Reading 3 good fanfictions during a suicidal bend will make you bonkers and then a year later you look at the call of duty shirts in your closet and realise you have to go be a real person now
murder 4 pay is not excusable, just cuz you're broke it doesn't mean you should just be able to kill people to get out of debt. Are iraqi lives so fucking worthless to you that someone's poverty escape is more important than the working class of the global south? You should be ashamed of yourselves. American lives are equal to the rest of the world, and that means no excuses for joining the american military. There is no excuse to joining the terrorist forces that kill middle eastern people, there is no excuse for anything. The people in the rest of the world are poor, we don't fly out thousands of kilometers to loot regular people's homes and country who didnt do anything wrong, we do not sign up for voluntary mass murder institution, and if we did americans would never shut the fuck up about it.
like I think it is good and important to be able to criticise porn and erotica for the relationship to the political environment/context of creation etc, but I think that’s not too different from criticising any other art on these grounds. how is the erotica speaking to conventions of the genre? what is the author trying to tell you in what they hold up as attractive? what might the author be saying that they’re not necessarily aware that they’re saying? how does the narrative relate to other dominant cultural narratives? these are all valuable questions to ask and can be answered in nuanced ways that do not involve kink-shaming & do not involve calling people degenerate perverts. yknow.
something I read the other day had a storyline that involved a woman being kidnapped by foreign “disgusting perverts” (<- not supposed to be sexy) so that she could then be rescued by an army general (<- sexy) who had to fuck her as part of the rescue. now it’s no bother to me if someone else gets their rocks off to that, power to them. that said, we can criticise the framing of Woman Ending Up In Sex Trafficking Requires An Army Man To Fuck Her To Safety in the same way we would criticise similar framing in non-erotic contexts. how is this serving the image of the benevolent military? how is it feeding into the white woman’s fear of the other? what is being held up as ‘perverted’ in its juxtaposition to ‘sexy’? etc etc. this was bad erotica but it was also pro-military propaganda and that does mean something
This is my secret santa gift for @gorsime/@farahfriday! I hope you like it!!
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When Simon was a kid, he stole a book about space from his local library. Not his finest moment, to be sure, but the guilt of it was vastly outweighed by the comfort of scrambling up onto the roof of his house—the only place where his dad couldn't reach him—with nothing but a flashlight and his pilfered book. He'd sit up there for hours, naming the stars and tracing the constellations, until the sun rose and hid the tiny pinpricks of light once more.
The hazy glow of Manchester hid all but the brightest of stars, so many of his favorites remained little more than pictures on a page, but he glutted himself on Arcturus and Gaia, Cassiopeia and Andromeda. On good days, he challenged himself to find as many of the zodiac constellations as possible. On bad days, he stared at the North Star for so long that his eyes blurred and his chest ached. He didn't know why it called to him so strongly—its brightness, maybe, or its stubborn persistence—but he knew, with an inexplicable yet unshakable confidence, that home for him wasn't the building beneath him. Home was due north, somewhere along the longitude pointing true north.
When he joined the military, he assumed that his true north was a long-lost dream. Officer training had briefly reawakened the dormant sparks when he'd had to sit through a seminar on astronavigation, but the embers were snuffed just as quickly. Dead men had graves, not homes, and he didn't feel the pull of Polaris deep in his chest for a long time. Not until recently. Not until Johnny.
----
Ghost didn't give the universe credit for much—it had screwed him over more times and in more ways than he could count—but he had to admit that, at present, things weren't as bad as they could be.
He'd long since stopped expecting missions to go smoothly, because life didn't work that way and apparently neither did the 141. Being an optimist in the military was a recipe for disaster, so most soldiers maintained a healthy dose of realism, but Ghost had fully swan-dived into pure pessimism years ago and hadn't ever really breached the surface, despite Soap's consistent and concerted efforts to sway him towards some sort of sustained positivity.
At the current moment, though, the tables had turned. For once, he wasn't being the pessimistic one.
“Just our fuckin' luck," Soap spat, kicking at his gear bag before continuing his rampage around the small cabin. "Stuck all the way out here in this god forsaken forest, fuckin' middle of nowhere, piece of shite safe house-"
The mission had been easy, almost suspiciously easy, but Ghost wasn't in the habit of looking a gift horse in the mouth; he'd turned himself into a well-rounded veterinarian, capable of handling whatever inevitably, predictably went wrong. And in the grand scheme of things, this particular gift horse was barely limping. Sure, he and Soap had been separated from the rest of the 141, forced to retreat to the only safe house in four hundred square miles, all communication cut, but it could have been worse.
