay. I got you." He let out a wordless mumble, feeling faintly annoyed at being told to do what he'd already been about to. Dick shuffled around a bit more, then there was a soft kiss pressed to the top of his head. Then the sound of receding footsteps, and then the darkness was all he was aware of.

[minihotdog]

Fearless Magazine

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3

Prompt:

When you dreamed of becoming a television writer, you never expected you’d end up wasting your time writing for a vapid dating quiz show, but a job’s a job. One night, your very charming, very single boss asks why you’re working late; you mumble something about new truth-or-dare questions. “Great,” he replies with a smile. “Ask me one.”

Notes: I wrote this on my phone and hope that it formats not like hell. Might make this into a series because I like this one. Accidentally made the reader come off snooty :/

***

“That is enough,” Max’s voice booms through the room. “We will not be having this discussion again until you have earned to work under the Historian.”

“Have I not proven myself enough!” I argue desperately.

“Y/n, you are too young. You still have so much to learn and skills to continue developing before I can appoint you. Please, if you want the position you will continue working towards it.”

I drop my head in defeat, my head pulsating with frustration, stress, and disappointment. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Max. I understand.” He sighs, sitting back in his chair.

“In the meantime, you will be working with the rest of the second-year writers on Fearless magazine. Do not disappoint me.” He warns me while motioning to the doors of his office, ending the argument. I drag my feet through the halls heading towards my room.

“Y/n!” Tris catches up to me. “How did the talk with Max go?”

“He told me that I haven't earned the position as historian apprentice. I have to keep writing raunchy garbage for the magazine instead.” I roll my eyes at the thought of wasting my effort and passion on meaningless assignments and ‘What you’re favorite takedown says about you’ type quizzes that are plastered on the back of each issue.

“I told you he wouldn’t budge.” She puts her hand on my shoulder, “You are talented but, hey, historian is a very important position and one that takes a lot of time to earn and train for. You’ll get it eventually, but right now, please, don’t beat yourself up. Ok?”

“Ok,” I sigh.

“I got to get back to the initiates, but you hang in there!” Tris runs off towards the training area leaving me alone wishing I had her resilience.

I walk through the kitchen I share with three other roommates before reaching my door.

I look around not knowing what to do with myself for the next three hours before work. I guess I’ll just get ready.

I take a quick shower and throw on a dark green t-shirt over a black long-sleeve and a knee-length skirt matching to match the shirt. The one nice thing about working in an office is getting to have a more diverse wardrobe rather than looking like I’m going to war all the time.

I grab the backpack I take to work with me, inside my laptop, snacks, and possibly a hundred papers scattered inside from countless projects. I make my way toward the office to see no one else has shown up yet. I open my laptop on my desk and begin typing away, working on an old document about the history of the factions.

I hear the door behind me open and I turn my head to see which of my coworkers walked in only to do a double take. Why the hell is he here?!

“No way,” I say, dumbfounded. Eric leans against the wall next to the door with a crutch under one arm and a cast on his right leg.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite former initiate.” His evil smirk sparks rage inside of me.

“Who let you out of your cage?” I spit at him, he rolls his eyes at me.

“I just thought you missed me so I decided to drop by,”

“Eric don’t do sarcasm, it totally doesn’t suit you.”

He rests his head against the wall looking up at the ceiling as if it’s killing him to be here.

“I’m your new boss.” He says smugly. I sit there looking at him, mouth agape at the horrific news.

“Oh, that’s terrible news.” I hold my head in my hands.

Little by little people begin pouring into the office and finding their desks. The sound of typing begins as everyone gets a head start on the day.

“Good morning everyone!” Our lead editor, Jacob, stands at the front of the room. Eric leans against the wall behind him listening to the whispers.

“Why is he here,” my best friend Lynn asks me quietly. “To kill us all,” I snark.

“I have some news in regards to who’ll be filling in for Jade while she recovers.” He motions toward the brooding man to his left. “Eric will be taking her place for the time being. If you guys didn’t know, Eric was the lead writer for the issue a few years ago on the Economic Relations Between the Factions. He’s an extremely talented writer and someone all of you can learn a lot from.”

Everyone turns to look at each other. Since when did he write? I didn’t think that brute could even read.

“Now, this upcoming issue is going to feature a rapid dating segment that will be done in the pit next Friday, we have the contestants in the shared drive.” I roll my eyes at the stupid idea. Another raunchy issue. One or two would have been fine but every publication is littered with nonsense. My eyes meet Eric’s and he smirks. Shit, he saw that.

Jacob grabs a folder from the desk in front of him. He opens it and flips through the pages before reading from one.

“The assignments will be… Lynn, you are in charge of contestant introductions for the magazine.” He goes on listing off names and whatnot as I get lost in thought staring at my screen. “And, finally. Y/n, you’ll be coming up with insight questions for the contestants to answer on stage.”

I snap back to reality and purse my lips at my assignment. “Any questions?” He looks around the room before heading back to his office, leaving us to begin our work. Eric takes the secondary editor's desk at the front of the room.

I flip through my tabs looking for the work center to begin brainstorming what to write. I run my hands over my face and huff before getting up and making my way toward the coffee maker. This is gonna be a long night.

hours later

Everyone starts packing up and leaving one by one. Only a few remain at their desks typing away.

“How’s it going,” Lynn peers over at my screen reading through the bulleted list of questions.

“I hit a block, I can’t think of anything else and they all suck,” I whine.

“They can’t be that bad,” she says before reading one out loud. “Tell us one time you pretended to like someone but actually couldn’t stand them…” She gives me a weird look, “Girl, what’s wrong with you today? These are boring.”

I snort at her. One thing she never lost when she chose Dauntless was her candor.

“Are you gonna stay late today?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna try to spice up my boring questions,” I drag out the boooring and she laughs.

“Alright, I’m gonna head on home. Good luck.”

Time passes and I’m the only one left, at least I think.

“Y/n, what are you still doing here?”

Dear god, not him.

“I’m still working on my questions.”

“Great!” He uses his crutch to balance as he moves a chair closer to me and sits down. The knee of his good leg almost touches mine.

“Ask me one.”

I look at him nervously. “A-ask you one?” I stutter, fearful of the wave of criticism he’d unleash on me like he did in my initiate days.

I sit there looking at him before he shoots me one of his famous glares.

“Uh… Ok then.”

I look back at the screen scrolling through trying to find the best one I had.

“If you met a genie, what would your three wishes be?”

“Not bad,” he says before thinking for a second. “I would wish for better initiates, more hair gel, and for my leg to heal instantly so I can go back to the gym.”

I laugh briefly before feeling stunned. Did he just make me laugh?

“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, princess.” I scowl at him for bringing up the nickname given to me in training when blood got on my favorite gray top.

“That was forever ago!”

“Doesn't matter, you’re still a little princess at heart.” He shoots back before demanding another question.

“What’s the cheapest gift you’ve ever gotten someone?”

“Boooring, take that one out.”

I suck my teeth at him.

“Next,” he demands.

We sat there for what felt like hours. He even began asking me questions, every once in a while striking through one that he didn’t like.

“What are you thinking?” He pulls me back into reality. “Huh?” “You looked like you were thinking really hard… Didn’t know you could do that.”

“Ugh! You’re insufferable.” I say with a smile on my lips. I’d never tell him that I was thinking about how lovely he really was when he wasn’t being an ass. For the first time I was seeing a side of him I liked.

“Alright, last one. We’ve been here for ages,” he looks down at his watch. His perfect lips still curved upwards, his baby blue eyes look back at me - what the hell is wrong with me?

“Dauntless or Candor: kiss the person nearest to you or tell us where you’re the most ticklish. I like this one because all the dudes are gonna sit-”

He pulls my chair closer to him and plants his lips on mine. I feel his heavy hand on the small of my back. His soft lips send sparks through my body and my hands slide up his chest, resting behind his head. He pulls away, “That’s a great one.”

