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perfinn · 4 months

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rugby player!soap mactavish x reader

wc: 3.1k

summary: you're a fieldside medic for a rugby league team and you care a bit too deeply for one of the players. he cares right back

cw: NSFW, f!reader, medical inaccuracies, oral (m receiving), oral (f receiving), johnny's face is covered in blood, medical malpractice too probably, semi-public sex, johnny is lowkey concussed so dubcon just to be sure (but he wants this trust)

special thanks to @kitkatscabinet for helping this come to be!

read on ao3, divider by saradika

“Ye come here often?”

It takes everything in you not to laugh at Johnny’s obvious attempt at flirting. Not because he’s misguided or the advances are unwanted– truly, you wouldn't mind at all in any other circumstance. Only right now, you’re trying to assess him for a concussion. That, and he’s still got his mouthguard in so paired with the blood dribbling from his nose, his words are a garbled slur.

“Stop moving, Johnny,” you tell him, handing him another cloth to press to his bleeding nose– broken again, you’d wager. You’ll get to that in a moment.

“‘Am no,” he mumbles, lifting his head when you tilt up his chin and giving you a charming grin. Even with the mouthguard and a twisted nose, he’s still the most handsome man on the team. Which, given your own penchant for beefy rugby-type men, is saying something. “Just askin’.”

“It's not helping your case, then,” you say, gripping his jaw tighter when he tries to move again. “Because you know good and well I come here often. I’m your medic.”

“ Mine ?” Johnny echoes with a somewhat-delirious chuckle. “Och, I’m lucky then, have ye all to maself.”

You want to correct him, to tell him that you're technically the whole team’s medic, but you don't. You let him be, and instead reach to grab a light to check his pupils. He does manage to hold still as you shine it into his eyes, though he’s helped along by your firm grip on his jaw. His pupils react normally, but you’re still concerned.

“How are you feeling?” You ask, taking a seat across from him as he finally spits out his mouthguard and presses the cloth to his nose. “Head pounding?”

“Aye,” he says, and you frown as you watch the cloth steadily soak with blood. “But it has just been knocked off my shoulders. ‘Am not seeing two of you, if that's what you mean. Wouldn't be complainin’ if I were, mind you.”

You hum in response, seeming dubious. You suppose that's good, all things considered. Flirting aside, if he is concussed, it's not deeply serious. Still, you’re concerned. But you know Johnny. He loves to play, loves the game. And he’s one of the best players in the club. You glance behind you at the screen that's playing footage of the game, biting your lip. You can see how desperately Johnny wants to get back out there, he’s practically buzzing in his seat. So somehow, you’re going to have to break it to him that you’re keeping him off the pitch for at least the remainder of this half. Naturally, he’ll be a nuisance about it. Whine, complain, probably beg you to reconsider. Part of you doesn't want to deal with the guilty feeling those puppy dog eyes envokes.

So, you stall.

“And the nose?”

“Fuckin’ kills,” he confirms, lowering the rag and grunting in satisfaction when no more blood drips free. “Broken.”

“Again,” you sigh, moving to stand up again. The fact his nose has stopped actively bleeding does loosen the vice-like grip of worry that’s wrapped around your ribcage. He’s breathing okay too, which loosens it again. Still, though, it’s suffocating.

(You shouldn't worry so much about Johnny. He’s been knocked around far more than you could ever handle and played through much worse. But you’re a bit selfish when it comes to Johnny… you care about him more than you ought to as a professional.)

“Cannae complain when it means I get to see ye,” Johnny says with a cheeky grin as you put your fingers to his nose. “I like it when ye dote on me.”

“You won't like me in a second,” you say. He laughs shortly, and you suppose that he assumes you’re talking about setting his nose. In a way, you are. But that's not why he’ll actually be miffed with you. He’d probably never be miffed about setting his nose anyway, he knows it's a necessary pain.

You give him a smile, gently prodding at his twisted nose to get your hands in the right position, and you don't bother giving him a countdown. Instead, you break the news to him as quickly as you can manage as you snap the bone back into place, “I’m keeping you off.”

“ Fuck ! Yer what?!” Johnny rears back in his seat with the combined impact of the pain and the sudden information. You step back, wringing your hands together as he blinks harshly. You’re sure there’s dots in his vision from the pain, and once his head clears enough he’ll process what you’ve said.

“Bonnie,” he says slowly after a moment. The sweet name makes your stomach twist in a strange anxious delight. “Tell me yer joking.”

You give him a sheepish smile, unmoving– and he knows you won't budge. He also knows how much his coach trusts you, and if you say he’s out, he’s out. His coach won’t put him back in if you say not to. But you know he’ll argue anyway. “Until the next half, at least. I need to keep an eye on you.”

Johnny groans deeply, sinking down in the chair. He growls your name, and you’re a tad ashamed to say it goes right to your core.

“We’re only 20 minutes in, I’ll miss half the game! You cannae-”

“You’re staying off, Johnny,” you say firmly. When you’d started on as the Eels’ medic, you’d been a bit shier. But you’d learned quickly that these men were hardheaded in more ways than one, and being shy and timid would get you nowhere in enforcing their safety. So you took note from their coach and got tough with them. It earned you the respect you needed, and also the trust from their coach in knowing that you could handle them. “And you know I won’t be changing my mind. Now if you want to go back on at all, you’ll behave.”

This earns you another groan, but the growly tone of it says something entirely different than the last one. You feel your cheeks warm, and hope to god he doesn't notice.

“Talkin’ dirty won’t make me forgive you, you ken,” Johnny says, knuckles pressed against his closed eyes. “Ye really won’t budge?”

“You know me better than that.”

“Aye, I do,” he sighs, dropping his hands and lowering his lidded gaze to you. “Lucky yer sweet talking me, lass. Wouldn't be so forgiving otherwise.”

It's not a threat meant to be taken seriously, you know. It's a threat that does something else entirely, but you hurriedly stand and clear your throat. Professionalism, you tell yourself. It's the backbone of your career. To be surrounded by hot, burly, virile men all day and not do anything about it is a god damn superpower.

“Price will be as disappointed as you are, but he’ll let you watch from the bench-”

“‘Am no going out there,” he says, standing up with less hurry and far more care. Despite his protests, he is heeding your warnings and taking care with his head. “Can watch the game from in here. Got another way for us to pass the time.”

You stop as you’re turning toward the door, glancing back at him while he inches closer to you. “Johnny…”

You know exactly where he’s hoping to go with this. And as much as you want to – god, you want to – you truly can’t. You’d lose your job. Probably lose your licence if the powers that be were feeling extra annoyed by it, and absolutely shatter your reputation in the process.

But then… that’s only if you get caught. There’s no security cameras in the locker rooms– there isn’t allowed to be. There’s 20 minutes left of the half, no one’s going to come in here until then. You could. You could do it, and be done with it before anyone notices.

(You’re obviously being intentionally naive in thinking you’d ever be satisfied with just one taste of Johnny, but for now it’s the only way you can rationalise it.)

“C’mon, bonnie.”

You turn back round to face him, bouncing a bit on your toes. “We’ll need to be quick.”

