#soap is. well. soap

[d-emeter]

Secret Santa on base (but the entire 141 is desperate to pull you) — plus-size!fem!reader x task force 141

CW: christmas (?), the boys being a little bit creepy but they're just in love leave them be, allusions to sexual activity

So this somehow ended up from Laswell's pov for the most part lol but it switches to reader for the end! Also happy holidays to everyone that celebrates! <3

When Laswell had brought up the idea of doing a secret santa on base — well, it had been her wife who said they needed some more holiday cheer, and who was she to deny that? — she had not expected it to become something akin to a battlefield. Maybe she should have known better, the soldiers surrounding her were competitive by nature. Winning was always the main goal.

But this time, there was no enemy to defeat, no intel to gain, no hostage to save. No, this time, you were the objective. Laswell was not stupid, in fact, it was her job to be observant, to figure out that which others could not. And to her, Task Force 141 was an open fucking book.

It was in the way Price would leave his hand on your shoulder after offering you an encouraging pat, and how that hand would move lower down your arm or back while he talked to you. It was in the way Ghost would always prepare an extra cup of tea to bring to early morning briefings, trying to subtly push it your way while you were rubbing at your eyes. It was in the way Gaz would lean over you when you asked him to come look at something on your laptop, arms on either side of you and practically caging you in. It was in the way Soap would always find a way to touch you, without fail, calling you 'bonnie' or 'love' in that obnoxious Scottish accent as he threw an arm over your shoulders. It was especially in the way the other three would scowl at whoever had your attention for the moment. It was clear as fucking day — they all wanted you.

Laswell knew this and, in hindsight, should have taken that into account when organizing the gift exchange. This realization came when Price knocked on her door just after the announcement had made the rounds. He had inquired if she was going to be the one to select the secret santa's, and if he could maybe take a look with her — just to make sure they weren't pairing up people that disliked eachother and causing issues, he explained. When she told him no, some random online generator would do just fine, Kate got her confirmation that he was lying about his motives — she'd never seen the captain look that disappointed.

After the secret santa's had been given out, she realized that maybe it was time to do some damage control. She had walked into the rec room to find Gaz grilling everyone in there on who they pulled, seeming more agitated each time they did not answer with what he wanted to hear. A few hours later, he had apparently found the one he was looking for, as Laswell overheard someone talking about how Sergeant Mactavish had offered the person in question nearly 100 bucks to switch. Then the report came in about Lieutenant Riley threatening that very same person, and Laswell had had enough.

REMINDER: SECRET SANTAS ARE FINAL AND CANNOT BE EXCHANGED.

She pretended not to hear the huffing from Price as he read the email she had sent around.

Kate had hoped the situation had been subdued with that, yet still couldn't shake the weird feeling in her underbelly when the base christmas party came around. Everything seemed fine, at first; there stood a sadly decorated plastic tree in the corner, lights were strung up around the room and the secret santa table was overflowing with badly wrapped gifts. Everything would be fine, right?

—

Wrong.

You had been excited about the gift exchange. It was a fun way to interact with some of your coworkers that you hadn't done so with yet, and you had always liked giving out presents. You tried not to beam too bright when Kate unwrapped the gift you had got her, and got up excitedly when your name was called. It was nothing special, really; a cute mug with a bar of chocolate inside, courtesy of some random private you had never really had the chance to talk to. You were grateful nonetheless.

But then your name was called again. And again. And again. The flush of embarrassment grew with each one. By the end of the night, you had five gifts in total, somehow. The second gift was a bottle of perfume, and you had to stifle a gasp as you saw the brand — it had to have been close to three figures in price. You tentatively spray some on your wrist, and- Hadn't you smelled something similar on Gaz when he greeted you earlier?

The third gift was a basket filled with goodies; all your favourite sweets and snacks, a pair of fuzzy socks, a book you had had on your wishlist for a while, and, wait, was that..? You're so preoccupied with using the socks to hide the box of XXL condoms that you don't notice how Ghost's fingers move to adjust himself in his pants.

You start to feel really flustered when your fourth gift is handed to you, trying not to flounder under all the stares you're getting. The box looks expensive, and reveals a gorgeous pearl necklace when you open it — God, that must've been at least triple the given budget. You have to hide the added note from view when you read it: 'Just a placeholder until I can give you a pearl necklace of my own -J'.

You don't even open the fifth gift, choosing instead to quickly accept it and ushering the announcer into calling the next name. You feel a little faint when you actually open it once you're in the privacy of your room — it's a fucking vibrator. The little instruction manual says something about it being remote controlled — so where is the controller?

[chloesimaginationthings]

That was Michael’s room in FNAF 4,,

[drgnflyteabox]

mdni 18+ soap x fem!reader pregnancy kink, lactation kink, dubcon-ish

Johnny takes good care of you when you get knocked up with his baby, to be sure, but he's not a saint

He'll let you kick your feet into his lap and rub the stiffness away, yeah, if he gets to lay you out after and press his nose to the gusset of your panties and inhale as long as he wants, hand wrapped firmly around his cock

Yeah, he'll come up behind you and take the weight of your swollen belly off of your back, hold you there while you decompress for the first time in weeks... if you take your top down later and let him have a little taste of the milk that's come early

Honey, of course I'll get your lotion from the top shelf for ye, just go ahead and lay yerself down on the bed for me. Mhm, tuck a pillow under that belly. Hands and knees, lamb. That's right, good girl.

He's been putting things in hard to reach places so you have to ask him for help, too, not that you know - you're suffering from a case of pregnancy brain, foggy and tired

Can't let the mother of his child suffer without help, of course. But would it hurt to just come take a seat in his lap, let him see how sensitive you've gotten? How much more wet you get now? How sore and weepy you are?

[accecakes]

I saw someone on Twitter say that their masks wouldn't let them kiss. Tragic.

Credits to that tweet : @Mowhawkmactavish

[soapbbox]

I absolutely adore your TF One drawings!! The one where the High Guard finally learn about the cogless miners send me cracking (in a good way). Really, just thank you. Have a nice 2025!! - FanFromSpain

I’m really happy you enjoy them!!

[shotmrmiller]

getting a cute mistletoe navel ring because 'tis the season except ghost saw it so naturally he's shoving you in a broom closet to uphold tradition of kissing under it (just last week he said he strongly disliked yuletide) and before you can tell him to lock the door, he's tossing both your legs over his shoulders and eating pussy like he gets paid to do it then tugs his mask back down as if it isn't sopping wet with your come and leaves you behind sans the underwear you saw him pluck off the ground and stuff into his vest pocket.

(then price catches a glimpse of it too then tells you to stay behind for a sec only to simply hook his fingers into your waistband, murmuring something about not wanting bad luck. maybe enforcing the mistletoe rule that one time with kyle had been a mistake.)

[srfiv]

did days always disappear so easily, chasing you down to the bottom?