"How the fuck are we supposed tae get out o' here?" Soap growled, ripping his earpiece out and hurling it to the floor with a wordless scream of frustration. "Comms doon, no radio, fuckin' smoke signals or catch the nearest fucking pigeon-“
Ghost was leaned against the wall next to the only door, his arms crossed over his chest, enjoying the show with a single raised eyebrow. He knew that most of Soap's anger wasn't really anger; their separation from the rest of the 141 had come in the form of several very close calls with stray bullets, followed by over an hour of climbing up a forest-blanketed mountain to their one-room hideout. Adrenaline, fear, and exhaustion warred in Soap's blood, erupting as righteous, turbulent rage. Ghost's eyes tracked Soap's movement around the room, letting the artificial anger flow around him like water in a stream.
"Dinnae ken how long it'll be before they find us," Soap ranted, pulling his tac vest over his head, sending a mag pouch skittering across the floor. "Fuckin' sitting ducks out here, we are, waitin' for some bampot to pull their heid out o' their-"
“Thought you'd be happier to be stuck in a safe house with me, sergeant. Weren’t you the one who mentioned cohabitation recently?” Ghost asked, cutting his sergeant off, and he regretted the words as soon as he said them, his joking tone doing nothing to soften the way they landed like a mortar shell in the middle of the room.
Soap had brought up the topic of moving in together just before loading out three days ago, a half-finished conversation, and Ghost hadn't had the chance to answer one way or the other before they'd had to board the transport for infil. He could tell that the lack of response had weighed on his partner in the days since. Joking about it now was probably a bit too much, too soon. Soap spun in place and fixed Ghost with a withering glare, every muscle held taut with barely-contained rage.
“Tha's no' what I meant and you fuckin' know it, Simon.”
“I know, Johnny, I'm sorry," Simon said gently, his entire body softening on an exhale. He took his mask off and opened his arms slightly, an invitation. "Come here, love."
Johnny needed his boyfriend right now, not his CO, and despite Price’s grumbling on the subject, the two of them did a bang up job of keeping the two facets of their lives, the two aspects of their relationship, separate. He watched as Johnny sloughed off the tension in his shoulders and trudged the short distance between them to press his forehead to the ridge of Simon's collarbone. Simon wrapped his arms around his boyfriend, glad that he'd had the foresight to doff his own plate carrier when they'd entered the safe house half an hour earlier; the only thing separating the two men were their shirts and several layers of dried sweat, and he could feel Johnny's heartbeat against his ribs.
“We’re going to be okay, sweet'eart,” Simon murmured, pressing a kiss to Johnny’s temple and burrowing his nose in the dent that Johnny's headphones left in his mohawk. He swept a hand down Johnny's spine, coaxing him to relax against him. “We always are when we’re together."
He felt Johnny heave a deep breath and nod before his arms came up to wrap around Simon's back, gripping the fabric of his shirt in his fists.
"Don't terrorists know tomorrow's Christmas?" Johnny muttered, and now they were getting to the crux of the issue. "Don't they know I'm supposed tae be in Glasgow with my boyfriend right now?"
"I don't think they care, love," Simon rumbled with a smile. He was helpless against it, his chest constricting with awe and affection every time Johnny called him his boyfriend; such a simple thing, but it meant everything. His free hand wrapped around the back of Johnny's neck, gently massaging out some of the tightness in the muscles at his nape. They stood like that for several moments, swaying slightly in place as the adrenaline of the mission eased and their heartbeats softened to a synchronized thrum.
"We’re safe," Simon continued lowly, dropping his head to speak in Johnny's ear, his lips moving against the shaved portion of his head. "No one’s shooting at us, neither of us are injured. We have a well-stocked safe house in a very defensible position. It's the only safe house in the area, so Price'll get Nik out here by tomorrow, comms or not, no messenger pigeon required. We're gonna be okay."
"I know," Johnny said. His voice was muffled by Simon's chest and he drew back just enough to look him in the eyes, blinking slowly like a cat.
"We can spend New Years in Scotland instead," Simon said, his lips brushing against Johnny's forehead. It wouldn't be the same, he knew—Johnny loved Christmas, had been so excited to bring Simon home for the holidays for the first time—but it was something.