Part 2

[dilf-in-peril]

Eddie Guerrero once started a shoot fight with gold medal winning wrestler Kurt Angle. Did not go his way, as you might imagine. When asked why he tried to double leg takedown an Olympian wrestler Eddie said "Because I'm an idiot."

[fijiwater33]

The Damianya sport rivalry part 1:

Anya and Damian stared each other down on the mat as they approached each other. The 15 and the 14 year olds both donning a Judo gi. As they met in the middle Anya had an intense look that was opposite of Damian’s smirk.

Anya went off like a rocket at him trying to grab his collar and sleeve. But with a quick step and a pull of her collar Anya found her heels off the mat, and herself looking up at the ceiling.

“So is Judo still just a bunch of dorks in pajamas?” Damian asked.

“Alright you got me here but, don’t be so high and mighty just yet. You still said you would try wrestling out.” Anya retorted with a smile as Damian gave her a hand up.

“Oh if you insist on going 0-2 today be my gue… hey what are you doing?” Damian asked as he saw Anya took the spare gi he gave her off showing she had her wrestling singlet underneath.

“Don’t do that for the love of God.” He said red in the face as Anya stuck her tongue out in response.

“Sorry.” She said teasingly as she crouched into a wrestling stance.

The two teens circle each other for a second until Anya shoots for a takedown going for a double leg with Damian kicking his legs back to sprawl, but Anya explosive as ever powers through and is able to pick his heel getting him on his back. Recovering quickly he gets on his hands and knees to turtle up. Anya attempts to flip him over but making himself heavy carried over from judo for him. As the battle of wills rages Anya is finally able to get his knees out and get him on his back, and quickly pins his shoulders on the mat.

“1-1 now!” She says enjoying her light hearted revenge.

“Now I see why everyone else on the team is afraid of you.” He said now humbled.

“I am my mama’s daughter.” She says with pride.

“Wasn’t expecting it to be over this quickly.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself you survived longer than the other boys on the team” she said as she got up. “I’ll make you a deal you show me some throws and trips and I’ll show you how to wrestle for when your matches hit the ground?” She offered along with a hand to help him up.

“Deal!” He said taking her hand.

“See you on the mats tomorrow then.” She said as she pulled him up.

The next day.

“So you two were “wrestling” in the gym all alone?” Becky asked teasingly. “Aren’t you two scandalous” she added as Ewen and Emile snickered.

“Oh grow up you guys! Anya said annoyed and pink in the face matching Damian’s flustered face.

[crazyintheeast]

Ava: We have double training today? Ugh why?

Beatrice : Because the move we are learning today is very important especially for someone if your small stature but also difficult to master . It’s a scissor leg takedown around your neck

Ava: What is that?

Beatrice: I am going to run straight at you and then jump and wrap my thighs around your neck taking you down in the process

Ava: Wait are you teaching me Black Widow’s crotch throat grab ?!?

Beatrice : Well yes some people crudely refer to it like this but …

Ava: So basically the entire day is going to be spent with my head between your legs ?

Beatrice: That’s a strange way to put it but yes . If you feel you are not ready …

Ava: Oh I am . I really am

[theanticool]

Leon Edwards picks apart Colby Covington for most of 5 rounds to defend title.

A dull fight but funny watching Covington shit the bed and Leon just fuck with him for 25 minutes. Edwards chewed up Colby's left leg with kicks. Ate up his middle sections with straight kicks to the gut and the occasional round kick. He really wanted to wrestle with Colby. He would defend a takedown or get up from one of the few Colby managed to get and then immediately duck in for a double leg or a deep underhook and start looking for his own. He did get Colby down once or twice but ended up on the bottom a couple times trying to take the back.

Colby says he wants to fight again next year. Do not believe him. Hope he's gone forever. Fuck him.

[thegoofyfanaticus]

(( Art is commissioned from the incredibly talented ArtReplicant. Original story by me. ))

Ethan felt the pain increasing in his back as Wyatt pushed on his neck and leg. Having to blink a couple of times to focus Ethan used his left hand to punch into Wyatt's side. Thankfully for Ethan, the soreness of the bear hug and damage to his obliques was still sore from earlier. As Ethan landed a few more punches, he felt the grip of Wyatt lessen. Eventually, Wyatt was forced to let go freeing Ethan. Ethan scrambled and clinched up with Wyatt as they two tried to get in position for a hold to take the other down.

Wyatt had felt the first sting of the punch and grit his teeth to endure and continue his pressure on Ethan. Eventually, the punches were hitting the sore bruised muscle that Ethan had dug into previously in the match and Wyatt could no longer ignore the pain. He had to give Ethan credit for the way he recalled every previous hold and the area he damaged so if he needed to he could go back to them. As Wyatt let Ethan go he quickly went back into brawler mode ready to deliver justice with his fists; however, Ethan anticipated that and went straight into grapple mode. Wyatt quickly went looking for any small weakness in Ethan's form that he could capitalize on. Unfortunately for Wyatt, Ethan was able to score a double-leg takedown by lifting Wyatt and driving him into the mat. Wyatt put himself in a guard, but Ethan worked through that guard by lifting Wyatt up partially and slamming him into the mat. Wyatt's back was on fire from the takedown and the slam. Ethan knew and Wyatt knew Ethan knew it because Ethan was quickly getting the Canadian into a suspended surfboard. Wyatt felt himself lifted off the mat and then pulled back by the chin. Ethan was giving the crowd what he knew they wanted: a display of power and the body of one of the fighters on display glistening with sweat in the lights. While it had been Ethan, Ethan was more than happy to return the favor now on Wyatt. 

Wyatt could feel the fire in his lower back. As Ethan pulled Wyatt further towards his chest, Wyatt could see that grin creep across Ethan's face. Wyatt didn't panic because he knew Ethan left him an opening and one he would gladly take.

[becauseplot]

completely random thought but thinkin about like. how interesting it is that what happened to qcellbit in the war and what he was forced to do to survive traumatized him and still clearly upsets him. like we all know that. but given his interactions with bbh he still feels a sense of nostalgia, referring to them as the "good times" and reminiscing n whatnot. and it could all be a result of the headspace he's in rn, perhaps glorifying his childhood as a means of reinforcing his "i have always been this way" mentality to help justify his violence against the fed workers and/or clinging to the "good" moments he had growing up in an awful environment because that peaceful childhood was stolen from him.

anyway all this is to say. what if even back then, in order to cope, cellbit thought about the wars as a game: hunting alongside bbh, strategizing, taking people out, collecting "loot," upgrading their gear. and when they're the last ones standing, they win! just,, interpreting the "games" part of "hunger games" as a young, scared little cellbit subconsciously putting distance between himself and the horrors he experienced/committed on the daily and trying to motivate himself to keep going by making it a "fun game to play." and how that might affect how he thinks of it now. like on one hand he's probably aware that it was a seriously messed up situation to be dropped into as a kid, on the other hand, he can't deny that he was having fun.

also i do believe that even outside this "it's all just a game" mentality, cellbit and bbh had some pleasant moments that cellbit is still clinging to (and perhaps blowing out of proportion; nostalgia and rose-tinted glasses and all that). cellbit goofing around while setting up camp for the night. bbh looting a cool jacket (or perhaps a sick pair of goggles?) off a body and giving them to a delighted cellbit. cellbit trying to teach bbh some portuguese, bbh teaching cellbit new words in english. cellbit, bored, hanging upside down from a tree by his legs while waiting for bbh to finish looking at the map and call their next move. a flawless double takedown where neither of them broke a sweat and bbh greatly praised cellbit's skills and cellbit smiled for the rest of the day. (are you proud of me? are you proud of me?) a tree branch breaking and falling directly in front of cellbit and cellbit screeching and bbh laughing harder than cellbit has ever heard him laugh before, so much so that he forgets his embarrassment and starts laughing too.

just,,, man. what exactly is cellbit referring to when he brings up "the good times" with bbh. it's so fun to think about.