Johnny’s bloody and bruised face lights up with a toothy grin and he nods dutifully as he closes the distance between you both. He lifts his hand to place it on your cheek, his palm warm and rough against your skin. “Cannae tell ye how much I’ve thought about this.”

You laugh a bit, staring up at him. You don’t mind so much that he’s still a bit covered in his own blood. “This is so unprofessional.”

“Aye, it is.”

He doesn’t waste another second before he’s putting his mouth on yours, teeth clacking against yours with the desperation and intensity of his kiss. You hear yourself make a soft noise of surprise, or something akin to that. It’s hard to say, hard to organise your emotions when your brain only wants to focus on Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.

He’s intoxicating. If being around him and simply being flirted with by him was as addictive as it was, actually kissing him, touching him beyond just treating his injuries, is heroin. He’s backing you up toward the lockers before you realise it, moving his hands from your cheeks down to your body. His hands explore you with no inhibitions, his rough hands squeezing at your tits. He groans into your mouth, pulling his lips away from yours to look down.

His forehead presses to yours as he takes in the sight of your body. Of course, you’re fully clothed and it’s nothing he’s never seen before, but it’s the fact that for this moment it’s his.

(Johnny is well aware that half his team wants you. Maybe more than half, but half of them had openly expressed it. While you’re gone, while they’re winding down in the locker room. But none of them could pull it off. None of them had seeped through the cracks in your professionalism and found their way into your pants. But Johnny had. He had barely even started with you, and he's already thinking about how he might gloat about it.)

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, bonnie,” he mumbles, pressing a short kiss to your lips. “Would love to take my time with ye.”

“Me too,” you breathe, arching into his touch as he gropes at your tits. “But we can’t.”

“Aye,” he says, a scowl creasing his bloodied face. “Bloody tragic. S’alright, lass, next time.”

Part of you wants to say there probably shouldn’t be a next time, which is true, but your brain is already surpassing its ability to form sentences– and the idea of denying yourself of more Johnny sounds like a nightmare right now. You can’t even entertain the thought, not while Johnny is pressing his bulge to your leg, groaning as he shamelessly ruts against your clothed thigh.

“What d’you want, bonnie?” He asks, voice breathy, almost growling in your ear. “Tell me. I’ll give it to ye.”

You have to bite your tongue to prevent yourself from asking him to fuck you outright. You’re not entirely sure why you don’t say that, actually. Maybe it’s the time constraints, or maybe it’s his cock pressing against your thigh, but fuck, you want to taste it.

“Let me suck you off,” you demand unceremoniously. Johnny chuckles, likely at your commanding tone, but nods as he presses a kiss, then another, to your neck.

“Christ,” he says between heated kisses. He seems almost disappointed to let you sink to your knees, leaving his mouth unoccupied. He almost starts panting as he sees you stare up at him from your knees, reaching for the waistband of his shorts. “Yer fuckin’ perfect. Goan then, lass, then I’ll give that pretty pussy of yours the treatment it deserves after, yeah?”

Nodding along to his ramblings, you tug his shorts down and find yourself disappointed as you come face to face not with his cock, but with his compression shorts. The both of you groan, and Johnny almost tears them off in his desperation to remove them, cursing the shorts under his breath– you bite back the urge to remind him of the medical benefits of wearing them; besides, any thought you have is cut off by the sight of his cock, hard and leaky, springing free.

It's beautiful, which is a strange thing to say about a cock, you know, but there's little else to describe such a pretty thing. You wrap your hand around the base, licking an appreciative stripe along the underside of it.

“ Fuuuuck ,” Johnny groans, hand falling gently on the back of your head. Not pushing, but just resting there. “Good fucking girl.”

You take the head of him into your mouth, gazing up at him as you begin to take him deeper, bobbing your head along the length of him. Johnny’s head hits the wall as he moans freely, seemingly unashamed of the idea of being caught. He’s lost in the warmth of your mouth, and you can't much blame him, because you’re lost in the weight of his heavy cock on your tongue.

Johnny’s eyes are lidded as he turns his gaze down to watch you, and you feel his thumb rub gently over the back of your head as you take him deeper, stopping about halfway down his length, and just stroking what you haven't fit.

“S’alright, bonnie girl,” Johnny mumbles, voice low. “Dinnae have to take me all today, we’ll work at it, aye?”

His muttered promises make you moan, and that makes him moan. You go back to bobbing your head, the locker room filled with the lewd noises of your mouth.

It doesn't take Johnny an exceptionally long time to start reaching his end, his hips twitching as he holds back on the urge to fuck right into your mouth. He has the self control to care for your comfort at least.

“Gonna- fuck , lass, can I come in your mouth?”

Were it anyone else, or any other situation, you’d probably say no. But it's Johnny ; and right now the two of you can't exactly afford to deal with a mess. You hum your affirmative, and apparently the slight vibration of it is enough to have him coming. You see the muscles of his lower abdomen tense before you feel his hot release spill onto your tongue. You take every drop, even when it begins to feel a bit much. When his body relaxes and he leans back against the wall, you pull away and swallow, making Johnny groan lowly.

“Perfect,” he praises, gently guiding you to stand before kissing you again. He licks into your mouth, tongue laving over your teeth like he’s trying to taste himself. Only as you lean to return the favour, he’s flipping the both of you around so your back is against the wall and he’s kneeling before you.

“Promise is a promise,” he mumbles, tugging eagerly at your leggings. You can tell he’d love nothing more than to rip them from your body, but he exercises enough self control to just drag them down to your calves, your panties going along with them.

The position isn't ideal, but Johnny’s enthusiasm isn't hindered. He spreads your legs as far as the leggings will allow, one thumb tugging your lips aside. He groans, leaning forward and inhaling deeply. His nose brushes against your clit and you whine, cheeks warming at the lewd gesture.

“Johnny,” you urge, threading your fingers through his mohawk and tugging gently. Johnny moans. Then, he shuffles forward on his knees and presses his face between your thighs, dragging his tongue over your dripping pussy.

One of his hands grabs at your thigh as he licks you, slurping desperately at your slickened cunt. Another tug at his mohawk draws his focus to your clit, which he sucks into his mouth with an appreciative groan. Even when he can't talk, Johnny is incredibly loud; there would be no hiding this from anyone listening outside the door.

He sucks at your clit, hand moving from your thigh to slip a finger into your cunt, making you moan before you slap a hand over your mouth. Johnny’s eyes open, and his eyebrows furrow.

He pulls away, despite your whined protest, and takes a short breath. “Lemme hear ye, lass,” he encourages. “Don't hide from me.”

“Johnny,” you begin to protest, cutting yourself off with a gasp when he eases another finger into you and curls them right against a spot that has a loud moan falling from your parted lips.

“That’s my girl,” he praises, ducking right down to graze his teeth over your clit.

His mouth combined with his rough fingers is driving you mad, making you squirm in place as pleasure begins to sear the ends of your nerves.

“ Johnny !” You cry, head banging against the wall as your orgasm hits you without warning or much buildup at all. It feels as though it's been punched out of you, making your body tense and tremble for a few good seconds, mind floating miles above your body.