[unspecifiedfigure]

soap showing off his new muz— i mean mask to his favorite LT (with no ulterior motives of course)

[pythonmoth]

cw: post-traumatic stress disorder. paranoia. anxiety. panic. overthinking. reader is traumatized and unreliable. explicit suicidal thoughts. mentioned depersonalization. the voices. jealous simon. kissing the homies pt2. author was angry while writing.

simon x f!reader. poly tf141. father figure price.

text is heavily styled to show reader's panic. if it's difficult to read, I can share the normal version tomorrow. ♡

First | Last | Next

Slow.

That's the only way you can describe how the progress has been for you.

Ever since you fell asleep with Simon on a call, you've been feeling so calm. It's like all the problems disappeared. Your therapist is confused, but glad to see you all happy and content, like never before. Your appetite has come back, your nails have been growing nicely. You give yourself a chance to try on comfortable shoes, a little hesitant to make your toenails hurt, but you can actually walk with them now. They're still a little sensitive, but you're running your errands on your own now. No need to be dependant anymore.

To feel like yourself again has given you so much comfort that you find yourself texting the team properly. Even Gaz has been taking your calls when he's available, which has been great for your mental health, and your heart. Price has been mostly quiet, but you're not surprised, as he's always busy; he mostly just shares updates on missions, like Simon. Johnny has been incredibly funny on the phone, sharing silly things and your mutual hatred towards a new movie has been helping you bond again.

Simon, however...

"Hey, I'm serious! Don't you dare using that fucking tea bag!" Simon grunts from the phone.

You turn to him, laughing as you see him frowning. Simon's unmasked face covers your phone screen, his distaste for the cheap tea bags completely clear. His eyebrows are furrowed together, his mouth curled in a little disgusted snarl. You can only grin, mocking him, lazily patting your hands dry on your pants.

"I've no energy to prepare anything else!" you sigh, dropping the tea bag on the mug, getting closer to the phone to turn the volume up.

Your phone is fighting for it's life resting against a little cookie jar on the isle, your hands still a little damp from doing the dishes.

"Well, if you didn't try to do everything at once, you would" Simon voice retorts. His forehead is covering nearly half of your screen, making it hard to take him seriously.

"I can perfectly do multiple things at the same time".

"The stove".

You turn around to see the stove still on. With a grimace, you turn it off, ignoring his little chuckle as you reach out for your tea and your phone, walking over to the living room. The couch is cozy and fluffy, making you sink into it as if it were a cloud. You drag a blanket over your legs as you smile at the screen, staring at Simon.

"Whatever. Now, what did you have for dinner?"

Ever since that night, this has been your new normal. He has time off, you have a videocall. Really, it's a win-win situation, and it makes you happy, so that's fine. He tells you all about everyone, he tells you about how much he misses you and how much he wants to see you. It makes you smile, genuinely so.

The therapist isn't convinced you're okay yet. She says you're still jumpy, still flinch around people, and she even said you're hyper vigilant. But there's nothing wrong with being precautious, so you don't understand how that's a bad thing. However, you can admit it's a little hard to do things with your hands. It's not that you can't use your hands, because you can, but it makes you feel as if you were in a simulation, as if you were part of a game and you're the point of view for someone else.

Perhaps you should've kept that to yourself.

That's probably why the therapist refuses to allow you to go back. She probably thinks you're crazy, when it happens to everyone. She just doesn't understand.

It's no matter, because they're coming.

Price told you a few days ago that they're finally free, and will be having a few months off unless they're strictly needed. It's been nine months since you last saw them in person, so it makes you feel excited, content!

Tomorrow. They're coming tomorrow.

The best part is that you don't even need to ask what they feel like eating. You know them well enough to know just how much they love meat, so you just have to go out and buy everything.

The air is a more than chilly now, your birthday month coming right up, so you decide to put on your favorite jacket and take your car keys. The drive to the store is calm, the music absolutely blasting your ears, though, your enthusiasm sky high with how much you've missed them these past few months. It makes you giddy, to welcome them, to see them again.

Your therapist has been helping you to identify your emotions, helping you to understand how you are genuinely feeling. And having them over... it makes you a little anxious. Only because you haven't gotten any visitors outside your family and friends, really. Of course you want them there, it's just gonna be new.

In just a few minutes, your car if parked and locked at least five times just to make sure, canva tote bags in hand and then you're walking in the store. You're always making sure to come at a time when there's less people, and you're glad it's keeping up the same. Headphones over your ears, music gently playing on then, you move with practiced ease.

Meat. Vegetables. Pasta.

Meat. Fruit. Meat.

And meat.

They would die if you gave them anything but meat, truly.

You smile to yourself as you carry your things back to your car, your headphones now curled around your neck so you can pay attention to your surroundings, your eyes slyly looking around, turning smoothly whenever you feel someone is looking at you from your back. Your eyes wide open, you fill your car with the groceries, quickly closing it once you're done.

Just for precaution, you look around again before looking inside your car, and as soon as you open the door, you're inside and lo ck in g the car.

Just precaution.

It's dangerous out the re.

You're home the rest of the day, preparing the meals you'll be giving them tomorrow morning. Price did say they'll be arriving at 2pm, so you make sure everything is perfect before going to bed.

That night, you sleep with Simon's breathing next to your ear again, your heart pounding in your chest. The an xie ty keeps on growing, but you're sure it's just giddiness. Really, you're just too excited you can't wait.

The next morning, you almost don't want to get up. The woodpeckers are going crazy with the tree just outside your window, the sunlight hitting your face perfectly from between the curtains and it feels peaceful. Your bed is empty, except for your pillows —and a big plushie of a dragon Johnny got for you a few years ago—, and it's so, so warm you just don't want to get up.

With a sigh, you stand up and quickly get ready to welcome the day, and your friends. You're thankful you made sure everything was ready the day before, because just as you're done blow drying your hair, there's a firm knock on your door.

Surprised, you turn to look at the clock. You didn't even realize you spent so long just staring at yourself in silence. You lost so many hours, when you could've been doing something else!

"Coming!" you yell from your room, jumping down the stairs to the kitchen and turning the stove on.

When everything is already getting heated up, you stand in front of the door, your body suddenly frozen. You're sweating, your heart slowing and then racing in your chest as if it couldn't choose what to do. Your throat is closing up.

You can't move.

Don't open the door.

Run.

Why?

What is happening?

Run.

Another knock makes you snap out of it, but your hands are still shaky as you finally open the door. Your shoulders relax as your eyes fall on Gaz, strong arms instantly wrapping around your middle as Price, right behind him, presses the door against the wall so they can all get in.

Gaz lifts you just enough to make room for the rest.

"Hey, sweetheart. Looking good" Gaz says, beaming, pressing a soft kiss to your cheekbones before letting go of you.

However, you're instantly shutting off again. You don't understand why your legs feel like jelly, why your healed fingernails are throbbing. You don't understand at all why the sudden urge to run, far, far away.

Leave.

Price grins down at you, patting your head and gently gripping your shoulder before side stepping you. "Thank you for having us, kid".