[jtl07]

jt (finally) watches warrior nun - s2 e1 - Avatrice fight thoughts pt 1

Okay, I know I haven’t finished my first post about s2 e1 but there’s that post going around showing Alba practicing Ava’s opening takedown and yeah I know I’m not yet at that scene yet, but I had a couple thoughts about that particular move (reference vid here).

The first thing I thought was, “That’s so extra” - because that’s like, the opposite of straightforward lol. Straightforward would be a double-leg takedown or even just a simple strike. No, Ava’s gotta literally leap in with a scissor takedown that reverses direction with a flip??

But then I got to thinking about how much Ava has trained up to this point. 2 months isn’t a lot, but as a beginner, and with an intensive schedule, you can learn a ton - especially with a good teacher. So it made me think, well, what if that opening move is less representative of Ava being, well, Ava (which it still totally is) but more representative of just how good Ava has gotten?

So, when I competed in BJJ (which I focused on in recent years, though I studied Muay Thai as well), the opening sequence is usually something you’ve drilled dozens if not hundreds of times. It sets the tone of the match and at the high levels, whoever can successfully execute their opening sometimes determines who wins or loses. Stand up/striking is a bit different but there’s always a game plan, always an overarching strategy. Additionally, there’s always certain sequences that you drill, and drill, and drill, until you can do it without thinking.

The fact that Ava chooses this takedown as her opening move could mean that she drilled this with Beatrice a shit ton of times. I mean, to just immediately launch into that without any hesitation? And execute it flawlessly? That’s incredible!

It also makes me wonder how that move fit into the training plan/curriculum (that we know Beatrice drew up for them, probably had spreadsheets and everything lol). Either Ava asked to be taught it - idk maybe she saw the move online or had seen someone do it at Cat’s Cradle - and Beatrice indulged her, or this was an actual technique that Beatrice had planned for them to go over.

With the latter, I’d bet that Ava would have needed to be hella advanced into the curriculum to get to a point where Beatrice would allow her to do something that flashy. My reading of Beatrice is someone who’s very structured, methodical, and will not advance from point A to point B without having gone through points A1 through A999, yknow? And even with the former, Beatrice would’ve needed to train Ava to a certain point to be able to properly and safely execute a move of that level of complexity.

And now this makes me think about that car scene where Beatrice tells Ava she’s not ready - Ava’s so offended when she says that. Which makes me think two things: 1) Ava may have been aware of how much she’s improved and was offended at Bea cutting down her progress, and, more of a ponder, 2) just how good did Ava need to get for Bea to deem her “ready”? If they’d had more time, gosh, how much better would Ava have gotten? Kind of mind boggling to think about tbh

[sprout-fics]

Takedown

Part Two of Snowblind

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x Medic "Fix" Reader)

Rating: Teen and Up Wordcount: 9.1k Tags: Slow Burn, Mutual pining, Angst, Implied Trauma, Found Family, Team Bonding, Sparring, Wrestling, Takedown maneuvers, Dad Price, Mom Laswell, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics Warnings: None A/N: The official part two of Shadow and Bone featuring our beloved Fix! Fix uses she/hers pronouns and is AFAB but is written in 2nd person POV

Summary:

"My turn."

Ghost seems to materialize from thin air. With a roll of his shoulders he straightens from where he was braced against the wall, just to Gaz's right. The shade of the building did nothing to hide him, and yet it still feels like all the world like he wasn't even there. Like a daytime phantom, he simply appears, a fragmentary blink all that's needed to mask his arrival.

You're stunned into silence when he raises his eyes towards you, and there's that familiar prickle of trepidation, a warning murmured below your heartbeat of the danger present in his stare. It flays you open effortlessly, laying bare your secrets and closely hidden truths, rendering you transparent against his masked, piercing gaze.

"Oh, uh, sure LT." Soap is the first to speak, and even he seems a bit disturbed by this, by the almost garish sight of Ghost in the brightness of daytime. "Lemme just-"

"Not you."

You stop breathing.

Taglist (Please reply to this post to be tagged in future updates of this series!)

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-----

Dry grass on your back. Arms folded as a cushion under your head, the bitter, jaunty breeze of September in Staffordshire brushing against your face like the whisper of an old friend onto your cheeks. It whooshes softly over your ears, ruffling the edge of your T-shirt sleeves and up, away into the fluffy cumulus clouds that puff over the landscape of the English countryside.

You didn't know England could be this beautiful.

It seems like every time the 141 ends stationed back at Beacon Base it's in the rife, cold dead of winter or the soggy, laden dampness of spring. Yet the past two weeks here have been blissfully beautiful, temperate in the way only Autumn is, crisp and braided with the colors of changing seasons. In the late afternoons, in the hour before the sun kisses the horizon, the entire base is painted with a soft, golden light like the god Apollo has bestowed a singular touch on the dying embers of daytime. You drink it in like the nectar of the gods, imbue it with hazy, resplendent glimpses in the repository of your memories.

The team had been grateful the first few days you were here, having returned from the Nepal mission fatigued but successful, thankful for a break. You hardly remembered coming into base in the witching hours of the morning, the world still cloaked in inky darkness. As soon as your legs hit the edge of your bunk you had collapsed into it, gear and all. It wasn't until you woke nearly 13 hours later that you realized someone had mercifully peeled off your vest, boots, helmet, and outer layers while you were asleep.

(When you had asked Gaz, he'd looked over your shoulder worriedly at someone. Yet when you turned, there was nothing there.)

Laswell had warned you all that the hiatus was a temporary one, that you were all on standby as she worked to verify intel on the next mission she directed you all towards. Her promise of only a night had doubled into that of a few days, only for that to lapse into uncertainty as the sizzle of August had faded into September.

It had taken only a few days for the team to get antsy, used to motion, movement as a core, steadying force in their lives. You failed to understand it the first few times you had all been on shore leave, trying to soak in as much peace as you could during your scarce time off-duty to combat the exhaustion carved into your marrow. Now, almost a year into being on the team, you began to see it- the way velocity was a need variable in these mens' lives, how it kept the demons that hid in the back of their thoughts at bay.

Even so, you had all adjusted to life on base, ephemeral though it was. You had each of the 141's schedule mapped out by now, keen eyes observing the silent lives your teammates lived outside of wartime.

Price rose early, before dawn. The only time you ever saw him without his hat was before his first coffee. When you had mentioned to Soap that the man looked like a bedraggled Airedale terrier at first light, the sergeant had nearly spat his drink. Yet that look was combed over by the time he was at his desk, poring over reports with Laswell on the phone. More than once he had enlisted your help with the matter, looking over your shoulder as you traced satellite images under your calloused fingertips, brow scrunched in thought.

After one exceedingly long day, your eyes still swimming with Russian and Arabic as you stared dazedly up at the aging ceiling of the captain's office, Price's hand had landed on your shoulder. His voice was tired but warm as he offered you a smile.

"Good work, Fix."

You had practically strutted back to the team's common area, head held high and smile broad across the planes of your face, darkening in the evening light.

(Unaware of the stare that had traced you from the shadows.)

While Price remained holed in his office all day, Soap and Gaz had been approached by the base commander after the first few days in, enlisting their help training a fresh batch of recruits that had arrived only a week prior to the 141. They both had grumbled about it at first, but you now often found them at the training grounds on the other side of base, barking drills to the younger men and women who regarded them with as much respect as they did fear.

Soap is a natural born leader, you realized; The sight of him overlooking the troops, arms crossed and dressed in tac gear is enough to inspire any soldier. Gaz's inspiration, however, comes not from the way he demands deference and respect the way Soap's strictness did, but from his easier, more hands-on approach to the younger, less experienced soldiers. You often found the sergeant assisting them in their specialist training, hovering over their shoulder at the shooting range or offering a demonstration on weapon safety and management to bright faces and eager eyes.