When you return to earth, Johnny has pulled his fingers from your pussy and has them in your mouth, his nose pressed against your clit as he ruts his hips against his hand. You're entranced watching him rub himself through the overstimulation, fingers in his mouth and bruising nose in your pussy. It's only a few more moments before Johnny spills into his fist, a guttural groan muffled by your cunt.

He sighs, pressing a loving kiss to your pussy. Then, he pulls back, face shiny with your slick, and looks up at you, grinning lopsidedly. “Alright, bonnie?” He asks, like he hasn't just jerked himself to a second orgasm on his own.

“Yeah,” you breathe, words like laughter. “Are you?”

He nods, shuffling awkwardly to his feet and looking at the mess on his hands. Pants still around his knees, he shuffles over to your medical supplies and gets himself a tissue, wiping his hand off before tugging up his shorts.

He returns to you, who’s struggling to stand, and gently tugs your pants up for you. He kisses you, softer and sweeter than before, and smiles against your lips. “Ye were perfect, bonnie.”

You hum, shifting your legs so that your underwear doesn't press wrong against your oversensitive cunt.

The door opens before you can respond, and the first person inside is Johnny’s coach, John Price. The two of you must have somehow missed the siren in the heat of your joint pleasure. The bearded man takes in the scene of the two of you standing so close, and the slick on Johnny’s flushed face, and a heavy sigh leaves his lungs.

“Fucking hell, MacTavish.”

#soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish #cod x reader #cod #my work #do not ask me how tjis ended up 3k words. i dont know #smut #cod smut #rugby au

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ghcstao3 · 5 months

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vampire!soap conclusion :) 👍

(part 3)

Soap hates that Price is right. Hates that he almost always is, about these kinds of things.

He hates that Price won’t just accept his request to transfer and let him move on from this, and never have to think about what he did ever again.

(Though, who is Soap kidding? He’ll feel guilt for the remainder of his immortal existence for what he’d done.)

But unfortunately, as it stands, he has no choice but to confront the elephant in the room.

For Soap, it’s easy to find Ghost. He knows of the lieutenant’s favourite haunts, knows where he goes to be alone.

And it had never been thanks to the vampirism that he knew of them.

This time, Ghost has chosen to have himself a cigarette in a hidden area on the roof, a place completely out of sight unless one knew where to look for the thin wisp of smoke unfurling into the air. Soap moves silently toward him, slow and hesitant and almost entirely unwilling until they’re standing side by side, suffocating in the thick weight of everything to be said. To be discussed.

Ghost never startles, whenever Soap appears beside him. Hardly ever acknowledges him first, either. It’s the vague sense of a familiar routine that lends Soap just enough confidence to speak.

“I…” Soap takes a deep breath, steeling himself in place. He spares Ghost a bare enough glance to see the way his eyes are blank, distant, glazed over. “I wanted to… apologize.”

Ghost takes a slow, considerate drag, breathing out as he flicks what remains of the cigarette on the ground, stamping it beneath his boot. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Soap shifts anxiously between his feet.

“Don’t,” Ghost finally says, voice flat. “An apology isn’t getting anyone anywhere.”

Soap wants to huff. Wants to tell Ghost to not make this any more difficult than it already has been, wants to tell him not to make Soap feel any more shame than he can bear.

Instead, he rakes a nervous hand over his scalp.

“Then what—“ Soap wets his lips, exhaling shakily. He makes the mistake of looking at Ghost again, only to spot the violent marks left behind in his neck from fangs that couldn’t tell enemy from ally. “Then what will fix this? I… I want to fix this. Fix… us.”

Ghost’s gaze shifts to his, then. His eyes, darker than ever, burn with an intensity that Soap has never seen anyone else able to muster.

“There’s nothing to fix, Soap,” Ghost says through grit teeth. “You weren’t—I know you never meant to.”

“But I still did.”

Ghost stares at him. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and some distant voice in Soap’s head wonders if he’s forgotten his balaclava is rolled up past his nose.

“Doesn’t matter whether you did or didn’t, Johnny.” His eyes are piercing, penetrating even the deepest parts of Soap’s soul. His voice is low, gravelly—borderline broken. “Still here, ain’t I?”

Soap looks to the ground, suddenly finding more interest in scuffing his boot against the concrete. “I’m putting in for a transfer,” he confesses quietly.

Ghost doesn’t need to know that he’s already tried.

Soap can sense his frown, his disbelief, even before hearing it in his pained, breathless, “What?”

Soap curls his hands into tight fists, digging crescents into the flesh of his palms. He glares intently at the ground like it could offer him up some kind of answers.

“Well, obviously, I—“ Soap pauses, shakes his head, and wills himself to start again. “I dinnae want to force you to have to work with someone you cannae even trust not to kill you.”

In his periphery, Soap sees Ghost’s frown deepen. “What are you on about, Soap?”

Soap feels pathetic. Incapable. He feels like a horrible person. “If Price and Gaz weren’t there—“

“Well, they were,” Ghost argues. “There’s no time for ifs in our line of work, Johnny. You were hung out to dry, and I never thought for a second to be more careful when I finally found you because I was too caught up in the fact that you were still alive.”

The admission hangs heavy between them. Everything unsaid but still there makes it all the more terrifying.

“You could have died, Simon,” Soap whispers. He doesn’t trust his voice not to waver, speaking any louder.

Ghost’s hands are suddenly on Soap’s face, human warmth bleeding into the cold of the undead. Soap’s are are wide with shock. Ghost’s are glassy with the threat of frustrated tears.

“But I didn’t,” he murmurs. Soap can’t help but lean into the roughness of calloused fingers pressing into his skin. “I didn’t. And I’d have found a way to forgive you even if I had.”

Ghost’s chin quivers. Soap isn’t sure he’s ever seen him so… so—

“I’ll admit, I—“ Ghost’s voice has grown raspier, exhausted by emotion, “I was afraid of you, for a long while. Of what you are.”

Soap does his best to offer a smile, however watery. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

Ghost says nothing, only massaging careful circles into the high points of Soap’s cheeks.

Soap sighs, finally tearing his gaze away from Ghost.

“Price wasn’t going to let me transfer, anyway,” Soap admits. “Not without talking to you, first.”

Ghost’s lips quirk upward, his grin endearingly crooked.

“Someone has to be your impulse control.”

“Yeah, well.” Soap rolls his eyes. “Old man’s gonna be all smug, now.”

Ghost laughs quietly, a huff of air through his nose more than anything. “Better than losing you,” he says. “Gaz would miss you.”

Soap tilts his head, his own smile growing wider. “No one else?”

Ghost shakes his head mock-solemnly, playfully patting Soap’s face for good measure. “No one else, Johnny.”

The weight on Soap’s shoulders finally feels lighter, after days of berating himself and bending to the whim of a gnawing shame. There’s still guilt, nestled in his mind, and he knows it’ll stick around for a while yet—but now again on good terms with Ghost, Soap thinks it should be easy to overcome, in time.

Soap’s hands find Ghost’s wrists, gently prying him away from his face to intertwine their fingers. He’s more than glad to finally have this.

Finally have Ghost.

His smile becomes something shyer, just for a moment, as he declares with a profound decisiveness, “I guess I’ll stick around then.”

And how he means it.