When you look up at Johnny, he's grinning down at you, but you can see the way he quickly catches on your reaction, the way your forehead is covered in sweat, and the way your lips are pursed.

Danger.

"It's good to see you" Johnny says gently, nodding down at you and moving past you very carefully, trying not to touch you.

It feels odd. It feels incredibly off. And there's something weird in the air.

Your stomach is twisting and churning. It's confusing. It's weird. Sulfur? Acid?

Fully focused on trying to understand what happening to you, you're suddenly aware that the burning smell you can perceive is coming from your deep in your stomach.

Fear? Pain? Panic?

Your throat is so closed up you can barely breathe. The fear is making your sight turn a little blurry, your breathing shaky.

Bile. You want to throw up.

When you look up at Simon, your hands clench on your sides, swallowing thickly. It feels so, so wrong to look at him like this, especially when you two are supposed to be okay again, but for some reason, you can't handle looking at him. It's making you feel... off. Odd.

You give him a tight smile and a nod, the giddiness turning ice cold in your stomach.

You bring your hand to your mouth, nibbling on your fingernails.

As soon as they're all inside, door closed behind them, Simon takes his mask off, his eyes fixed on you, frowning.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay. Yeah, come on" you reply, maybe a little too quickly, but you don't give him, or any of them, a moment to think about it as you move to the kitchen.

You check on everything by the stove as Johnny fills glasses with wine. It's too early for wine, but with your teeth destroying the growing fingernail on your thumb... you don't really care right now.

"It smells amazing" Price comments, inhaling deeply. He's sitting at the head of the table, looking ready to sink his teeth in anything. If he's oblivious to the tension in your shoulders, or if he's choosing to ignore it, you can't tell. "This is what having a wife at home feels like. All we're missing is a little one".

That manages to make you smile slightly, your shaky hands relaxing at the friendly tone. You reach out to mix the pots, turning to look at him.

"The only little one any of you will be seeing from me is my knee on your balls. Now, be useful and set the table" you grunt. Price raises his hands in surrender and pats Simon's shoulder so they can do as you asked.

It's not the first time they've come, anyway, so they don't have to ask you where you keep things. Johnny stays by the table, claiming he already poured the wine, but he ends up helping Simon and Price with the plates anyway.

Gaz leaves the table to stand right next to you, suddenly smacking the hand on your mouth firmly.

"Stop that shit" he whispers angrily. He's quiet, even gentle with it, so rest don't hear.

"Sorry. I'm... feeling weird" you mumble, forcing yourself to stop.

"Go sit. I've got this" he hums, nudging you with his shoulder until you let go.

You make sure to sit by the isle, just because that ridiculous anxious feeling isn't getting any smaller. If anything, you can jump and cover yourself with the isle, so this place is fine.

As Gaz serves for everyone and they start sitting down again, you nearly jump off the chair when you realize Simon's sitting next to you, instead of where he was sitting on the opposite side of the table.

"Hey, that's my chair. Go sit over there".

You look up to see Simon glare at Gaz, the two of them staring each other down, a silent conversation between the two of them. In the end, Simon simply let's go of the chair and sits away from you again. It helps you relax, but you keep quiet, reaching out to grab your glass of wine.

"Really, though. If you had a kid running around..." Price starts again, his mouth filled with food.

"Back off" Johnny complains, nudging Price still. Price rolls his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "What a prick".

Simon, however, can't look away from you, paying attention to all of your movements, the way you lean on Gaz, the way you barely seem to be listening.

"If she's marrying anyone here, that's me" Gaz says, suddenly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Y'all stand no chance".

It makes you relax, but only a moment, feeling suffocated by their eyes on you, especially with the way Simon's gripping his fork. You hit Gaz on the ribs with your elbow, only to make him let go. He grins, his eyes gentle. You know he doesn't mean it like that, but it's making you uncomfortable again.

"Oi, watch your—" Simon starts, his eye twitching.

"Not playing house by choice, I've been forced to. I'm pretty sure we don't wanna talk about it, so eat up and shut the fuck up" you snap, your tone just shy from screaming at them.

That makes Price's teasing smile die, nodding solemnly, and finally shutting up. You refuse to look at the way Simon and Johnny's faces drop, both of them staring at their plates, suddenly feeling no appetite.

It's an awkward meal, everybody afraid to make a single noise. You can hear the way Simon's munching on the vegetables, you can hear Price's breathing slowing down just the way he does when he's on a mission, and Johnny... he's only mixing his food together, stabbing an innocent carrot.

After a while, when nobody's chewing and nobody even dares breathing, Gaz breaks the silence.

"So..."

The rest turn to him.

Gaz grins.

A movie.

The sun is still high up, but Garrick suggested to watch a movie, and you said yes. In a heartbeat. Really, Simon shouldn't complain if he gets to see you for a little longer. Whatever that means, anyway, because you don't want him near you at all. Fuck, you didn't even let him sit next to you.

All these months, he thought he'd been helping you, he thought therapy was going well, because during the constant videocalls you've been cheerful, your old self. You smiled at him, you laughed. He had made you laugh at his fucked up jokes again.

But this?

Johnny went with Price to buy crisps, soda, more drinks, and sour candies for you. Those two bastards really couldn't handle a single comment and bolted immediately. Pair of cowards. Simon wasn't stupid, he had seen the way Johnny nearly burst into tears, the way Price's jaw clenched, felt his own heart break inside his chest, but he has to sit here and take it. Because he wasn't a coward.

And this?

You're leaning on Garrick. Heavily.

Simon eyes the way Garrick interlocks your hands together, checking on your fingernails. His eye twitches as he hears you talk, both of you fully focused on each other, as if he wasn't there. It's not that that's a new concept for him, he often only talked so much.

But this?

His heart pounds in his chest when Garrick grips your jaw with a hand, kissing your cheek loudly after you pout at him.

It makes you smile.

That's it, he thinks. I'm getting up and I'm beating him up. Who the fuck does he think he is? Stealing my girlfriend right in front of me.

In the end, he only shifts, his face betraying nothing, looking down at his beer, hoping the other cowards arrive soon so he doesn't have to see the way he keeps losing you.

Losing you, all over again. Over a fucked up mistake, for following an order. And the worst part is that he genuinely gets it. Garrick is the only one who didn't hurt you, of course you're okay with his touch and not the rest.

Fucking hell. He wants to stab himself in the gut to end his misery.

But no.

He did that.

There's no changing it.

Simon looks up at the two of you.

His anger dissipates when he hears your soft laugh, Garrick's hand on the back of your neck, keeping you steady as he pokes your side, clearly sharing a silly moment. Simon grimaces and turns away again, sipping his beer.

It takes Price and Johnny half an hour to come back, and Simon couldn't be happier to see them.

With the snacks covering the coffee table and their laps, Simon genuinely tries to ignore the fact that you're still pressed against Garrick's side, happily munching on your sour candy. Johnny's sitting on the floor right between his legs, occasionally feeding him orange gummy bears or crisps. Price, between Garrick and himself, is staring at the movie, seemingly content with sipping on his beer, and stealing some of Simon's gummy bears.