You couldn't stifle a sense of pride at the two, reminded every time you saw them with the recruits at just how experienced, how reliable they are, these two men you trusted your life to with every mission. Soap, with his cocky but friendly, approachable smile and Gaz with the softer, kinder eyes- those of a friend. They had been wary of you at first, all those long months ago when you had joined the team, regarding you with a cordial distance as you sought to prove yourself to them. It wasn't until your most recent mission, since Nepal- where you had taken down a dozen men with your sniper rifle despite being alone, injured and half snow-blind- that they had truly opened up to you. Since then they had welcomed you into the fold, if their teasing and amicable banter was any indication to go by.

You watched them from the infirmary, where you dedicated the majority of your hours, tracing their broad backs from the hospital windows at the training field just beyond. When your hands weren't busy inventorying your field kit or striving to keep your skills sharp as the team's designated medic, you found them outside, smiles as warm as the afternoon sun that shone down on you three. More often than not you found them waiting for you at the end of your shift, chatting and bantering in the lobby until you made yourself known, strolling easily with them in the golden hour painted by the metamorphosis of Fall.

There was an easiness now that wasn't there before, as Gaz enlisted your help cooking a group meal (His mother's recipe, you later found out) as Soap and Price bickered over soccer matches just beyond the kitchen, as they both griped at you for refusing to use the term 'football', as Soap asked you to spot him with his weight lifting, making a point to flex playfully at you until you conceded as gave a shy pat to his bicep. The evenings between the five of you are quieter, relaxed in a way you're unfamiliar with.

It seems like the world was always doing that, putting you in places you least expect.

Just like it had done in Nepal, with your frigid, shivering form curled into the warm, protective embrace of your Lieutenant.

Neither you nor Ghost had discussed what happened, had dared to mention the soft, fragile words exchanged between you on that clear, starry night as frost had sifted down from the trees above the outpost.

"You see my mistakes."

"I see you. Just you."

Yet after the team had returned to England Ghost had made himself scarce, absent within the daytime regimens of your teammates. You think he might be nocturnal, the way he only appears after dark, waiting until the sun dips low below the horizon to ooze from the shadows, eyes blank, haunted. He hovers in the corners of the rooms you're in, silent, vigilant, slouched with a bone-deep fatigue that no amount of rest seems to cure.

It's a bit startling, truth be told. This calm, this stillness in him is beyond the scope of what you're familiar with. On missions Ghost is the sharp, cutting slice of a blade, concentrated, soaked in blood, piercing with his fatalistic aim and hungry, driven gaze. When he moves it's like watching a predator stalk prey, rippling muscle and broad, unfaltering steps. His eyes glint in the darkness like he can see there, can discern targets from the distant, trembling thump of their heartbeats alone. At your front he's an unstoppable force, yielding no ground no matter the shower of bullets that rain down on him. At your back he's an immovable object, a wall to pin yourself to when the enemy forces you there, ready to strike down encroaching hostiles with his adamantine, skeletal grip.

Now, outside the theater of battle, there's a distance there in Ghost's eyes, decaying there like necrotic flesh. It's something that's been there since the beginning, that's been engraved black in his bones long before you even knew he existed. You see it in his eyes as the lights of the muted television flicker across his mask, playing advertisements he doesn't seem to see. If the other members of the 141 need inertia as their own mental gravity, Ghost craves the ever-existing tides of the ocean to drive away the specters in his thoughts.

You know that unnamed emotion. Know it too well.

Dusky pink sky. The sound of a trumpet, the flurry of figures and clothes and voices blurring into morning fog. When the world shifts it's your hands on the ropes, calloused, sweaty palms digging in for purchase. As the sun rises your weapon thrums under your fingertips, and the voice of the instructor seems louder than the rapid fire that jolts you backwards until you're scrambling for balance- tipping into the dark of evening when the alien shadows of night vision color your gaze. It still feels too bright, too bright, until-

The memory flashes like lightning, and the resulting thunder has your heart hammering in your chest at the shiver that runs through you. It feels endless, infinite, stretching like lengths of gauze on a shallow slice of a wound. Yet there's a familiar heaviness there, bitter and grounding like the crunch of gravel underneath combat boots. There's a comfort in the mindless triumph of combat, of training and needed movement that settles everything else like a murmured, macabre berceuse. It's dark, it's haunting, it kills demons not with the scepter of divine radiance, but in a crepuscule so deep that their shadows are indiscernible from the lack of light in your eyes.

It's hard to imagine now that you lived like that for years, whittling down yourself until there was no hurt, no pain, no lingering words of disdain from familiar voices puncturing your ears. Nothing. Only bones.

And then.

Then there had been Laswell.

Ethiopia, you think it was. Sent for your field requirements for your combat medic training, the air stifling, dusty, caked in a scent that smelled innately of foreign soil. Laswell had been overseeing a mission there, helping gather intel. She hardly slept for days, existing on cooling coffee and leftovers from the impromptu mess hall. Eventually she'd stumbled into the medic tent, had asked for painkillers, an adrenaline, something to keep her awake. Yet then she'd looked up, looked into your eyes without light and hesitated.

A conversation followed, one fragmented over the course of weeks, bleached by the sun and chilled by the nighttime wind. Steaming mugs sitting together, over a desk piled with reports, voices muted with fatigue and sparkling with the rare bite of laughter from her. Evenings spent together, her voice like a needed balm to the cracked sinews of you. Eyes focused, sharp but warm, and you had ached for it, desperate for the regard of this older woman who felt like the things you wanted from the one you called mother. You wonder if Laswell saw that too, with her ever searching eyes and scalding stare. Perhaps she did, perhaps she saw the hollow inside you just as she saw what you tried to fill it with- a raw, unflinching determination that weighed on you so heavily it forced you to crack, to endure and crystallize like blood diamonds.

"Find me after you get back to the states." She told you, voice raised over the sound of the chopper that would take her back to base, and then to home. Her eyes had glinted for a moment in the dry, raw heat, tracing your face with an insight you couldn't comprehend, a prophecy that glittered at the edges and made you blink from the brightness.

So, you did. American soil under your feet, you had found her exactly where she said she'd be, once again basking in the warm flicker of her gaze, the hand on your shoulder that of a friend.

"I have a proposal for you."

It felt like decades ago now, when you had sat alone in the back of a black-hawk, carted off to a base you weren't allowed to know the name of, the earth again shifting endlessly under you.

It was weeks into your training before you understood why you were there. The brutality of it threatened to crack you, the endless and violent force which required your entire concentration and nothing less. The squad around you seemed to stare past each other, dazed by the ceaseless waves of intel, of briefings, medic practice, language courses, nighttime ops, bomb disarmaments, air raid drills, parachute practices, terrain training-

All for them. For the 141.

It was you, in the end. One out of a dozen, a dozen out of a thousand, a thousand out of a million. You. Only you. Designed, bred, honed like a weapon of old, deadly ossein bleached white by nothing other than an oath, a duty. You lived these men's lives before they even knew you existed, had traced each of their steps with your smaller ones, looking up and to the future where they marched onwards.

Now it was their voices, soft and firm, streaked with laughter and teasing that had filled the void inside of you where you had carved everything else away. Slowly, like phases of the waxing moon, you became full again.

Yet there's a doubt there, one present inside just you. Like earl grey steeped for too long, it curls acrid and bitter against the back of your tongue. You swallow it down, forcing it lower and lower even as the aftertaste clings to you, flavors the edges of your words. A fear, an abyss you are constantly trying to avoid tipping into, one that threatens to swallow you and all your achievements in a single, mortifying instant. You walk the tightrope between confidence and fear, and try not to look downwards into the chasm below, where the wind howls with inadequacies and alienation.