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #ghoap #writing #vampire!soap

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natelia-aldelliz · 1 year

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"I can't call Soap 'Johnny'," Alejandro grunts, an obvious smile in his voice.

"Don't," Soap answers immediately. "Only Ghost can pull that off."

Roach lifts an eyebrow. "And what am I supposed to call you then? Johnuald the third?"

Soap snorts, quietly enough that the others don't hear him, and sends him a look. Even in the dark, it's very obvious how much of a sunshine he is, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

Damn, Roach had never fallen for someone this fast before. Even with Simon, it had taken a few months. But for some reason, Johnny is so precious to him that he'd die - again - for him in a heartbeat.

"Jonathon? Jonah? Johnson? Johntay? I can keep going, I already had that conversation with Price years ago, and I had the internet back then. I had a pretty long list and I remember most of it."

"Cannae ye make yerself useful instead of bein a nuisance?" Soap whispers with a smile after quickly checking around that no one was paying him attention.

Roach gasps. "But being a nuisance is my true calling! You could say I like 'bugging' people, huh, get it, get it?" He beams when Soap shakes his head at him and goes through the wall.

The shadows are crawling outside, of course. He roams around, getting a rough headcount, then gets back at Soap with all the information. It's doable, honestly. Especially since Simon and him rigged several cars with explosives.

He is still a bit worried though, about Johnny's wound. He's not sure how it's possible, how he's still standing, but then again, he's a ghost talking to a living person, so there's that.

Rudy had said that no one except Alejandro can kill Alejandro, and Roach just has to wonder if Johnny got kind of the same deal. But Ale never gave any indication that he was seeing the burning person floating above his new friends, so maybe it's not the same.

With the clear intel he gives Soap, they make quick work of the Shadows and Price picks them up at the wall. If he was able to actually haunt people and not just follow them around uselessly, he'd stop haunting the Captain immediately as a thanks.

Because he's pretty sure Johnny actually needs some intense medical attention. He said that it didn't feel different than a leg or shoulder wound, but those definitely need more than just stitches and painkillers anyway.

It's very heartwarming, watching Soap greet the rest of the team with a puppyish energy, and he has to admit that it is kind of funny seeing Gaz and Price's faces when they notice the bullet hole in the front of his shirt.

The sight of Simon helping Johnny move along with a hand on the small of his back leaves him with mixed feelings.

There's the "I knew it!! I told you so!!" that he was expecting, of course, because he's always right and he did know it would happen. But there's also a pinch in his chest that he hadn't really expected. It's a feeling that he hadn't really felt since a really long time, since he was a teenager, probably.

Jealousy.

He hates it, he's always hated it. But the worst is he doesn't even know who he's jealous of. Perhaps he's finally remembering that he's dead and they're not, that all this flirting he's been doing with Johnny wouldn't have led to anything.

The grown arse sunshine of a man turns his head back, looking slightly confused, looking for him. When his eyes land on him, he beams so hard that it actually illuminates his whole face and Roach can't do anything except gravitate towards him like a moth to a light.

Wrong bug, he snorts internally.

"What's with you, smiley face?" he hears Simon ask when he gets closer.

Johnny is still looking straight at him, his smile getting softer. "Nothing," he answers, his gaze burning Roach more than the fire had. "Just glad you're here and glad we're leaving."

#cod mw2 #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #gary roach sanderson #soaproach #ghostroach #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghostsoaproach #accidental necromancer soap and ghost roach au #roach is in love!#just a reminder to anyone who reads these but hasn't read the original post that while roach's a bit angsty right now it's gonna get better #roach is my darling baby bug and he'll always have a happy ending in my stories !#even if there's a bit of angst before (i'm sorry i like torturing my babies for some reason)

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fandom-trash-goblin · 3 months

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Aegon, Prince Jun, Son of Elia the Golden, Prince of Yi Ti

for @spearsndragons

notes:

Headcannons (sorry @spearsndragons i cannae help it let me know if you want me to take it down)

the sheer hold this au has on me, oof.

Anyways, i've been reading too much mxtx, so more yi-tish influence for our boy Jun.

I headcannon Jun as the calm diplomat, but only until his family is safe. Elia's boy in heart and soul, no matter his appearance. A lot of self-hatred, lets himself get hurt easily, almost as a source of penance for looking like his father.

Used to learn the guqin (um violin? no thats erhu yeah zither) but stopped because Rhaegar played the hard (also stringed instrument). He now plays dizhi (flute like my boy wei wuxian).

Wears white, a pale sort of orange, and lavender and light blue. Does not wear red at all.

Does not want to stand out, stands out anyways, so he's learnt to take advantage of it.

Very Yue Qingyuan sort of person, calm and gentle until you cross his line and then it's a quietly slit throat and you should not have said that, no one can insult/hurt my family.

Has a special bond with both his sisters, with Rhaenys for remembering the early years after the rebellion, and with Senya for sharing hair color and standing out.

His younger brothers are gremlins (if i read the five children thing right) and he loves them very much.

Very close friends with Jon (Dayne? Stark? i go with dayne). Both of them often feel as though they do not belong.

Feverently hates the concept of destiny, shattered several ink-pots until people stopped mentioning 天命 (tiān mìng) and 得命 (dé mìng) or heavenly mandate in front of him.

Looks like a cinnamon roll, can and will kill you, or for you in case of his family.

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toomanywordsnllines · 1 year

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Today I present to you a drabble (?) that I have put into a series and smartly dubbed ‘Three dumbasses and their obselete braincell’ Hope you enjoy :3 Based on my Hc of another reason why Roach is called Roach It’s been hours by now. Hours and Soap was going insane.

How can a one-seventy-somethin-centimeters-tall motherfucker dissapear out of thin air?!

He stomps his way into the leisure room, again.

He’s going to rip his mohawk with his hands.

Ghost, who hasn’t left his spot all the three times, yes three times he has entered that fucking room in the last hour alone – Oh, how he’s going to murder Roach when he finds him– looks up at him from his book, he’s halfway through it, Soap notices. Just one more sign of how long he has been running around the compound in circles like a cat with zoomies.

They say nothing. Ghost raises an eyebrow, Soap bites the inside of his cheek.

“Ready to be hospitalized in an asylum?”

If looks could kill Ghost would be dust on the floor. But no, instead the fucker smiles at him, eyes crickling gently at the corners and GOD Soap wishes he could fall on his lap and kiss those stupid– hot– pretty lips, but no he has a task to complete.

“Awa’ n bile your head”

Ghost hums, ignoring him completely.

Soap does as much as throw himself to the cushion besides the man in retaliation.

“What got your panties in a twist, Johnny?”

“Fuck you”

He feels the man giving him a side eye. He glares back.

“Ma, panties are very straight thank you very fucking much.”

Ghost hums again, bookmarks his page and closes the book.

A pause.

A deep breath.

“I CANNAE FIND THAT FUCKING LAVVY-HEIDED WANKSTAIN ANYWHERE!” He throws his arms up to further cement his point, deflating like a balloon after.

Ghost hums again, “here I thought Price’d gotten tired of your jittery ass–” Soap kicks him in the shin, hard, “ –and put you zooming around the place like a cat on purpose.”