Every time he hears your low laugh, Garrick's hands on you, Simon wants to die. He grips Johnny's shoulder, his nails digging slightly into his skin, trying his best to pay attention to the movie, but he isn't able to understand what it is about. He doesn't know what's happened in front of him for the past hour. He knows how many times Garrick's lips were pressed to your cheek. He knows how many times you laughed with Garrick. He knows how many times you've shifted, closer and closer to Garrick.

He can't do anything but dwell on his own regret, on his anger. His pain.

He doesn't blame you, he doesn't blame Garrick. Hell, he doesn't even blame Price, or Johnny, or anybody else. Just himself.

He could've done this so much better, but there's not much he can do. He needs to be alone with you so he can talk properly, apologize again, but every time he looks at you, even without the mask, you flinch. It doesn't matter how hard you try to hide it, he can see it.

Johnny gets up, snapping him out of his thoughts. He sees him take the empty plate, walking towards the kitchen.

Not even a minute later, Johnny's cursing and there's a shattering sound echoing on the house. Simon stands up, moving to go check on Johnny, but he freezes when you stand up abruptly, your face in complete shock as you walk away, your arm bumping onto the walls as you rush away.

He's torn for a whole second too long, thinking if he should follow you or check on Johnny first, and that's enough for Garrick to beat him to it. Simon can only stare at Garrick follows after you, sprinting.

After a moment of hesitation, he walks over to Johnny. Simon finds him picking up the shattered plate, grimacing when he sees someone walking in.

"Ah, it's you. I tripped" Johnny grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You hurt yourself".

"Just a tiny cut, 's nothing. Where did she go?" Johnny questions, bringing his thumb to his mouth, sucking a little on the blood.

"I don't know. Practically bolted when you dropped the plate".

Johnny stares at him, blinking. "And what are you doing here? I must've scared her" he sighs, standing up. "Where to?"

"Garrick already went after her".

"So?"

"They're getting along. A lot".

Johnny blinks again.

Smack.

"What the fuck? What was that for now?" Simon growls out, rubbing his head. Johnny shakes his head, still expecting an answer. Simon sighs. "Over there. Come on".

Simon guides Johnny, their feet barely making any noise, used to being quiet and, also, because they don't want to spook you any longer. He finally spots you, the door of the guest bedroom ajar.

He freezes.

Johnny's hand grips his arm, his whispered curse falling on deaf ears.

Simon stands there in complete silence, his blood, and stomach, and his heart and his brain falling to his feet as he can only stare.

Your cheeks are wet with tears but it's barely visible because Garrick's hands are covering them, his lips on yours.

It looks peaceful.

And Simon wants to die all over again.

Johnny quietly shuffles away, but Simon can't look away. Not now.

Garrick pulls away and kisses your cheek, then your forehead, then grips your nose, making you huff, a small smile on your lips. He's grinning, rolling his eyes, as if that kiss didn't just happen.

Simon isn't breathing. He's not even sure he's here anymore. Perhaps he did die, and this is his personal hell.

Must be.

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

chingue a su madre emilia pérez y todos los involucrados. I was pissed writing this and I wanted chaos.

anyway, so there's that ♡ thank you so much for reading!!!

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @dorothy-rainbird-deactivated202 @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen

[saragapen]

Happy Valentine’s Day!

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

Uncommon kinks I think 141 would have (feat. König)

~

Gaz: Quirofilia, the love of hands. Especially manicured hands. Pretty hands getting dirtied by gardening without gloves. Playing the piano with dainty fingers. Long nails squeezing the trigger of a Glock. A light touch running up and down his body. The sting of those pretty nails digging into his back. Soft palms wrapped around his thick shaft, massaging precum over his tip.

Ghost: This one is a little out there, but nebulophilia (sexual arousal when in fog/steam). He likes it really, really thick. Like to the point you can barely see your hand if you held it out in front of you. Likes to make you look for him in the mist. He was always so quiet, always likes to make you jump when he catches you. Then the heaviness of the air in his lungs when he inhales, ugh it just does something to him. The way your skin sticks to each other from the wetness of the air.

Price: Hear me out. Vacuuming. Watching a woman vacuum. Especially in heels. Just the thought of a domestic, hyper feminine woman makes him cream his pants. Especially if it's a part of brat taming. Speaking of brat taming and hyper femininity, he's into corsetry. It doesn't have to be limited to just your waist. He likes to lace up any soft part of you. Likes to tie the laces so tight, your skin seeps out the side and back. He likes to constrict your movement and make you breathe shallow.

Soap: Wrestling, duh. He'll show you some moves to take him down, grab you from behind and make you throw him over your shoulder, kick the back of your knees and make you kneel in front of him, put you in a chokehold with his arms. Loves getting sweaty. Loves the panting. Loves the way you mess up each other's clothes and hair. And then fuck each other's brains out on the mats.

König: Interrogation play. Always one to be in charge. (Of course there's always a safe word but you like to test yourself, see how far he will go and how much you can take.) Tie you up to an uncomfortable wooden chair. Throw cold water on you. Pull your hair. Face slapping. Light choking. Make you genuinely scared. Tie you up in an incredibly uncomfortable position where your arms are tied up behind you and attached to a pipe on the ceiling so you are forced to bend over and stand on your tiptoes. Makes you cry and cry from overstimulation. Always asks you for information you don't know anything about. Then proceeds to fuck the sense out of you, still asking for Intel.

[ohbo-ohno]

bunny ears and devil horns

summary: Since being discharged, your life has been mundane. Safe. Boring. One night in a church with your best-friend-with-benefits Johnny changes that, dragging you into a horror story that leaves the both of you spiraling out of control. 

wc: 5.9k

cw: nothing too big yet - light violence, possession, ouija boards, overall ooky spooky vibes

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three

The world is going soft at the edges, the taste of smoke staining your mouth as you squint to read the tiny text on the back of the bottle of Oxiclean in your hands. You’re not eager to create some sort of mustard gas in this old, filth-caked toilet, but you’re also not sure you care much about digging around for other products.

Eventually you decide that you’d rather risk it than spend any more time in the cramped, damp room and pour a good amount of neon goo around the bowl of the toilet, telling yourself that you’ll check the time so you remember to go back in ten minutes and knowing it’s a lie. 

You’d never imagined yourself as a glorified janitor, of all things. When you’d been a child you’d wanted to join the military like your mothers both had, and never once through boot-camp or the decade of tours following did you ever think this is where life would take you. Scrubbing years old shit off toilets in an abandoned church and gritting your teeth against the seemingly never ending pain in your body, just counting down the hours until you could take another pill. 

It’s miserable. But it’s work, and if your time in a post-military life has taught you anything, it’s that you need work. You need a reason to get off your ass and do something, even if that something is hours of dusting and scrubbing. 

Johnny’s wired the same way. It’s what has made you such good partners – professionally and personally – your ability to know what the other was thinking instinctually. You’d never had to guess what Johnny was planning and he always had this seemingly innate way of knowing where you were, even if no one had given him any hints. 