If the team notices they don't say. You see it though, see the way their eyes linger over your expression as if they can see the pause there, can hear the voices that whisper sinister prophecies of failure to you even in sleep. You're not sure which to believe between the two divinations- of Laswell's fledgling hope in you, or of the cataclysm which seems to be constantly dwarfing the horizon in a gaunt, pale wash of color.

"Fix!"

You startle, and your callsign sounds for all the world like a gunshot that rouses you from a ruminating slumber, thrusting you back into the crisp air of the Staffordshire countryside.

"Sir!" You bark on instinct as Price's voice directs itself at you, shooting to your feet with your shoulders straightening and muscles coiled in readiness.

Yet instead of the displeased, furrowed brow of your captain all you see is the three men before you freeze, turn halfway from the training area in surprise at your yelp. You see Soap's eyebrows raise in a silent question of your yipped response, but the pause gives Gaz the opportunity he needs to kick the Scotsman's legs from under him. Instantly, the brief look of surprise on Johnny's face morphs into shock as he tilts, mouth opening as the shorter sergeant wraps a leg around him, arms straining as he forces his brother to the ground.

"Getting distracted, Johnny?" Gaz asks breathlessly as Soap struggles under him, biting out a curse tinted with stupefaction at his opponent's surprising burst of strength.

Whatever Price was going to say to you dies on his lips as he barks a laugh, arms crossed and supervising the scuffed section of terrain the team has designated as their sparring mat.

"Gaz is right, Soap. Should be paying more attention to your opponent and not your audience."

Soap doesn't respond, he can't. Not with Gaz's arms securing him in a headlock and his legs forced together so he can't free himself. Briefly, his arms flail out beside him, stirring brown dust into the breeze. Yet he seems to realize the futility of the effort, because you watch his eyes close, see his jaw grit as he grunts, taps twice on the shorter man in a signal of surrender.

It's only once he's released that he sucks in air with a gasp that's a little too dramatic given the circumstances. Yet it only draws a warmth flickering inside you, a smile tickling your lips as you take in Soap's cocky grin and Gaz's glinting eyes, both of them oozing a camaraderie and mischief that occurs only between brothers of the same oath.

"A point to me." Gaz huffs, winded, and when he stands it's to offer Soap a hand, attempting to lift the sergeant to his feet beside him.

Soap goes for the hand, but you see the flicker of playfulness there that sparks behind his gaze. Before you can warn Gaz, Soap's hand shoots forward, grappling Gaz by his forearms and dragging him off balance and into the dirt once more.

You watch as they scuffle, hearing Price's bemused chuff of laughter steps away from you. You know usually he'd issue a strictness between his team, enforcing a set of boundaries designed to keep the sharpness of their skills from dulling. Yet here, in the golden afternoon of fall, there's an ambience that feels lighter, lifting the spirits of the men and you.

It feels a bit like watching the boys from your youth wrestle, all smiles and gangly limbs as they test the boundaries of their strength. Both Soap and Gaz are grinning, the wrinkles of their smiles almost broad enough to obscure the flash of focus in their gazes. Yet there's no adolescent awkwardness there, not with their broad, straining forms and deep, resounding grunts as they battle for supremacy.

"Had enough?" Soap asks between gasps as he catches Gaz between his legs, calves pressing down hard on his chest. Gaz only grunts, thrashes, trying to buck his weight up and disturb the hold Soap has on him.

"Alright, that's enough, both of you." Price interrupts with a wave of his hand, and just like that the two men separate, chests heaving and muscles still coiled. "Gaz, a point, but you best make sure your opponent is down before you gloat."

"Aye, he's right mate." Soap crows, knocking dust away from his shirt. Yet all he gets in response is a nudging elbow in the ribs, and for a moment the two of the jostle, grinning and grappling.

"Fix, you're up." Price nods at you, and you blink, arch your eyebrows at the captain in a silent question, pausing with uncertainty. Yet Price merely nods at you, eyes flicking over to the sparring area meaningfully. "Go on then."

So, you do, standing from your perch on the sloped grassy area beside the dirt pit and cautiously entering the circle. Trepidation, a flutter of courage bounces through you, escaping as an exhaled breath as you steady yourself.

Yet when you look to Gaz, it's Soap who's pushing in front of him with a lopsided smile, extending one brawny arm in front of his comrade.

"Mind if I take this one, cap?" He asks Price, and despite your little murmur of apprehension Price merely shrugs, nods at the Scotsman in a silent assent. Your heart races a little higher in your chest, legs widening as you try to ground yourself, eyes flicking over Soap's larger form and trying to pinpoint weaknesses.

Soap is built like a brick wall, rigid, strong. There's not an ounce of fat on him. The sleeves of his T-shirt cling to his biceps. You can see the veins under his brawny arms- designed for wrangling opponents far larger than yourself. It's not that you think you can't defeat him, smaller as you are, this man who's taken down dozens with his bare hands, it's just a matter of summoning the wit, the endurance to fend him off long enough to do so.

"Easy, Fix." Soap warns, and your eyes dart up to catch his. He's seen your gaze, caught sight of your eyes glinting with determination and a near fatalistic focus. "I'm one of the good guys, yeah?"

You think you hear Gaz scoff behind you, the sound disbelieving and warm all at once. Soap's eyes flicker over to him, feigning hurt.

You launch forwards at that exact moment, using Soap's lapse in attention to your advantage. Soap reacts a moment too late, trying to sidestep you as you barrel at him and try to knock him in his center. Yet that only gives you the opportunity you're looking for, sweeping under his lifted arm and grabbing it in an attempt to lift it behind him, force him to his knees.

Unfortunately, Soap seems to see exactly where you're going, and instead sidesteps around you, securing one, long, leg behind and between yours. It's a move you should have expected, given his size, but by the time you try and twist to correct it's too late. It takes the Scotsman hardly any effort to scoot his leg to the side, and suddenly you're losing balance, teetering backwards. Yet you refuse to relinquish your hold on him, and Soap chokes as you shoot out an arm, wrapping it around his throat and taking him down with you.

The impact of the harsh dirt ground on your back is nothing compared to the weight of the sergeant atop you, the back of his head against your collarbone as you strain to contain him. Yet Johnny is a force, a raw mass of rippling muscle as he pries your headlock enough for him to flip over and shake you off.

On your back, hands free and Soap sat up between your legs you try and scoot back, gain ground on which to recover. When he turns, Soap's eyes are gleaming, and he reaches for you, one massive hand wrapping around you calf and scooting you closer to him. Even when you try to kick him he simply bats aside your attempts, dirt scuffing around you both as he secures his hands around your hips.

A loud "Oof!" leaves you as the Scotsman flips you, settles his weight across your lower back, effectively immobilizing you. He grapples with your arms for a moment, as you scramble and writhe under him, but eventually Johnny manages to catch both hands behind you, your face pressed into the dirt and his immense weight weighing down on your back.

"Nice try, hen." Soap tuts down at you, breath caught in his chest. His hands clasp on both your wrists, and you know you could get them free if you wanted to, but even then it's an exercise in futility. "Better luck next time."

You sigh, limbs going limp under him in surrender and face scrunching in dismay.

"Curse you and your stupidly large body." You groan as he releases you, your hands pushing you up out of the dirt to a stand once more. Soap only chuckles, the sound like warm summer sunshine as a single dusty hand claps you across the shoulder.

"It's not about size." Price responds, summoning your gaze to him once more. His arms are crossed, his gaze leveled at you strictly, eyes narrowed. "It's about form, making sure you can outsmart your opponent."

You feel the chafe of dismissal run through you, tighten across your shoulders. It stings, this reprimand of his, even if you know it's only for your benefit. There's something about his words that knocks against something hollowed, deep inside you where the voices of the past threaten to spill through.