"Lookin' tae get a New Years kiss outta me, Simon Riley?" Johnny grinned, wiggling his eyebrows salaciously, like Simon needed a special occasion to kiss him. He rolled his eyes and pressed his lips against Johnny's in a chaste peck, just to prove the point.
"Every year, for the rest of my life, Johnny," he said, then took a step backwards and caught one of Johnny's hands in his, tugging him towards the door before he could fully process what Simon had said. "Now, come on, come outside with me.”
“Why?”
“It’s a beautiful night," he smiled. "We’re going stargazing.”
And it was; this close to the equator, December temperatures rarely dropped below 20 degrees Celsius, and the sun had set a few hours ago, leaving the mid-winter air just shy of too cold. The trees had already lost most of their leaves, granting them a good view of the night sky, undisturbed by light pollution.
Simon led them to the roof of the safe house, tucking themselves and their guns between two dormers; they were several dozen miles from the warehouse they'd raided hours before, but Simon didn't want to take any further unnecessary risks. He braced his feet on the gentle slope of the roof, his arse already protesting the rough shingles, and tugged Johnny to sit between his bent knees, back to his chest. The warmth of Johnny in his arms chased away the slight chill and any remaining tension that clung to their bones.
"Tha's gotta be a planet," Johnny murmured as they settled, pointing to a point in the distant sky. "Look how bright it is."
"Hm," Simon hummed in agreement, glancing up to get his bearings among the stars. "'S Mars." He laid his palm over the back of Johnny's hand, entwining their fingers. "There's Cancer, just behind it." He swept their joined hands to the left in a slow arc, sweeping above their heads. "There's Gemini, Taurus, Aries, Pisces, and Aquarius, just above the horizon. But look, see Capella, right there? 'S the brightest star in its constellation, Auriga, but it's actually four stars all bunched together. I don't remember their names, but it's two pairs of stars orbiting each other."
"How do ye ken all this?"
"Looked at the stars a lot as a kid," Simon shrugged, knowing that Johnny would understand what went unspoken in the mundane statement. "You should always be able to find the North Star, Johnny. Find the North Star and you can find your way home."
"Awright," Johnny said, leaning his head against Simon's. "How do ye find the North Star?"
"You see Ursa Major, there?" Simon asked, bringing their extended arms back to the right. "'S one of the most recognizable constellations. The two stars on top, Merak and Dubhe, form a line, and if you follow it up," he traced the invisible line with Johnny's fingertip until it hit, "Polaris. The North Star. As long as you're in the Northern hemisphere, that's true north."
"What if I'm in the Southern hemisphere?"
"Then you're fucked," Simon said, deadpan, and Johnny snorted a laugh.
"No, I'm serious," Simon protested, prodding Johnny lightly in the side in chastisement, but he was chuckling too. "Polaris is a pole star, it's aligned with the Earth's axis of rotation in the Northern hemisphere, but the Southern pole star—Sigma Octantis, I think—is barely visible, even on a clear night. You have to use two other constellations , the Southern Cross and two stars of Centaurus, to find approximate true south. It's a pain in the arse. Stick to the Northern hemisphere."
"What aboot that star?" Johnny asked, pointing to another bright spot, and Simon easily obliged.
They spent the next hour or so curled around each other on the roof, Simon pointing out every constellation he knew, along with fun facts about the stars in them. Anyone else would've thought Johnny to be uncharacteristically quiet, but Simon knew the man was a sponge; the fastest way to get him to shut up was to teach him something new. Finally, Simon exhausted his knowledge of the visible stars, and they fell into a comfortable silence.
This, he thought, was the closest to heaven he'd ever get. Johnny, safe and warm in his arms, spread out beneath the stars, the only two human beings for miles. He'd never given thought to his retirement, never thought he'd get that far, but if he did, he wanted it to look something like this. Johnny would hate it, he knew; the man was too social to live the rest of his life in the middle of nowhere, but maybe they could find a happy medium. If anyone could, it was the two of them. Their entire relationship was a game of balance; sunlight and shadow, passion and duty, pleasure and pain.
"We could do it, you know," Simon murmured after a few minutes, his voice nearly lost among the sounds of unfamiliar birds and bugs settling down or revving up for the night.
Johnny hummed in question, and Simon realized he had continued a conversation that had happened only in his head.
"This," he elaborated. "Us. We could retire, spend our days just like this."