It made you some of the best sergeants in the military. 

It got you both so fucked up that they kicked you out. 

Whatever suit was high enough in rank that even Price hardly tried to hold onto you two had seemingly dusted his hands off and turned his back. No one wants a demolitions expert with a fucked leg and shaky hands or a K-9 officer with a shiny new metal spine regrowing half her damn skin. 

You were kicked to the curb, just like that. Your entire adult life gone in a snap.

Even now if you think about it too long the anger starts to build. It rests in your chest, always ready to be called up when you need it, which unfortunately isn’t often these days. 

You’d give anything for the feeling of a rifle in your hands, a dog at your side, and miles of dusty nothingness around you. A target, an order, a team. 

Instead, you get cheap sponges and thin rubber gloves that rip when you pull them on. The unfairness of it all leaves you wanting to bare your teeth and snarl, but there’s no one to blame. 

(Uusally, you blame John Price anyway. You blame him for not killing Makarov when he had the chance, for not letting you kill Makarov, for letting Johnny back into the field before he was ready just because he’d bitched a few too many times about the sick bay, for letting the two of you go like you meant nothing. Like you hadn’t followed his every order for fucking years. He didn’t even fight for you.

You haven’t seen your ex-captain since you left base in a medvac. Johnny always tries to goad you into going with him to his meet-ups with the man, but you shoot him down. You think you couldn’t resist throttling Price if he even hinted at his new team, the sergeants he’s surely replaced you with by now. 

Instead you stay home and drink yourself into a coma, usually ending up swearing at the walls and stumbling to the bathroom so you don’t make a further mess of the carpet. Johnny hasn’t stopped asking, no matter how much you bitch at him for going to see John in the first place.)

The Oxiclean is making your nose hairs burn, and you curl your lip as you look unsurely down at the toilet bowl. The filth is dripping with the cleaning product now, creating a somehow even more disgusting sight than before you’d done anything.

“Bonnie?” Johnny calls, voice bored and echoing through the building. “Ye done in there yet? I wanna get home before it starts pourin’.”

You go to rub a hand over your face before remembering that it’s caked in what’s probably considered a biohazard, and instead pull the gloves off and abandon them on the floor to deal with tomorrow, shoving out of the rusty bathroom stall. 

You go to run your hands under hopefully-clean water at the sink when you’re stopped at the sight of a box blocking the bowl, the faucet dripping onto its lid. Your brows furrow for a moment, sure it wasn’t there when you first came into the room. You must be higher than you realized if you didn’t even bother glancing around before getting to work.

You can’t help but laugh a bit when you realize what it is, grinning as you imagine the way Johnny’s face will scrunch up in disgust. You grab the box and tuck it under one arm, not bothering with washing your hands, and turning to head to the nave where Johnny waits for you. The box heavier than you expected, but you don’t bother to peek inside. 

Johnny’s smoking a blunt in the front pew of the small cathedral, toying with the heavy crucifix around his neck between puffs. He stares up at the matching rood hanging above the altar, the moon casting an eerie shadow through the stained glass high above it and leaving the main aisle dark. You can’t help but smile when he jumps at a loud boom of thunder outside, endeared.

“Check this out,” you say, scuffing your feet on the floor as you head towards him. That’s one thing you don’t miss from your missions in the service – the constant need to make yourself totally silent. These days you step heavily and drag your feet, luxuriating in the sound. “Found a game for us.”

You hold the box up proudly and give it a shake, endeared when Johnny squints to try and get a better look through the smoke.

“Oh no,” he says when he reads the cover, shaking his head firmly. “Ye ken I dinnae fuck around with tha’ shite.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, sliding into the pew beside him and holding your fingers out for the joint. “You’re all grown up now, your ma isn’t here to catch you.”

He narrows his eyes into a glare, but dutifully passes you the weed. “Ye get switched enough times as a lad and ye learn no’ to mess around with tha’ kind of stuff.”

“What kind?” You take a long drag from the blunt, leaning forward to blow the air into his face, smirking when he takes a deep breath despite his annoyance. “Demonic? You think we’ll see a devil, Johnny?”

“Aye, dinnae joke,” he chides, shooting a look at the hanging savior above the altar like he’s about to climb down and smite the two of you for your impudence. Johnny would probably throttle you outside the pearly gates before you could even meet Peter. That’s if the both of you weren’t thrown down to the pit before you could even get to the gates.

“Bud, come on,” you goad, passing back the joint and pressing it between his slightly trembling fingers. “We both know it’s just a game, what’s the harm?” There’s another rumble of thunder, and you quietly hope that the rain holds off until the morning, when you’re safe in your bed and not stuck in the downpour. 

He sniffs, glaring down at the box where it rests between you two. The word Ouija is faded and stained, dust coating it in a thick layer except for the small points where your fingers pressed. He eyes it like it reads How To Summon Satan In 3 Easy Steps and the look on his face is enough to make you glad you didn’t leave the box where you found it.

“Why do ye even want to mess around with it if it’s just a game?” He pitches his voice insultingly high to mock you with the last three words, pursing his lips and making a face. “Cannae find any other way to get your adrenaline goin’?”

You level him with an unimpressed look. “What’re you so afraid of, Johnny? You think the girl from The Ring is gonna crawl out of the box and eat your face? Worried you’ll catch a ghost and start singing Harry Belafonte?”

Johnny’s lip curls and he crushes the joint against the back of the pew instead of passing it to you when you hold your fingers out. “If ye dinnae think anythin’s gonnae happen, wha’s the point in even botherin’?”

“I like to watch you squirm,” you say, smirking. And it’s the honest truth, nothing more to it – Johnny’s always had a hair-trigger temper, but it’s hard to get him genuinely unnerved. Getting under his skin has always been one of your favorite past-times, even more so now that there’s no Captain looming over your shoulders to chide your unprofessionalism. 

“Fine,” he huffs after a moment, lip curling up at the corner when you don’t bother hiding your excitement. “But if somethin’ comes crawling out of the shadows, I’m lettin’ it take you and runnin’ to the car.”

“Deal,” you laugh, already reaching to shake the box open. You resent the fact that it keeps you from pressing against Johnny’s side, thigh-to-thigh like the two of you usually sit, but figure it’s worth it to see the way he shifts uncomfortably as you set the board up between yourselves. 

The Ouija board isn’t flimsy cardboard like you’d expected, but instead real wood, thin but solid. The letters of the alphabet are all indented across the board, stained dark like they were pressed in with a brand. 

The filigree twisted around the edges of the board must have been painstakingly carved by hand, though it’s gone neglected long enough that bits of the border are filled with dust. The numbers at the bottom of the board are all slightly uneven, the 3 flipped backwards. For some reason that detail strikes you as funny, and as you giggle you suspect maybe Johnny’s blunt was stronger than you’d realized. 