Soap punches him in the bicep, hard again.

“Who’re you looking for?”

He sighs in defeat.

“Roach”

He says it in a way that makes Ghost’s eyebrows lift, amused at his clear stance of sulking like a baby. ‘Lot of contempt there, mate’

“Gary?” Ghost frowns down at him, “why’re you looking for him.”

Soap throws his hand in the air in a ‘I-don’t-fucking-know’ gesture, shrugging his shoulders for good measure “I dinnae ken, Price wants to munch his ear of or somethin’ ”

Ghost hums again.

“Okay.”

And then he’s getting up.

This time it’s Soap turn to frown, “Where ‘re ye going?”

Ghost looks at him from over his shoulder.

“To get Roach.”

His frown deepens, now adding a pinch of confusion.

He gets up as Ghost starts walking away, getting into step easily.

“You know where he is?”

"Affirmative." Ghost answers, gait never flattering, tunnel visioning down a corridor Soap passed fifteen different times (yes he counted) , (yes he also looked inside every single room AND closet). He pauses for a moment, after his brain finally catches with what Ghost has said, indignation crashing into him.

“And you didn’t tell me?!”

Ghost looks at him unimpressed.

“Did you ask.”

His mouth smartly shuts itself – ‘No he did not, in fact, ask’ – he continues his walk besides his Lieutenant, hands in pockets (But not sulking!).

They turn a corner and Ghost opens the first door – the kitchen.

The kitchen??

“I already looked in here, L.T,” and as he does another sweep with his eyes. Yep still empty.

Ghost is standing still beside him, head turning slightly as he analyzes the room – the way he always does on missions. He stops.

Soap is about to open his mouth to ask what the hell is he doing when he startles as Ghost moves his arm suddenly. Throwing with dead accuracy his book against the upper cabinets. Specifically the one closest to the right wall.

“What the fuck??”

His head spins to look at his Lieutenant in bewilderment. Did he finally blow a fuse? Lost the thread? Maybe he’s the one that needs a place in asylum?!

There’s a creak in the otherwise silent room.

And Soap swears, as the cabinet doors open and a pair of familiar brunette hair pops off, that a vein of his might, finally, pop.

What the fuck?

“What-”

“What. The. Fuck.”

Roach blinks at him.

“You better get the fuck out of there or ‘am lauching yer ass into the stratosphere. In 10– ”

Soap has never seen no one move so quickly and so clumsy at the same time, how Roach didn’t face plant is beyond him and as he gets closer he cannot keep all his rage contained.

So he grabs him by the ear and hauls his ass out of the kitchen, ignoring his complaints.

“You own me a fucking bottle of scotch. Good one too.”

Ghost watches the two idiots leave the premises, walking further inside he grabs his book and boils some tea.

He left at a good part after all. I live for Banter~

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yellowkitkieran · 10 months

Text

Accents (Kieran Tierney)

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: You clue Kieran in on the simple things he does that drive you wild.

"You know what drives me mad?"

"What's that sweetheart?"

"Your accent." You say it matter of factly, which brings Kieran to a halt at the stove. The dish bubbling in the pot is immediately forgotten, abandoned in favor of this conversation.

"My accent?" He questions, an amused smile on his dumb, kissable lips when he faces you. "Just me speaking, love? I cannae imagine that's true, there's no way. My accent drives you mad, you're sure? No' my smile or my arms?"

Kieran is a smart man. He knows how to push your buttons, what sort of phrases and sweet names to use to have you chomping at the bit for him. Mentioning his smile and his muscled, toned, fit, perfect arms is simply him capitalizing on a few of your weaknesses. It's not fair, but you allow it because you've got a plan for tonight, and it involves takeout ordered at midnight instead of a home cooked meal.

You whine, stomping your foot like a frustrated child. "Yes! Your accent Kieran- god can you tone it down? Why couldn't you be British or something-"

"Aw sweetheart you wouldn't want that." You cringe at Kieran's terrible attempt at a London accent. His point is immediately proven; it doesn't sound smooth if he's not speaking in his natural voice.

Fine, maybe he was right. You fell in love with Kieran's voice first after all, having heard him laugh from across the bar and being enchanted from the first word he spoke to you. It's fitting that it makes you so feral, seeing as it's unique and doesn't sound like the accent of anyone else you interact with regularly.

"Okayyyyy maybe I wouldn't. But honestly Kieran, how do you expect me to live in these conditions? Like that interview you filmed today and forced me to come watch. Mad! Sickening! The lighting was too good, your voice was so smooth- I nearly had to jump you right in that chair!"

Kieran laughs quietly, interrupting your train of thought when he places his hands on your waist and drawls in that beautiful accent, "Darling, I don't think that's-"

"And then!" You continue, wagging your finger in his face as you get your thoughts in a row. "And then, you get to talking about when you moved to Arsenal and how hard it was to settle in. What makes you think it's alright to be so sensitive huh? Who gave you the right to make my heart explode like that?"

"And then the bit about me playing through injury because I always give a hundred and ten percent," he adds, his deep brown eyes sparkling. He's enjoying the praise as much as you're enjoying heaping it on.

"Exactly! God Kieran honestly, it's so inconsiderate of you. And then you come home and it doesn't even end. You, standing at the stove, shirtless while you make dinner and sing along to your playlist? It's like you're trying to kill me!"

"Just trying to show my princess how much I love her. Gotta put some effort in." Kieran's teeth sink into his lower lip and he leans away a touch to survey your body. "And you know," he says huskily, his eyes darkening as his fingers tighten, "that I always give my best effort."

You throw your hands up, frustrated and needy at this point. "Fuck you Kieran! Honestly, how the hell am I supposed to live like this? You leave for international break next week, and I'm gonna have to sit here and watch you give interview after interview in that stupid, annoying accent of yours, and you won't even be coming home to me after!"

When Kieran pulls your hips flush to his, you can feel him painfully hard against your stomach. Your plan is working. For as much as this is an act, you really are frustrated- your boyfriend is simply too hot for his own good. The urge to ghost your fingers over his tanned chest is nearly too strong to ignore. He's somehow gotten fitter in the past few months. You suppose the extra hours he's put in at the gym are to thank for that.

"Gonna be hard for you when I'm gone, isn't it my love? So rude of me to leave you here all alone…" Kieran dips his head to the crook of your neck, planting kisses like dewdrops on your skin. "What a terrible boyfriend I would be if I left you here without satisfying you first." You tip your head to give him more room to work, allowing your hands to slide up over his shoulders to thread in his hair.

"Terribly inconsiderate… and then your hair? How many times have I told you to cut it when it gets this long? You look too damn edible when it's this length, perfect for pulling-" Kieran groans when you tug sharply on the fistful of hair in your grasp. "Andddd that sound is exactly why you need to cut it before you go. I can't be thinking of those noises when I'm trying to concentrate on you playing football!"

"I'm no' cutting it," Kieran says firmly, his accent thicker than you've heard it in ages. The consonants are nearly nonexistent, which is indication of how turned on he is right now. Kieran thrives on your slightly aggressive praise, though you normally save it for nights when he looks exceptionally good- like today.