"Of course, captain." You manage, voice tight even as you meet his gaze head on, make sure he doesn't see the bitterness masked behind your stare.

If Price sees he doesn't say, instead nodding to the sergeant next to you in a wordless gesture. "Again."

You nod stiffly, shaking the tension from your shoulders and the dirt from your clothes, turning back to Soap, eyes focused once more. He settles into his stance, and he seems looser somehow, ready for you.

"He's bigger than you, Fix." Price calls. "You've got the advantage of speed and center of gravity. Use it wisely."

You nod absently, trying to gauge Johnny's movements, watching the Scotsman bounce on the balls of his feet. It's a difficult choice, trying to find that target that will put him off balance and allow you enough space to recoup if needed. You think if you can have some distance, land a few strikes to give you an opening...

"C'mon now Fix, show me what ya got." Johnny taunts playfully, fingers waggling at you.

Smug bastard.

You feint to start, watching how Soap favors his right leg as he reacts. You can feel his tension in the air, feel it ripple through and bolster you with a steely, calculating confidence.

He's just another obstacle, another hurdle. You haven't fallen from that tightrope thus far, and you won't start now.

At last, you launch forwards, ducking out of the way of Soap's outstretched reach and placing a well-earned kick to his upper leg  that has him grunt, briefly buckle down-

Oh shit.

Now at the perfect height, Soap locks his arms around your middle, hauling you to him. You try and struggle, kicking apart his legs in an attempt to disturb his balance, one hand trying to push up at his jaw-

The world tilts, Johnny's hands on you shift, and you shriek as suddenly you're being hauled up. Your feet kick uselessly in the air as Soap lifts your shrieking form higher, his raucous laughter loud in your ears. With a heft, you're suddenly over one broad shoulder, his hands balancing you precariously as you squirm.

"S-Soap!" You squeal, face warming and unable to contain the abrupt gasp of hysterical delight that rises inside you. "Johnny! You-!"

"The cap'n told you to watch your balance!" Soap cackles over your protests. "How's gravity now, eh?!"

You beat at his back with your fists, but even then you can't contain the sudden burst of laughter that's being squeezed from your chest. When you try to kick, Soap merely shifts an arm down, locking the back of your thighs.

"You little shit!" You giggle, trying to raise yourself off his shoulder, only for him to twist where he stands, sending the world flying into a haze of color around you. "Put me down or I'll-!"

"There's no escape!" Soap crows in triumph, and you laugh truly this time, the warmth of it bubbling up your chest and vanquishing the solemnity there in a breezy gasp of air. "I have you now!"

"Alright, that's enough." Price interjects, but you can hear the smile on his voice, and when Soap spins again to face him you're left with Gaz, who grins broadly at your form splayed across his mate's shoulders despite the disbelieving shake of his head. "Put the medic down and back away slowly."

"Aye cap'n." Soap affirms, and the world shifts as you slide down, your shirt catching on his vest for a moment long enough to make it rise a few inches up your stomach. Once your feet are on solid ground once more you fiddle with it, shooting Soap a look of pure mischief as you playfully shove at him.

"You're a right bastard, you are." You jeer at him, but there's no true malice behind the insult.

"Oho! Looks like our bonnie medic has picked up some British slang, hasn't she?" Soap grins wickedly back at you, pretending to rub a bruise left by your touch.

"Shut up."

"She'll take you down with words alone, mate." Gaz quips off to the side, a grin stretched across his face. "Better watch your step."

You turn to him, still smiling, feeling that bravado wash over you now in the wake of Soap's prank.

"You want some too, sergeant?" You shoot back, and Gaz feigns surrender, tossing up his hands and taking a step back against the wall he's braced on- only to freeze.

You see him at the same time Gaz senses him, shoulders going rigid at the figure, the mass behind him, leaning in the shadow casted by the aged, brick building. The air seems to suck into silence, drowning into a ringing nothingness like the aftershock of flashbang that was far too close.

"My turn."

Ghost seems to materialize from thin air. With a roll of his shoulders he straightens from where he was braced against the wall, just to Gaz's right. The shade of the building did nothing to hide him, and yet it still feels like all the world like he wasn't even there. Like a daytime phantom, he simply appears, a fragmentary blink all that's needed to mask his arrival.

You're stunned into silence when he raises his eyes towards you, and there's that familiar prickle of trepidation, a warning murmured below your heartbeat of the danger present in his stare. It flays you open effortlessly, laying bare your secrets and closely hidden truths, rendering you transparent against his masked, piercing gaze.

"Oh, uh, sure LT." Soap is the first to speak, and even he seems a bit disturbed by this, by the almost garish sight of Ghost in the brightness of daytime. "Lemme just-"

"Not you."

You stop breathing.

Ghost's eyes are locked on you. Hell, they never left you, trained on your form since the moment he announced his arrival. You think if he steps closer, into the training are he might hear your heartbeat, reach out a hand to feel it thrum under his fingertips-

Your pulse flutters against his fingers like a trapped bird, wings spread and beating the frozen air around you. He's never been this close before. He's hardly ever touched you- much less with his bare hands. The sensation of it threatens to throw you from that precipice where you balance precariously, falling once more into that asymmetry you fail to understand. You can only pray that your rapid, strumming heartbeat doesn't betray you, doesn't let him sense the thoughts you're holding silent within your heart.

You swallow, but all you taste is dust.

"H-hang on now." Soap intervenes, stepping up beside you. He's a weight at your back, keeping you steady, grounded against the gale inside you. The wind whips higher, and it seems to carry the scent of your uncertainty, the carpal, raw taste of it filling the back of your mouth.

He's huge. Larger than Soap. Immense and looming. Ghost occupies enough space in your mind it rivals your own doubts, blending at the seams with the dark, inky bleed of him into your form. The weight of him, even at this distance, threatens to bear down on your shoulders, and you feel that pressure, that muscled strain compress you until there's almost nothing left.

Only bones.

"It's fine, Soap." Your voice is surprisingly steady when you speak, lift an arm to gently halt the Scotsman behind you. "I can do it."

It's a lie. You're not sure if you can at all. It's not Ghost's size, his stature that concerns you. No, rather it's you, the way the lieutenant before you seems to summon those linger doubts in you- the urgent, insurmountable need to prove yourself. You can't explain it, can't fully understand why it's Ghost of all people that needs to see this, needs to see how you fail to crack, that no amount of pressure here will force you to fail.

Then again, perhaps you do know. After all, you've always known it was him.

You trace the marrow white paint of Ghost's mask up to his eyes, watching as they slide from you to Price, waiting for his assent. You hear Price inhale deeply, eyes flickering between the two of you before he at last sighs, gestures Ghost into the ring.

When you try to step back, Soap catches your arm.

"You don't have to do this." He tells you, and the tone of his voice makes you pause, frown at the odd tint of concern there.

"Yeah, I do." You tell him instead, and jerk your arm from his touch, brushing past him to give Ghost the space he needs to prepare. When you glance at the sergeant there's an odd pinch to his face you don't recognize. It feels oddly like doubt, a sourness that doesn't believe in you. It chafes against the inside of you, brittle and pale.

When you turn to face Ghost a few paces away, he's stretching. It almost catches you by surprise, the sight of his hulking frame as he rolls his shoulders, pops his neck with an audible crack. Again, you're reminded of the breadth of him, this man who's shielded you more times than you can count by now, can take down a man larger than you with nothing but his bare hands.

Your mouth dries.

Even so, you nod at Price when you settle into your stance, preparing yourself for his assault. The captain returns it, lets his stare linger over your unsteady hands before his voice rings out into the afternoon sun:

"Begin!"

You tense, preparing yourself, but even then you aren't ready for the sheer, massive strides Ghost takes towards you, closing the distance so rapidly your mind reels trying to catch up. You sidestep him a moment too late, trying to get a leg under his frame and use it to upset his balance, send him stumbling.