“Seems easy enough.” You hold the planchette up to your eye and peer at him through it. Unlike the board itself, this is made of plastic and warped from age. The place where you assume glass once rested is empty now, letting you see Johnny clearly. “Wonder who’ll pick up the phone.”

“No one.” He shifts to fold one leg on the pew and face towards you fully. “Don’ tell me ye actually believe in this shite.” He knocks on the board with the back of his hand, and you can tell he’s as surprised as you to find it's not cheaply made. 

“You were the one who was scared to play,” you say, setting the planchette at the top of the board and reaching for Johnny’s hands. “C’mon.”

“Wait.” He tugs his hands away from yours, pulling one of the necklaces from around his neck over his head, wrapping half the length of the rosary beads around his fingers. “Here.”

You somewhat reluctantly let him twist your fingers around his with the beads until you’re practically tied to each other, the wood already warmed from his skin. Your fingers, calloused and crooked as they are, look downright dainty next to Johnny’s. 

The beads are thick and unforgiving, uncomfortably pressed against the swollen joints in your fingers, but you let Johnny shift you as he wants until he’s satisfied. In the end, the crucifix rests pressed between your palms, and neither of you can fully extend your fingers.

“Good thinking,” you drawl. “I’m sure this’ll protect us from the demons hiding inside a hunk of wood.” 

He scowls, tongue pinched between his teeth as he glares. “Dinnae joke about that shite with me ma’s rosary in yer hands.”

You raise your eyebrows and tilt your chin down, acquiescing even though you want to roll your eyes. Johnny’s always gotten tetchy when someone brings up his mother or his half-dozen sisters. He’d gotten into more than a handful of fights in the service about it, especially after one of his sisters came to visit the base and the boys got a good look at her. 

“Ready?” You ask, pulling your intertwined hands towards the board. He follows easily enough, scooching closer to you on the bench, his jean-clad knee covering the hand-painted sun on the corner of the board. His fingers tremble the smallest bit, like they always do, but it’s not enough to knock the planchette aside. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen.”

“Then you shouldn’t be worried,” you chirp, rubbing the tip of your pointer finger against his palm. “Now: are there any spirits in the room with us?”

The church is dead, the only sound the wind brushing tree-branches against the stained glass lining the walls. The planchette rests still on the board between you. 

“If there are any spirits, feel free to come say hi,” you try, biting your lip to keep a straight face. You can tell Johnny is trying to look unamused and annoyed, but there’s just enough tension in his shoulders to tell you he’s not as unbothered as he’d have you think. “Johnny here would love to talk to you.”

He scowls, jerking his hands forward and forcing the planchette over the NO on your side of the board. “Yer no’ funny.”

You don’t bother stifling your giggle this time, moving your hands to hover over the YES instead. It moves smoothly across the board despite the indented letters and numbers, making it nice and easy to move the tool where you want it. 

“C’mon,” you call out, raising your voice. “Nobody wants to come talk to us? I promise we’ll be real nice.”

To be quite honest, the dead silence feels more awkward than anything. Of course you don’t believe in ghosts, and it’s not like Johnny thinks you really buy into this shit, but there’s no real way for you to talk to nothing without feeling like at least a bit of a fool. Still, you don’t suggest quitting.

“Maybe they’ll only answer questions,” you say, glancing over at Johnny only to be met with a raised eyebrow.

“Dinnae look at me,” he says, tugging his hands so the planchette rests in the center of the board again. “This is yer game, no’ mine.”

“Killjoy,” you tease. “Let’s see… if there is a spirit here with us, will you let us know?”

There’s a flash of lightning that lights the room suddenly, then a crack of thunder hardly five seconds later. You keep from flinching through force of will alone, sharing a quick smile with Johnny.

“Alright… how about something simple, give us your name.”

You feel a bit embarrassed as you stare at the board, Johnny huffing in impatience when nothing happens. There’s enough of a chill in the room that you shiver, having left your jacket in the van to keep it away from all the dust inside the church, a decision you’re only just starting to regret. 

A loud crash tears you from your thoughts, making you jump and your heart leap to your throat. You and Johnny both jerk apart at once, but the rosary doesn’t let you get more than a few centimeters of space.

“Fuck,” Johnny swears, both of you staring wide eyed at the altar. 

The sanctuary lamp, previously unlit and caked with the same dust covering every other surface on the altar, now lies in at least a dozen pieces scattered across the tile. The red glass shines in the moonlight, the larger pieces quivering in place on the ground. 

“Jesus,” you breathe, unable to look away from the glass. It’s still moving, the edges making a soft noise as they shiver in place. 

“Watch it,” Johnny scolds, but his heart isn’t in it. He follows your lead when you tug his hands a bit, turning to face you fully, but shoots another look over to the still tinkling glass. “No’ here, yeah?”

“What, you don’t like me saying Jesus?”

He scowls, twisting a finger around yours. “Don’ be a brat. ‘S no’ funny.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing. “Whatever, choir boy.”

“I’m no’-”

“Quiet,” you hush. “I wanna ask another question.”

“Yer not bored of this yet?” He’s trying to sound annoyed, but you know Johnny well enough to tell when something’s got him spooked. 

“Not when it’s getting you all scared.”

“I’m no’ fuckin’ scared!”

“Then you shouldn’t care if I want to keep going!” 

“Fine!” The planchette jerks towards you pointedly and Johnny glares. “Get it over with then.”

“There’s no need to get so pissy,” you mutter, shifting your fingers to press against the plastic more firmly. “Alright, ghostie – was that you who broke the glass? You got us pretty good.”

The planchette shifts over to rest firmly on YES and it’s your turn to glare at Johnny. “Don’t fuck with this just because you’re all riled up.” 

“I’m no’,” he growls. “Yer the one jerkin’ it around.”

You huff, using a nail to harshly scratch at one of his cuticles. “What’s the fun in moving it yourself? Leave it be.”

“I’m–”

“So, ghost, got any stories for us? Any omens to make us think the world is ending?”

The planchette shudders slightly between your fingers, and you figure Johnny’s got to be more upset than you realized if his trembling has gotten this bad. As fun as messing with him is, you resolve to give up the game in just a few more minutes. 

“Alright, then,” you mutter, running your tongue over your teeth. “Well, I guess it’s time for us to go if you’re not gonna do anything else interesting.”

You’re guiding the planchette to hover over the large GOODBYE at the bottom of the board, Johnny moving with you, when your fingers jerk to a sudden stop. 

You look up at Johnny, confused as the tool starts moving towards him. “What’re you doing? You’re the one who wanted to leave.”

He looks as confused as you do, blue eyes shining in the low light of the church. “I’m no’ doin’ anythin’.”

The planchette slides firmly over the NO, still shaking in place. You can feel the tremors in Johnny’s hands, skin rough against your own. There’s a soft pattering of rain beginning against the roof, echoing through the church. 

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, not sure why Johnny’s bothering to mess with you when he’d been the one rushing you out of the building earlier. “Let’s just get home, yeah?” 

“Tha’s what I’ve been sayin’,” he mutters, but the planchette stays in place.