"You're cutting your hair before you leave and that's final," you half moan, your argument less than convincing as Kieran leaves a dark hickey on the side of your neck. There'll be no hiding that one, but you know that's exactly what Kieran wants. He loves laying claim to you before away games and even more so before longer breaks like the one he has coming up.

And now it's Kieran's turn to tangle his fingers in your hair and pull, forcing you to meet his gaze. "No, I'm not. Because I know if I leave it long, I'll have you sitting on the sofa crossing your legs at the mere sight of me, counting down the seconds until I'm home."

"I'll be doing that anyway-"

A sharp pull has you falling quiet. Kieran's eyebrows lift, waiting for you to defy his silent command, but he grins when you obey. "There's a good lass. Now why don't you continue being good and let me prove how much sweeter my accent sounds between your legs?"

#kieran tierney #kieran tierney fanfiction #kieran tierney fanfic #kieran tierney fic #kieran tierney imagine #arsenal fc #jac writes #forbidden fruit

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scotianostra · 10 months

Text

July 1st 1916 saw the first day of The Battle of the Somme in World War One.

In the week leading up to the battle, over 1.5 million shells were fired, I won’t delve any further into this futile battle in a nonsensical war that cost so many lives on both sides, the twentieth century brought a new horror to warfare that continues to this day and it depresses me. The battle lasted over 4 months, more than three million men fought in it and one million men were wounded or killed.

I will simply leave you with the poem Glory’ by Scots poet Violet Jacob, who lost her twenty-year-old son Harry in the battle. Written soon after his death and published in December of that year, the poem would surely have resonated with thousands of bereaved mothers across the country.

Growing up in Angus, Violet wrote many of her poems, including this one, in her native Scots tongue. If you are unfamiliar with the language, you can look up individual words using the online Dictionary of the Scots Language. https://dsl.ac.uk/

I canna’ see ye, lad, I canna’ see ye,

For a’ yon glory that’s aboot yer heid,

Yon licht that haps ye, an’ the hosts that’s wi’ ye,

Aye, but ye live, an’ it’s mysel’ that’s deid!

They gae’d frae mill and mart; frae wind-blawn places,

And grey toon-closes; i’ the empty street

Nae mair the bairns ken their steps, their faces,

Nor stand to listen to the trampin’ feet.

Beside the brae, and soughin’ through the rashes,

Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn,

Amang the whins, an’ whaur the water washes

The arn-tree wi’ its feet amang the burn.

Whiles ye come back to me when day is fleein’,

And a’ the road oot-by is dim wi’ nicht,

But weary een like mine is no for seein’,

An’, gin they saw, they wad be blind wi’ licht.

Deith canna’ kill. The mools o’ France lie o’er ye,

An yet ye live, O sodger o’ the Lord!

For Him that focht wi’ deith an’ dule afore ye,

He gie’d the life – ‘twas Him that gie’d the sword.

But gin ye see my face or gin ye hear me,

I daurna’ ask, I maunna’ seek to ken,

Though I should dee, wi’ sic a glory near me,

By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben!

#scotland #scottish #soldiers #army regiment #soldier's #world war one #mindless #lest we forget

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randomgooberness · 11 months

Note

I've gone through the entire hlvraifm tag and also hit my post limit for today, so like. I have more questions.

Does Mind ever have to deal with the knowledge that he's completely cut off from his original universe? How does he feel about that?

What does Mind think of Forzen lmao

Do the science team minus Gordon have any particularly prominent opinions about Mind?

if Gordon ever heard about Mind's original thought that he was some sort of replacement cover up, what would he think?

Do they have a "Pirate Episode" 👉👈

RUBS MY HANDS TOGETHER. HOKAY.

Does Mind ever have to deal with the knowledge that he's completely cut off from his original universe? How does he feel about that?

@shineyfish's answer:

Ough. I don't think the reality of the situation really sets in until later acts at least for Mind, but I have been thinking about him being Cut Off for days now and not had the words to describe it. I think it'll hit first in like. Superficial ways for him. Just a realization that damn. He doesn't have his knife collection anymore. that slowly leads into oh dear god I can never go back. It'll be VERY fun to work out the kinks of this when we can >:3

What does Mind think of Forzen lmao @shineyfish's answer:

GOD. FORZEN. I don't think mind would like forzen once they all meet him I'm so sorry forzen fans. He's too similar to Benrey for him (honestly I think just talking like him would be enough to set him off at this point) + the whole Boot Boy Thing. At least Gordon's also kinda "KILL" about him too so at least mind is not alone <3

My answer:

WE ARE SO CLOSE TO GETTING TO WHEN FORZEN FIRST SHOWS UP. IM SO EXCITED HES GONNA FUCKING HATE THIS GUY

Do the science team minus Gordon have any particularly prominent opinions about Mind?

My answer:

OUGH GOOD QUESTION. For now I'll just answer what their opinions prolly are by the end of it. Dr. Coomer sees him as an angrier, smaller Gordon- but throughout the plot, his AI can read that Mind is supposed to be the player character...but he also learns he's not. So he doesn't target him very much but his AI is still fucky around him. Bubby respects Mind, for the most part. He likes that he stands his ground and uses his brain- he sees a lot of his younger self in the lad. However, he is absolutely still mean to him.

Tommy likes mean people, but thinks Mind can be a bit much sometimes- though that's just how it is when you're friends with people like that. He likes being around the guy for the most part, and is glad that he's there for Gordon. He likes to screw with him sometimes(the whole science team does, he's almost as easy of a target as Gordon). Benrey thinks Mind is an asshole and its really funny. He likes to screw with him but he also thinks his reactions aren't as funny as Gordons, and he doesn't like how much he rushes to just shooting him. Build up the bit more, man. C'mon. if Gordon ever heard about Mind's original thought that he was some sort of replacement cover up, what would he think?

My answer:

He's only heard a few hints on the situation so far in the RP, but honestly, if Mind came clean about it- Gordon would ignore it to focus on What Do You Mean You're Also Gordon Freeman. If they figured that out, Gordon would NOT fucking blame him for coming to that conclusion LMAO. Like I think he'd straight up say "Ok yeah dude I'd think that too. What the fuck."

Do they have a "Pirate Episode" 👉👈

@shineyfish's answer:

AVAST, TH' PIRATE EPISODE BE INBOUND. I CANNAE WAIT FOR TH' PIRATE EPISODE. My answer: I'M SO FUCKING EXCITED TO RP THIS. IT'S COMING UP THIS ACT IT'S GONNA BE SO FUCKING FUNNY I NEED IT SO BAD. Gordon might try to join him but be really bad at it

#SORRY IF THIS IS RUSHED IM ABT TO HEAD TO WORK LMAO #asks #hlvraifm

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sassenach77yle · 7 months

Text

You gave me a gift Claire when you told me Randall was alive. A gift: knowing I’d be the one to end that bastard’s life.

No. Now I claim that gift.

Please, listen to me, Jamie. You can’t kill Randall.

There’s no reason—

—Because of Frank.

Frank?

If you kill Randall now, then Frank, he won’t be born.

What do you mean?

Remember I told you once that Frank showed me his family tree and on it was the name Jack Randall?

Aye.