A hand seizes your shoulder. The world spins.

The gasp that escapes from your chest upon impact with the ground floats upwards into the eggshell blue sky.

Just like that.

You blink once, twice, trying to understand exactly how Ghost managed to flip you so easily, barely even touching you before you're flat on your back staring up at the clouds. Gaz hisses a grimace somewhere beyond you, and you hardly hear it, thoughts spinning.

"Up."

That puffy crisp September sky is blotted out as Ghost hovers above you, towering over your prone form as your breath stills in your chest. You stare at him dumbly for a moment, still trying to understand how he moved fast enough to make your head spin.

He doesn't offer you a hand, letting you sit up on your own, dusty with dirt and heart rattling in your chest. When you stand he's already paced away from you, wordlessly waiting for you to resume your stance.

"Give him hell, Fix!" Soap calls from the side, but even he doesn't sound entirely convinced.

You ignore him, trying to clear your thoughts, trying to focus on exactly how Ghost managed to flip you. Maybe his arm was around your middle- or was it your shoulder, you can't tell, he-

"Don't make me wait, sergeant." Ghost tells you, and the low scrape of his voice is enough to startle you, feeling like bone meal grinding against the recesses of your mind.

You tense, observing, watching, seeking weaknesses in his stance. When you launch forwards again, you move fast, ducking under Ghost's outstretched arm as he reaches for you. It's enough to give you an opening as you reach forward, throwing an arm out to his middle and aiming a fist with all your strength. It's not enough to send him stumbling backwards, but you know if you unbalance him you can get one of his legs, force him to his knees-

Ghost deflects your strike with ease, however, and before you can retreat to recoup that same arm twists your outstretched hand deftly. You're spun, boots skidding in the dirt. Yet this time Ghost doesn't put you down in the ground. Instead, he hauls you backwards until you're pressed against his front, and a heavy arm settles under your throat in a vice-like grip, rising up enough to threaten your airflow.

"Better." Is all he tells you as you struggle, and the motherfucker isn't even out of breath.

When you aim an elbow back into his stomach he merely grunts at the impact, and after a brief second the world spins wildly out of control as Ghost flips you over his hip and into the dirt once more.

You think you may have skid a few inches past where you landed, the impact harsh and unforgiving against your form. When you open your eyes you're on your side, staring at his boots as he again looms over you.

"Get up." He tells you, and there's not a single ounce of hesitation there, his tone harsh and unforgiving. It bites harder than the bruises forming on your flesh, sinking deeper past the sinews of you into the place where you harbor your own self-doubt. Ghost doesn't give you any recompense, demanding your immediate restitution even as you brace on your elbows, try and catch your breath.

"If you stayed down this long you'd be dead." He tells you plainly, and when you grit your teeth you feel your jaw threaten to pop. Frustration, humiliation clots under your skin, racing along your nerve endings and threatening to set your skin aflame. It boils inside of you, this shame of being defeated so easily, of not being able to stand your own, of him seemingly mocking you for your lack of strength.

"E-easy LT." Soap tries from your other side, trying uncertainly to intervene. "She's just catching her breath, she-"

"She's getting caught in her head, Johnny." Ghost replies, and the tone of his voice has shifted now- irritated, impatient. You grimace against it where he can't see, with your brow bent over your arms as you push yourself upwards. Yet the motion isn't fast enough for Ghost, who's gloved grip settles on your bicep and hauls you to a stand.

When you try and shake him off, however, Ghost doesn't budge. You turn to him, ready to snap a complaint bitten with anger, but the pale paint of his mask looms over you instead.

"You're only seeing me." He tells you, voice dipping lower, quieter. A growl. "Not an enemy. You're seeing someone bigger and stronger than you and it's messing with your head."

You blink at him for a moment, trying to process his hissed accusation. For a moment it feels as if he's bragging, lauding over the fact that you aren't a towering six foot six and built from unbreakable bone and mass. Yet beyond that is the harsh, unrepentant bite of his words, digging like thorns into the smog of despondency that clouds your thoughts.

He releases you before you can object, turning on his heel and striding away to the other side of the dirt pit, leaving you suppressing a shiver of fury. The sharpness of it digs harder than a combat knife, buries between your shoulders as they tighten and flex, trying vainly to push it down further into the depths of you. It imbues into your marrow, seeping like icy water and freezing, furthering the fractures that are already there.

"Again."

You breathe, steady yourself, turn to him. Behind you Gaz and Soap shift nervously, their boots scuffing against the grass as they exchange a look.

You're faster this time, as if that same righteous bleed into your bones has gifted you a speed you aren't entirely aware of- focused only on the massive looming form of your lieutenant in front of you. Yet when he blink he's not there- the after effect of him wavering before your eyes and you swear you see his eyes glint.

Just like that, you feel your legs out from under you. There's not even a breath in your lungs to yelp before you're landing on your side- a second too slow to land on your stomach. When Ghost reaches for you, however, you manage to catch his arm between your legs, pressing and holding, immobilizing it. Your victory is short lived, however, when Ghost twists and suddenly your whole body shifts with you onto your stomach. The hand that had held his arm, trying to haul it backwards is seized, and after a momentary scuffle it ends with Ghost pressing his weight into the small of your back, knee braced between yours.

Grunting, you try and push up, try and dislodge him from atop you, kneeling above your prone form. It's not use, and the only reward you get from your LT is a tightening, warning grip on your forearm, pushing almost painfully into your spine. Face pressed into the dirt, thrashing, you bite down on a yell of frustration. When you turn your head, glare venomously over your shoulder, Ghost regards you with an unwavering, unblinking stare.

"Tap out." He tells you coldly, but you refuse, still squirming and trying to buck him off you.

"I said." Ghost repeats, and the grip on your wrist is almost enough to bruise as he leans further over you, pressing more weight into your back. "Tap. out."

The "Fuck you." sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and acrid with venom. When you swallow the taste lingers in your throat. Yet you close your eyes in defeat, using your remaining free hand to tap the ground twice in surrender. Instantly Ghost is gone from you, weight and hands vanishing, but you can't deny the momentary touch of disappointment that flickers in your belly at his figure vanishing from atop you.

Traitorous. Unacceptable.

Dimly, your mind conjures the sensation of him, of the planes of his body curled around you, blunted at the edges by his gear and jacket in the darkness. The warmth of him seeps through, blanketing you, drawing the freeze from your bones. Now that same figure towers over you, casting you in his shadow- one you think you'll always dwell in, unable to outshine the sun.

You stand without his help this time, face smeared with dirt. Fists curled at your sides, heart thrumming too fast in your chest, you force yourself to breathe. The air feels dusty, putrid, cracked in your throat- rotting with frustration and bitter self-loathing. Price says something, but you can't hear him over the blood rushing in your ears, the clench of your joints popping under the pressure.

Ghost seems to suck the light out of the air at the other end of the pit, arms crossed as he silently waits for you to right yourself. His eyes, tinged black at the edges, bore into you. They carve deeper downwards, flaying you open and exposing your heart, your lungs, the spilling threads of you that reek of weakness.

You think he might see it, might see the thing you're keeping curled within you- a fragile tender thing made of glass you've kept safe all this time.

His voice, soft, just for you, murmurs against the midnight.

"I see you. Just you."

Oh.

"You're only seeing me." He told you.

Not an enemy. Him.

Ghost. Because you could never see him as anything else. Not when it's him.

You blink and the light changes. Your next breath, forced through parted lips, seems to ooze the toxicity from your veins, lifting the weight from your shoulders. The bones inside you are still cracked, fractured, and you know they probably will be forever. Now, however, you understand, and the knowledge seems to strengthen them, dull the bitter horrible pain of your own doubt long enough for you to see.