You frown, trying to tug your fingers away from his. Johnny’s fingertips stay glued to the plastic instead, and the rosary is looped tight enough to keep you from pulling very far.

It feels like the temperature is dropping by the minute, the hair on your arms standing on end as you shiver. You’re sure it’s the rain, and curse yourself for having left your umbrella in your apartment. “Johnny, come on, bud. It’s cold, I wanna get home.”

Johnny doesn’t respond, his head lolling forward and his eyes trained on your hands. He doesn’t speak, and you feel his fingers go still next to yours. Slowly, he moves the planchette towards the center of the board again.

You lean closer to him, head ducked to try and get a look at his expression. The only time Johnny’s hands don’t tremor is when he’s asleep, and even then he’ll twitch or jerk depending on the dream. You have a brief thought that he somehow fell asleep right there across from you, unrealistic as it seems. “Johnny? You alright?”

It’s cold enough now to make you shiver, and you glance around nervously. Your old instincts from the military are flaring, something deep in your brain that you’d thought you’d lost saying run. It’s not easy to shake the instinct off, but you do. You know there’s nothing but thunder and rain to run from out here. 

“Keep going,” Johnny suddenly says, voice quiet but rough. 

“What?” You ask, jerking your fingers again and starting to try and untangle them. “What’s wrong with you? Let’s just go.”

“No,” he says, voice firmer now, something in his tone that you don’t recognize. “Ask another question.”

“Seriously?” You scoff, annoyed. “It’s just a stupid game, Johnny. I’m done.”

“I’m not,” he hisses, and there’s something off about his voice now, an almost doubled quality that makes you question your own hearing. When he glares up at you, shoulders hitching high around his ears, the shadows make him look nothing like your Johnny. 

“Bud…” You try, realizing that this might just be one of Johnny’s mood swings. They’re usually more noticeable – when he goes from laughing at a joke to launching himself towards someone else, fists cocked and teeth bared, or when he shifts from nearly catatonic to bouncing around like he’s done a line – but you can’t think of any other reason for the sudden clenching of his jaw. 

Johnny’s fingers feel icy against yours but you stop trying to pull away, letting your hands go limp and heavy against the board. “Fine,” you huff. “Ghost, do you think Johnny’s being an asshole and should just let us leave?”

The plastic tool jerks so quickly to the NO that your fingers pop, your arms following and leaving you nearly headbutting Johnny.

“What the hell?” You spit, frustrated. “What’s your problem?”

“‘S no’ me,” Johnny insists, accent thick, but he keeps his eyes glued to the board and refuses to look at you.

“Of course it’s you,” you grit, thoroughly unamused. “Who the hell else would it be?”

You all but scream when there’s a sudden boom of sound, a horrible screech of glass shattering and crashing to the floor. It’s only luck that keeps you from knocking the Ouija board over as you jolt towards Johnny, nearly pressed chest to chest. 

“What the fuck,” you breathe, staring wide eyed at the now gaping hole in the wall of the church. The massive stained glass window, easily as tall as you, lays in what must be hundreds of pieces scattered across the floor. The night sky makes it look like there’s nothing outside the window, just a wall of black with rain now blowing in and splattering across the floor. The wind is violent enough that it makes a horrible howling sound, gusting in through the window and leaving you even colder. “What the fuck.” 

Johnny’s silent, but his trembling has picked back up – just not in his hands. Instead it’s his shoulders that quiver, his body curving in on itself and nearly pressing against yours as he shakes. 

“Johnny, please,” you lower yourself to begging, your own shoulders hunching. “I get it, alright? I won’t bring this stuff up again, fine, can we go now?”

He’s shaking his head before you even finish your sentence. “No, we can’t leave.”

“Why not?” 

“Keep askin’ your questions.”

“What? Jesus, Johnny, what’s going on–”

“Don’t,” he spits, twisting to glare at you. It leaves him at an unnatural angle, hunched enough that he has to tilt his head to the side and up to make eye contact. It leaves the scarred side of his head washed in moonlight, the pale skin textured enough to cast slight shadows across the rest of his scalp. “Don’t say that.”

“Fucking hell, Johnny, get over it,” you snarl, pulling away. His fingers have started to shake again, and you hate that the familiarity of something he despises makes you feel more comfortable. “The damn windows are shattering and you’re worried about my language?”

“Maybe they’re breaking because of yer language.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, shocked. “Tell me you’re not being serious. Johnny.” 

He only cocks a brow, eyes darting over your shoulder again. “Ye think it’s a coincidence?”

“What else would it be?”

Johnny looks back to you, then seems to crumple a bit. “Yeah,” he nods, glancing down at your hands. “Yeah, I don’ know.”

The wind feels like it’s being funneled right towards you and you shudder in place, glancing over your shoulder nervously. You could swear the rain is splashing against your back, your tank-top leaving you with plenty of skin vulnerable to the cold. “Can you get the rosary untangled?”

Johnny bites his lip, one of the cuts dotting them splitting open easily, the blood welling quickly. You can’t tear your eyes away from the way the red drips down his chin, slow but rich. “Yeah, we’re tied up good, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” you agree, looking at him closely. The dark red streak down his chin looks nearly black in the light. You go to reach up and wipe the blood away, but your hands feel too heavy, like cement blocks attached to your wrists. 

The blood slips quickly from his chin, dropping to the board silently. He doesn’t even seem to notice. 

A great crack of thunder shakes the building, and you can’t help but jump. Johnny is still across from you, staring down at the board. 

The rain grows louder, and now you know you can feel water splashing against your back. You inch away from the wreckage behind you, nearly kneeling on the board now. 

“You gotta help me out here, bud,” you mutter, trying to slither your fingers away from his. Johnny is still, though, almost eerily so. “Johnny, come on. What’s going on with you?”

He lifts his face slowly, head rolling to the side and then back, like it’s too much effort to lift straight up. He looks down his nose at you, eyes-half lidded. The usually striking blue is dark in the dim church, but it’s his pupils that take your focus. They’ve shrunken down to nearly nothing, though it’s hard to notice at first. The dark of the pupil almost blends with the dark of his iris. 

Your only thought is that it must be the light, or maybe the shadows. You know Johnny has blue eyes – pretty blue eyes that used to help him get any girl off-base he wanted, you know because you’ve watched him use them to his advantage, nearly fallen victim to them yourself – but they’re a deep brown now, peering at you from behind thick lashes. 

It doesn’t make sense. 

There’s a tension in your shoulders that wasn’t there a minute ago, goosebumps covering what must be every inch of your body, a screaming sound at the back of your mind that’s getting harder and harder to ignore. 

But nothing has changed. It’s still just you and Johnny, alone in the church. You know that.

“Bud?” You ask, unable to fight the hesitance in your voice. 

He blinks and pulls his chin down so he’s looking at you straight on. He sits up more fully, easily pulling your hands away from the board and with his. Your fingers are limp, still feeling weighed down. 