He married Mary Hawkins. Together they’re supposed to have a child, and that child is Frank’s ancestor. But if you kill Randall before the child is born, then it would be as if you’re killing Frank too. And he won’t exist, and he must exist. It’s part of the future.

I thought we were here to change the future.

Frank’s innocent in all this. You can’t kill an innocent man.

Innocent?

He’s committed no crime against either of us.

For that, Jack Randall should live? I-I can stand a lot, more than most. I’ve proven as much. But must I bear everyone’s weakness? May I not have my own?

You of all people cannot ask that of me, Claire. You were there. You saw what he did to me.

A delay—a delay is all I ask—

—No. No you have your choice: him or me? I canna live while Randall lives. If you won’t allow me to kill him, then kill me now yourself.

One year. One year. Then the child, Randall’s, it will be conceived by then and after that I swear—I swear I will help you bleed him myself. You owe me that much James Fraser. I’ve saved your life, not once but twice. You owe me a life.

I see. And now you claim your debt.

I can’t make you see reason any other way.

Jesus. God, Claire.

You’d stop me taking vengeance on a man that made me play his whore. A man that lived in my nightmares and in our bed. Who almost drove me to take my own life.

I’m a man of honor. I pay my debts. So tell now: is that what you’re asking of me? To pay you with the life of Black Jack Randall?

Yes.

A year. Not one day more. Do not touch me.

Outlander 2x05 “Untimely Resurrection”

#outlander #outlanderedit #the frasers #jamie fraser #jamie and claire #samheughan #jamie&claire #outlander series #outlander starz #outlander fanart #outlander books #outlander season 2 #outlander 2x05 #claire beauchamp #claire fraser #caitrionabalfe #caitriona balfe

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ghcstao3 · 1 year

Text

(scrapped) soapghost christmas

i realize it is february. However… however. yes.

this fic was gonna be my contribution to (tbh one of my favourite tropes) the whole idea of soap brings ghost home for the holidays because why not. but alas. check below the cut

“We’re friends, right, LT?”

It takes Soap all of two seconds of being subjected to Ghost’s intense stare to decide that maybe he shouldn’t be asking that sort of question of Ghost, but it also only takes all of two more seconds of slightly less intensity to decide that yes, they were, in fact, friends.

Soap allows himself a self-assured nod as he sits on the edge of Ghost’s desk. He winces when he hears papers that were most likely of some importance crinkle beneath him, but Soap pushes that concern aside to be dealt with at a later time. Right now, he has important business to attend to.

“Great,” Soap continues. “I have an idea. As your friend.”

Ghost abandons the form he’d been working on to sit back in his chair, exhaling a deep and distantly pained sigh as intense melts away for unimpressed, and rightfully so. Soap offers a meek smile, but it does nothing to mitigate the way Ghost’s eyebrows are irritably furrowed.

“It’s December,” Soap says. He’s slowly coming to a realization that perhaps he doesn’t want to dig himself into this hole, but he also supposes it’s too late to back out now. Soap just wants Ghost to fill in the pieces so he doesn’t have to finish, or say what he means to, but the hope is easily diminished in Ghost’s continued silence.

It’s torture.

Underneath his balaclava, Ghost’s eyebrows raise just noticeably.

“It’s December,” Soap reiterates. “And Price refuses to assign you more missions than usual.”

Ghost narrows his eyes at Soap. “What are you getting at, Sergeant?”

Soap swallows nervously. He shifts where he sits without meaning to, incidentally ruining more of the papers beneath him. Ghost would certainly kill him later, if not in a few short seconds.

“Leave,” Soap blurts. Ghost’s eyes widen a tad, just a moment before Soap can backtrack. “Sorry, no, not like—like taking a leave—a leave of absence, is what I meant.”

Ghost shakes his head, sighing again as he moves to stack the documents before him, tossing the pen he’d been using in a drawer. “I don’t have time for this, MacTavish. Either spit it out or take your own advice before I do.”

“I cannae believe you’re making me say this, LT.”

“I’m not making you say anything, Johnny.”

Soap huffs, his shoulders curving in on themselves as if his posture wasn’t already poor enough. He thinks, despite all missions he’s ever participated in, despite all the times he’s been shot, stabbed, or broken in some way, this is the most difficult thing he’s ever done, and it was brought about by his own volition.

Maybe this is what hell is. Maybe Soap is in hell.

Uselessly, Soap shrugs. “I just figured that you weren’t going home for the holidays, even though Price won’t give you more than paperwork, so I thought to invite you out to Glasgow,” Soap admits. “Because we’re friends, and you shouldn’t have to be left alone with rookies for the holidays.”

Unhelpfully, Ghost just grunts. He pushes away from the desk and stands, letting regret seep into and stew in Soap’s chest like some cruel and unusual punishment. Surely, this is hell, and Soap has been condemned to an eternity of embarrassing himself in front of his superior officer.

“Because we’re friends?” Ghost finally says. His tone is neutral, balanced, and Soap can’t yet tell if he’s mad, or… anything else, really.

Soap stares at Ghost. His balaclava is too open, too honest, where Ghost’s eyes aren’t further hidden and darkened by the shadow of his mask. Soap tilts his head forward in a nod, just barely. “Affirmative.”

After several seconds that seemed to stretch on forever, Ghost hums. “I’ll think about it.”

#john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost x soap #fanfic #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #soapghost #xmas fic #scrapped #drabble #writing

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solsticewcrp · 11 months

Text

[Lines by Mod TX, coloring by @flyhiss]

Tension is rising on Mt. Solstice...

"Friends, old and new. You know me as Dovemoon, BlizzardClan's long standing leader. I have watched many seasons pass in the wax and wane of the moon and I have seen just as many cats pass to join the Courts beyond. Similarly, I have watched over the births and families in this Clan for generations worth of cats, overseeing their development, keeping them safe. When I accepted the deputyship when I was but a lad, I didnae do it for the sake of power. I didnae do it for the sake of proving a point. I did it so that I could ensure the safety and prosperity of the Clan I love. The Clan I call home. Our way of life is old, and sacred, and is fortified by the mountain we stand on. We are as the individual pebbles of the greater mountain, each as important as one another so that we may stand strong as a fortified unit against the threat of those who would sully and taint our way of life. I know that some of ye have lost faith in me, and I cannae say that I disagree with ye. Times have been hard with the avalanche, and the new rules I have placed upon ye…but I assure you with wholehearted love bleeding from my veins that I instant these rules with yer wellbeing in mind. I want everyone in BlizzardClan to be safe, happy, healthy!

I was there when the BloomClan scourge took an entire generation away from us. I was almost killed back then, too. I shed blood on the snow for the right of this Clan to survive, and I did it with pride. I ask none of ye for blood. I ask none of ye for sacrifice. All I ask is for yer loyalty! Yer bravery, yer pride. I ask for ye to stand shoulder to shoulder with yer Clanmates upon the mountain, to look down the slopes upon the BloomClan threat below and remind yerselves why we now keep the monarchs in camp. Danger threatens us every day, but we stand tall and proud as children of the Mountain, children of the Moon and children of BlizzardClan's undying legacy.