Not a shadow, a light in the darkness. Guiding you forwards even if it threatens to blind you, drawing you out of the confines of your own lack of confidence by force if he has to. He's not doing this to mock you at all. He's not looking down on you, he's not gloating or tossing you around for his own sadistic self-pleasure. He's trying, in his own way, to teach you, to show you that you do have what it takes. He's breaking you systematically, scooping you from the ashes and charred remains so the frayed and broken edges of you are polished into something new. Something stronger.

He's doing this because he sees you. Just you, and that's already good enough. You're good enough.

Sometimes you have to break bones for them to mend correctly.

"Fix!"

You jolt, turning to Price. Arms crossed, one shaggy eyebrow arched towards you, he regards you with scrutiny.

"You done?" Is all he asks, and he seems to see it too- the telltale twinkle of knowledge in his eyes at what his lieutenant is trying to accomplish.

"No sir." You breathe, and Price grins.

"Give him hell then, sergeant." He nods towards your opponent. You follow his gaze, and this time Ghost is focused entirely on you, eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

You can do it.

Ghost settles into his stance, one arm extended slightly in front of the other, his tattooed forearm rippling with muscle. He's big, bigger than you, and that thought alone is enough to threaten you into a tailspin of doubt like before. You know now that if you indulge it, allow it to take hold it guarantees defeat. So, you push it down, refuse to see it, summoning a phantom in its place, one of your own design. it wavers before you, whispering sinister prophecies of failure, howling like the wind in the abyss of the impossibly high tightrope you tread upon.

When you launch forward Ghost tenses, ready for your attack. He throws out an arm to block your attack, but you merely twist around it, throwing it up and giving you the opening you need. It takes all your strength as you ignore his other hand settling on your shoulder. You shift, balance, and then bring your  foot against his leg with vicious force. It's enough to make him stumble, shift his weight and grunt at the impact. His distraction allows you to free yourself, land another hit against his arm and throw it wide.

There.

He reaches for you, but the motion is slow, stunted by his size. You slide around him instead, ducking under his arm and instead kicking again to the back of his knee. It's enough, and Ghost buckles not completely, but the few inches you need to reach forward, wrap your arms around his neck and pull.

You both go teetering back into the dirt, the air whooshing from your lungs upon impact. Ghost doesn't wait for the dust to settle before he's struggling, trying to twist to his side and dislodge you. You don't let him, grunting as you force your forearm under his chin and secure it with your other arm. His hands reach up, but you raise your legs on either side of him. Twisting, you secure them around his front, clenching down with a cracked yell even as he thrashes under you. With one of his arms now trapped, Ghost grunts, tries once more to twist. His boots scuff in the dirt, stirring clouds of beige dust into the crisp air.

It takes all your strength to contain him, and even then you feel your grip slipping. Breath caught in your chest you strain against him, back arching off the ground and grunting low and deep at his form against yours. You know it'll take only a momentary lapse in concentration for Ghost to seize the opportunity and free himself. You don't intend to give him that much.

Gaz and Soap cheer from across the clearing, whooping encouragements as you strain to keep Ghost locked between your arms and legs. Their silence has faded to hollering praise you don't hear as you concentrate, use all the force in your body to maintain your victory. Blood rushes in your ears- a churning tributary of red pulsing under your skin, sharp with adrenaline. Like the river Styx it seems to burn you, scald you to the touch even as you emerge dripping with power and purpose. A god-like strength inherited only for this moment.

A tap, then another on your calf.

He concedes.

It takes you a moment to realize the gesture for what it is, so surprised are you at your own victory. It takes Ghost tapping an insistent third time for you to release him with a gasp, flopping back into the dirt and letting your weakened limbs collapse at your sides. Starved of air, your chest inflates rapidly, head tossed back and staring dazedly up at the blue sky above. The world spins, and at last you realize there’s noise beyond the war drum of your heartbeat in your ears.

"That'a fucking girl Fix!" Soap yells from somewhere beyond you, voice carrying loud and clear. You can hear Gaz clapping beside him- and even without looking you can imagine the wide spread of a smile plastered on his lips.

Ghost sits up from between your legs, but you can't find it in you to follow just yet- exhausted to the core. Your heartbeat throbs in your ears like a wound, your arms and legs shake with exertion. Yet the heaviness there is not of defeat, acrid and disappointing. No, this feels like relief, like triumph.

You did it.

A shadow falls over you, and when you blink it's Ghost's white mask that filters through your thoughts.

"Doesn't count as a win if you can't stand." He tells you, but there's no venom there. Instead, it sounds lighter, and it must be the dizziness because it almost sounds playful.

Still, you accept his hand when he offers it. He pulls you sharply to your feet, and you teeter for a moment before his hand lands on your shoulder, steadying you.

The boys are all grinning at you, pride blooming across their faces. It's enough to make you freeze, stiffen with surprise at the blatant delight they have at your small victory. The warmth of self-consciousness blossoms across your chest, crawling up your nape. You press a hand there nervously, averting your eyes with a small, shy smile.

"If you can take down Ghost, you can take down anyone." Gaz tells you, and his eyes are sparkling mischievously, the corners of his gaze wrinkled with a smile.

"Could take me down any day, Fix." Soap adds, and when he winks you roll your eyes at his suggestion.

"Stay down, Soap." You tell him, but you're unable to contain the smile there, tugging insistently at the corner of your lips.

"Good work, sergeant." Price tells you and when you turn he nods at you, satisfaction written across his expression. It lifts you, warms you and raises you higher on your toes. His pride bleeds into you, makes you straighten and raise your head a touch higher to meet his gaze.

"Thank you sir."

Price nods just once, and looks as if he's going to speak again, except-

"Captain!"

You all turn at the sound, and it's a recruit who's voice catches your attention. He jogs out from behind the shadow of the building, hair mussed and cheeks flushed with exertion. When he stops just short of your group he doubles over, panting and trying to catch his breath. it takes him only a moment- straightening before price can correct him, standing at attention.

"Captain." He greets. "You're needed at the commander's office. Kate Laswell has your briefing ready."

Just like that, the mood shifts. Instantly you're all moving, responding, gathering the supplies scattered around the training area as Price barks orders.

"You heard the man. Get sorted, I want you all ready for briefing in five minutes, understood?"

There's a chorus of "Yes Sir!"s that goes up from all of you, hard and unflinching, ever ready for the tasks set out ahead of you.

"Good. Get moving." Price issues, before he's taking long strides to follow the private, form coiled and stalking with the authority of a commander, a leader.

You yourself move to follow Soap and Gaz, watching as they excitedly push and jostle each other like friends, grins still spread across their faces.

Yet there's a hand on your shoulder, and you pause to turn towards the source, lips parted in surprise. Ghost hovers just behind you, caught in the shadow of the brick building, the angle slanted across his mask.

Yet then there's silence, and you see his eyes flicker behind the mask. It's brief, just a flash, but you see a hesitancy there, a contemplation you know he'll never voice. He squints, and in that instant you wish you could see him the way he seems to see you, gazing into you like looking into a glass prism, seeing the lights that reflects outwards. Yet in him it's only ever shadows, smoke obscuring the things you wish you could observe behind his coal dark stare, graze across with the tips of your fingers.

"You did well." He tells you. Yet he doesn't hold your gaze, his touch vanishing from you in the scarce heartbeat that follows. His boots crunch dirt as he eases past you, broad dark form vanishing in the direction where the others have gone.

You're left alone behind him, watching as he disappears. For a moment you feel it once more, see the four of them vanish before you into a cloud of snow, atop the mountain of impossible expectations you have for yourself. Yet stronger now is the fragile, crystal heart of you, the one where you keep your wildest hopes and secrets, the home of you where his voice lies in tender, sleeping wait.

You follow him.

----

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[noneedtofearorhope]

i seem to recall a gif or video of someone doing like a double leg takedown/tackle on a cop, just straight slamming him down on his back. sound familiar to anyone? got a link?