He makes a grunting noise that’s just barely audible over the sound of the rain, now a downpour. He tugs his hands and makes another sound when he doesn’t get any distance, still tied to you. 

“Hold on–” You say, but before you can try to carefully work at undoing the loops, Johnny rips his hands to each side, tearing the rosary and sending beads flying everywhere.

“Johnny!” You exclaim, flinching away to avoid being pelted in the face. You gape as you watch the little wooden beads roll all different directions across the tile floor, Johnny shaking his hands out and cracking his knuckles. “What the hell did you do that for?”

He looks at you again, chin angled just high enough that he’s looking down his nose at you. “Thought you didn’t want to be all tied up.” 

Your face feels almost gummy from the expression you're making, brows pressed together and mouth pulled down and open, baffled by Johnny’s behavior.

He’s had those rosary beads since he was born. A gift from his mother to her first-born son – misogynistic, but traditional. He’d kept them on him since the day you met him. Through deserts and tundras, falling from helicopters and burying himself in swamps for days on end, you’ve never known Johnny to not keep those beads tucked around his neck. 

You tried to steal them once, for a prank. It’s the only time to date that he’s attacked you outside of sparring. 

To see him destroy them so callously, so easily… 

It’s analogous to everything you know about Johnny. One simple movement, and you feel like you hardly recognize the man in front of you at all. 

He plants both hands on his knees, heaving himself up like he’s about a hundred pounds heavier than he actually is. There’s a loud groan and you think it’s the beams high above you shifting, before realizing it’s just him. 

The Ouija board is left abandoned on the pew as Johnny takes a few steps forward and you twist towards him, watching his back. 

He looks around like he’s got no idea where he is, the moonlight streaming through the stained glass window casting him in a pale light. He looks like something plucked out of a black and white movie, all the color seeped from him. 

You stand and begin to move away from the pew, though you linger several feet away from him. You curve around his side, standing to his right and watching as he looks up into the light, face stark. 

“What are you doing, doll?” He asks, and his voice is gruff like he hasn’t spoken all day. You know that’s not true, though; he nearly talked your ear off on the hour-long drive out to the church. 

“Getting ready to go,” you say, watching him closely. You come to a stop at the small, waist-high fence surrounding the altar. You’re nowhere near your bag. “That okay with you?”

It’s said sarcastically, but he nods like he’s actually giving you permission. You’d step forward and smack his arm if you weren’t so spooked by your own instincts. 

Johnny turns back around, once again putting his back to you, and moves towards the pew. He reaches down towards the Ouija board, then snorts. Again moving slowly, he reaches up and knocks the board to the ground. 

“Figures,” you hear him mutter. “You still tiptoeing around back there?”

His voice has lost its Scottish brogue, syllables still rough but his tone completely different. He sounds closer to British now – he still sounds distinctly northern, granted, but not Scottish. You can pick that out even from the few words he’s spoken. 

“Not tiptoeing,” you say, sneaking backward slowly. You wrap your fingers around one of the heavy candlesticks sitting atop the altar, the candle long since lost. You hold it behind your back, parallel with your spine, and inch forward again. “Your hearing messing with you again, Johnny?”

He tilts his head to the side, keeping his back to you. You can see the way his shadow seems to stretch endlessly along the center aisle, a long, straight column of black. You inch forward slowly, making a liar of yourself and keeping careful to step with your toes first. 

“Might be,” he rumbles, tone unconvincing. He turns towards you when you’ve just inched within arms reach, expression unimpressed. “What’ve you got th–”

You don’t let him finish. 

The room is lit up by a vicious bolt of lightning as you swing the candlestick towards his head, his eyes widening for a split second before the silver slams into the scar covering his temple. You can all but feel the crack in his skull, blood pouring from the wound instantly. 

He stumbles toward you, hand reaching up for your throat, then collapses. His whole weight falls onto you, sending you stumbling backward. Unable to keep your balance, you both go crashing to the ground. You can’t help but yelp in pain, your shoulders bashing painfully into the tile step before the altar.

You hold your breath as you stare at the ceiling, dazed. Another horrible crash of thunder shakes you out of your reverie, chest heaving on a gasp. Your body seems to suddenly realize that it can hardly breathe beneath Johnny’s bulk, and you shove at him desperately until he slides off. 

You scramble to your feet, candlestick still grasped in your damp palm. You can hardly believe what you just did. 

You acted on instinct alone. The old, predator part of you whispered protect yourself and it’s like the rest of your sane, rational mind completely disappeared. Never mind that you’ve never once needed to protect yourself from Johnny, or that he would have absolutely no motive to hurt you.

The animal part of you felt threatened, and you acted. 

Still, it’s been a long while since you’ve had to do anything even resembling violent. Your months out of the military have left you skittish, apparently, because it’s your hands that tremble now instead of Johnny’s. 

He’s as still as a corpse on the ground before you, the only sign of life the soft rise and fall of his chest, and even that is almost imperceptible under all the layers he’s wearing. 

You’re struck, suddenly, with the memory of another time he looked exactly like this – the side of his face blown to shreds, bone visible if you could see past the endless blood, his eyes open but dazed and unseeing. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, telling yourself this is nothing like then. It’s hard to believe when you look again and see blood drenching the same side of his face.

Taking a few long, deep breaths, you try your best to center yourself. 

You stumble back a few steps, quickly falling to your knees and looking for the rosary beads. You’re frantic enough that you’re sure to miss a few, but you scoop up as many as you can and stuff them in your pockets. Once you find the hand-carved cross, you stand and rush to the door.

You leave the cleaning products behind. Those can be Johnny’s responsibility, whenever he wakes up. That, and finding a way home. The truck’s keys are in your pocket.

The rain soaks you to the bone the second you step out of the church, and it’s nearly impossible to see through it. You fumble your way to the car, feeling almost like there’s a force at your back shoving you away from the old building. 

It takes ten minutes for the rain to slow enough that you feel comfortable driving, the windshield wipers finally able to do their job. 

You look back at the church just once before pulling out of the parking lot. Lightning strikes in the long-forgotten graveyard to the side of the building, lighting the world up and making you flinch.

As you peel out of the parking lot, you’d swear the lightning lets you see a shadowy frame through a stained glass window.

[accecakes]

They deserve a little time off :"")

[toxooz]

a mimir💤

[shotmrmiller]

missed out on my chance to make a ghoap kinktober fic where reader cockwarms soap and ghost rubs your pussy til you're crying and overstimulated and might die if he doesn't stop but will also die if he does because you're hurtling at light speed toward another peak again and the only way soap can come is with the pulsing of your walls squeezing him viciously tight, exactly like how ghost's hand does around his cock when he's high strung and unable to think clearly while on an op.

[s3rrrpentine]

first page for the other part (｡・//ε//・｡)

tbh ahhhh i cannot wait to show you all the next parts!!!!! so to ease my excitement i give you. 1 page. for now. and hopefully my creative juice keeps being juicy so i could complete the comic wayyy waaaayyyyyyyy fasssssterrrrrrrrrrr (〃￣ω￣〃ゞ