I ASK YE TO STAND AT MY SIDE AS WE DRIVE OUR ENEMIES AWAY FROM OUR BORDERS. I ASK YE TO STAND AT MY SIDE AS WE CLAIM WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY OURS. I ASK YE TO STAND AT MY SIDE FOR THE HONOUR, BLOOD AND GLORY OF BLIZZARDCLAN. FIGHT BY ME, FIGHT FOR ME, AND YE SHALL BE REWARDED WITH ALL THE SPOILS OF THE COURTS. RISE, BLIZZARDCLAN, RISE TO THE SOUND OF MY HERALD! BLIZZARDCLAN WILL NOT BE DRIVEN TO THE CREVICES OF OUR TERRITORY, WE WILL NOT BE ERADICATED!

BLIZZARDCLAN WILL STAND TALL, BLIZZARDCLAN WILL STAND MIGHTY, BLIZZARDCLAN…WILL BELONG TO ME!"

BlizzardClan and BloomClan have witnessed an era of relative peace, though some among their number are less eager to let the past go and allow bygones to be bygones. Dovemoon, BlizzardClan's leader, is one of these cats. Though he has reigned as BlizzardClan's leader for a long time, a darkness brews within him that threatens to spill out and swallow not just BlizzardClan, but the whole mountain in his hate, deceit and anger.

In recent seasons, Dovemoon's paranoia has begun to reach a fever pitch, and has started overstepping his bounds as leader into the personal lives of his Clanmates to try and retain control. After the avalance that claimed the lives of clanmates, Dovemoon declared that all clan members cannot leave camp alone, and must be accompanied by another capable member of the Clan. Secondly, he has decreed that monarchs may not leave camp at all after an incident involving Lambsong. Dovemoon cites safety for these new laws, though many are starting to question their leader.

Those who disobey Dovemoon's laws are increasingly finding pressure upon their shoulders. Dovemoon's inner circle watches from every angle, claws itching to dig into those they vowed to protect at the first sign of heresy against their acting God.

Dovemoon invites you to join the glory at his side, though few will make it out alive.

Cats accepted to Dovemoon's Circle are on the losing side, and will be killed or exiled if they choose him in the final battle…though their fate still lies in your paws.

APPLICATIONS OPEN FROM JUNE 14TH TO JUNE 28TH

#warriors rp #wc rp #wcrp #warrior cats rp #blizzardclan #dovemoon #starlingfall #whirlpool #bearbellow #beastcall

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thesconesyard · 6 months

Text

Happy birthday to the best writing partner a person could have, @hummingbird-of-light 🥳🎉🎊🎁

This is for you leannan! (I haven’t finished it yet, but it’s been pouring out and we’ll see what happens over lunch 😁) I know how you love a good Jim & Scotty bro ship 😁

Stuck Here With You

“Oh shit!”

James Kirk had come back to consciousness only a moment ago. He had taken a quick inventory of himself- blood running past his eye, and his head pounding; ribs aching as he breathed deep. The blood was from what felt like a shallow cut above his brow and the ribs were probably bruised (hopefully not cracked or Bones would turn that scowl at him) from being thrown so hard against the restraints.

No, he was swearing at the sight in the chair next to him. Bones would probably murder him. Scotty was lying across the console in front of them, blood pooling under his face. He must have thrown his arm up to protect himself as whatever had hit their shuttle did its damage. His arm was twisted under his head keeping his face above the blood pool at least.

Jim ran a hand over his own face then struggled to undo his restraints. Something was bent and his right shoulder was trapped. He slid to the left and freed himself. As he went to stand his legs wobbled and felt like rubber. Jim grabbed quickly at the back of his seat to steady himself.

“Scotty!” he called hoarsely. Jim cleared his throat. “Hey! Scotty!”

The chief engineer did not move, and panic began to rise in Jim’s chest. Bones was going to kill him.

“Shit.”

As his legs steadied Jim reached over to touch Scotty’s shoulder.

“Scotty?”

A shocked sound escaped Jim as he leaned in. The side of the shuttle was crushed in against Scotty’s legs, pinning him to the seat. Blood was dripping onto the floor next to Scotty’s boots.

“Oh no! Scotty! Hey!” Jim gave his engineer’s shoulder a shake, then wiped blood from his own eye again. “Scotty, come on! Wake up!” Jim heard the panic in his own voice.

He nearly fell down at the shivery groan that came from Scotty’s still body. A twitch went through his torso. Jim’s fingers moved quickly to find the pulse in Scotty’s neck. Relief filled him as he felt it strong under his fingers.

“Ooooh,” came a long low moan.

“Hey! Hey! Scotty I’m here! We’re ok!” Jim gently placed his hand against Scotty’s back.

“J- Jim?” Scotty sounded groggy. His head began to lift, then dropped back with another moan.

“Yeah Scotty, I’m here.”

“What happened?” Scotty muttered something in Gaelic. “I hurt.”

“I know,” Jim said sympathetically. “I don’t know what got us.”

Scotty had slowly lifted his head, and Jim gasped at the wide gash from his forehead to his cheek.

“I cannae get up,” Scotty said in confusion.

“I’ve got to get the kit,” Jim said quickly. “We’ve gotta get that closed.” He was staring at the cut. He hoped Bones could fix it without leaving a scar. He began to move away.

Scotty grasped at his wrist tightly.

“Don’t leave me!” he begged with wide eyes.

“Scotty, we need the medkit,” Jim said calmly, moving back to where he had been. He was surprised at the fear in Scotty’s face. “I’ll talk the whole time, ok? You know I don’t have to go far.”

Finally Scotty relaxed his grip with a nod. Jim moved as quickly as his sore body could go, keeping up a steady stream of chatter as he did. He set the medkit on his seat as he returned.

“Comm’s dead,” Scotty said when Jim stopped talking. He was poking at buttons on the console around the blood that had fallen from him.

“We’ll fix it,” Jim said, putting as much confidence as he could into his voice. “I’ll fix you first.” He ripped open a sterile pack and began to dab at the blood around Scotty’s face wound.

Scotty hissed at the sting.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright lad,” Scotty got out. He let Jim tip his head to get at the injury better. “Anything for the pain in there?” he asked.

“Gimme a second,” Jim said, concentrating on finding the edges of the wound. He turned back to the medkit and dropped the soaked cloth to the ground. Another one was ripped open quickly and patted back gently to Scotty’s face.

“Hold this.” Jim brought Scotty’s hand up to hold the gauze like cloth before he dug in the kit again. “Here we go.” Jim lifted a hypospray and cartridge.

A small hiss moments later and Scotty’s body relaxed slightly. They were silent as Jim got the cut cleaned and covered.

“What happened Jim?” Scotty finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Jim said darkly. “We got hit.” He shrugged, moving around to get a looked at the crumpled wall of the shuttle. “I’m not sure I can get that away from you, or if I even should.”

Scotty looked down at his lower half, the wall keeping him in the seat.

“I can move my toes,” he finally said.

“Good. At least Bones can’t kill me over that,” Jim muttered.

#slice of life #the best writing partner ever!!#happy birthday leannan!!#story gift!#more story to come!#Stuck Here With You #Montgomery Scott #James T Kirk #star trek

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