"Ye dinnae have to retire, Simon, I ken how much ye love yer job," Johnny said, tilting his head to knock gently against Simon's temple. "When I was talkin' aboot movin' in together, I only meant off base." He caught one of Simon's hands in both of his own, kneading idly—almost nervously—at his palm with his thumbs.
"I'd love to move off base with you, Johnny," Simon said earnestly, forfeiting his hand easily to his boyfriend's ministrations. "But… We've been in the game for a long time, love. Reckon we've earned ourselves a nice retirement. Get away somewhere, just us and whatever slice of nature we land in."
"Are ye sayin' ye want tae retire?" There was no judgment in Johnny's voice, just curiosity, and Simon didn't blame him. The military was all either of them had ever known; retirement had never been in the cards for them. They lived 141, and they'd always expected to die 141, too.
"I'm saying that I'd follow you wherever you wanted to go, Johnny."
"It's a hell of an idea," Johnny said with a chuckle, nestling even further back against Simon's chest and laying his head back to rest on his shoulder. He finally released Simon's hand and Simon immediately laid it on Johnny's chest, right over his heart. "The Ghost playin' domestic."
"Here's an even better idea," Simon rumbled in his ear. "Simon MacTavish waking up every morning next to his husband."
"Oh," Johnny breathed, all amusement gone in an instant, and Simon could feel the trembling of his chest as he stuttered an exhale. "Oh, aye, I like that idea."
"Thought you might," Simon murmured. At that moment, his watch, set to local time, beeped softly. "Happy Christmas, Johnny."
Johnny sat up slightly, turning in Simon's arms to catch his gaze, and Simon brought a hand up to give him a place to rest his head, cradling the side of his face in his palm. He ran his thumb in a sweeping arc, pressing into the divot of Johnny's temple, feeling the smooth scar tissue against his calloused fingertip.
He'd almost lost him, that day in the tunnel; if Makarov's aim had been any better, Simon would've been spreading Johnny's ashes instead of making a bedside confession in the hospital. Every time he caught a glimpse of the starburst scar, he thought of Polaris and thanked whatever higher power that bothered to listen for giving them a second chance. He didn't intend to waste it.
"Happy Christmas, Simon," Johnny said with a sad smile that Simon hated; he'd pluck all of the stars out of the sky to keep Johnny from ever looking like that. "I'm sorry we couldn't spend it at my family's."
"Johnny," Simon breathed, hand still cupping Johnny's face. "I don't care about one holiday when I know we'll spend a hundred more together. When I know that we'll be able to invite your family over to ours one day to celebrate. You're it for me, love. I'm not sayin' we have to retire tomorrow, but… If it came down to you or the job, The Ghost would disappear in a heartbeat. You brought Simon Riley back to life, sweet'eart, and I'll spend the rest of it loving you."
For a long moment, Johnny gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing noiselessly as he struggled to form a response. Simon let him process, using the time to get lost in his eyes; the endless, glacial blue that had become the brightest star in his sky, his North Star, his guiding light. They were filled with unshed tears and unwavering love, and he would never understand what he'd done in his life to deserve such devotion, but he'd spend every day of his life trying to prove himself worthy of it.
"Yer no' proposin' to me right now, are ye?" Johnny finally asked, and it was obvious that he was trying to keep his voice light, joking to ease the suffocating sincerity, but his accent was thick with emotion.
"Hm," Simon hummed with a smile, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he pretended to think it over before tilting his head decisively. "Not yet. Trust me, John MacTavish, when I propose to you, you'll know it."
"I dinnae ken how you'll top tha' little speech," Johnny chuckled wetly, still sounding breathless, and Simon was helpless to do anything but kiss him.
It was innocent, relatively speaking, their lips staying closed even as Simon leaned back against the angled roof, tugging Johnny to follow him down. He let himself be consumed by the feeling of Johnny's lips on his, soft and plush and slightly chapped. He'd never get used to his partner's easy adoration, the way one of his hands found its way to Simon's cheek, then up into his hair, not tugging, just… Holding. Holding them close. His other hand was braced against the rough shingles, holding him up so he didn't smash their skulls together.
It would be so easy to turn it into something more, just a brush of Simon's free hand down Johnny's flank, a peek of tongue against his lips, a thigh raised to wrap around Johnny's hips. But neither of them pushed, content to bask in the moment, the easy intimacy of being together, being alive.
They did, however, need to breathe, so Johnny pulled away an indeterminate amount of time later, but he didn't go far. He hovered above Simon as they caught their breath, panting each other's air.
"I'll find a way," Simon rasped, not missing the way Johnny shivered at the husk in his voice just from kissing.
"What?" Johnny asked, and god, he didn't sound much better. Simon at least suppressed the chills that ran down his spine better than Johnny had.
"I'll find a way to top that speech," he whispered, reminding his boyfriend what they'd been talking about before making out like teenagers hiding from their parents. As close as they were, he saw the joke light in Johnny's eyes, taking a breath between smirking lips—
"Don't," Simon said, eliciting a yelp of outrage.
"Ye dinnae even ken what I was gonnae say!"
"Yes, I do," Simon said, but he couldn't hide his grin, especially when Johnny collapsed against him in a fit of giggles, forcing the breath from his lungs with a whoosh. "You're too predictable, Johnny. Saw it comin' a mile away- Don't!"
Simon didn't know how long they laughed, each lull sparking another bout of giggles. They clutched each other to keep from falling off the roof as much as they did for warmth, and he couldn't remember ever feeling happier. It was a strange thought to have in the middle of the woods, stuck until Price could find a clearing big enough for Nik to land, clinging to the roof of a safe house on the side of a random mountain halfway around the world from home, but…
Home, for Simon, wasn't a building. It wasn't Manchester or Credenhill. It wasn't his bunk on base or his shitty, off-base flat that only saw his presence when Price forced him on leave. Home wasn't a place.
Home was in his arms, huffing laughter against the side of his neck, stupid mohawk tickling his jaw, a bundle of blazing heat across his chest. His North Star, his true north, his guiding light. Home was wherever Johnny was; a fixed point in Simon's life, the center of his sky. He'd follow Johnny anywhere, called to his brightness, his stubborn persistence, and he knew that he'd never get lost as long as he could find Polaris; it would lead him home.
-> One of the cousins took the picture for me. I didn’t realise how beat I was already by then, but Christ did it show on my face, and of course he didn’t smile. Picture came out anyway though I reckon. Not easy to get a ghost on camera after all hahaha…… I did him a pinup of a skeleton for his office as a gift. He got me a 6 pack of socks and jocks from Asda. Fucking abysmal. Might have to marry the poor sod.
self harm can be getting into a video game series about the white male fantasy of slaughtering people from the Middle East when ur favourite character is an Arab woman and the fandom gets outraged if u suggest they don’t actually give a shit about her or the black man who is the other protagonist of the game and they will pull out a 50 mile long list of reasons why they are 20 million times more invested in konig, a character who doesn’t even have a personality or show up in the actual games, than the protagonists, and they will get even angrier at the idea that there could possibly be any kind of subconscious bias at play with their preferences, and you are calling them a RACIST MISOGYNIST every time you point out the insane skew towards the white men in the series, and trying to make them feel bad on purpose when nobody can help what characters they like. it can also be getting wasted
someone’s tags replying to someone elses tags… YOU JOKE BUT i’ve been wondering for a while if könig’s name and character lore are references to Erwin König, a Nazi sniper in the SS or Wehrmacht who may or may not have actually existed, orrr just been Soviet propaganda.
either way he featured in multiple books and movies, both nonfictional and fictional, in video games, has action figures made of him and is quite firmly cemented in pop history. some freak’s even made an AI chatbot. he’s got fanart on dA.
all that is to say that I would 100% believe könig from cod is either a reference to him or (worse lol??) he’s implied to have been inspired by him in some way with his callsign and trying to become a sniper.
please do NOT run with this shit as fact. that would drive me up the fucking wall. it’s also not my ~headcanon~ it’s just something about character inspiration that i am curious about
its all "fuck canon" and "fanon ftw" until youre asked to care about girls because then its all "how could i ever be expected to like such an underdeveloped character?!"
self harm can be getting into a video game series about the white male fantasy of slaughtering people from the Middle East when ur favourite character is an Arab woman and the fandom gets outraged if u suggest they don’t actually give a shit about her or the black man who is the other protagonist of the game and they will pull out a 50 mile long list of reasons why they are 20 million times more invested in konig, a character who doesn’t even have a personality or show up in the actual games, than the protagonists, and they will get even angrier at the idea that there could possibly be any kind of subconscious bias at play with their preferences, and you are calling them a RACIST MISOGYNIST every time you point out the insane skew towards the white men in the series, and trying to make them feel bad on purpose when nobody can help what characters they like. it can also be getting wasted
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