Whenever you feel like 10 kudos isn't much or enough, picture that number of people sitting in a room staring at you with stars in their eyes, applauding your work, rooting for your story or your writing. And you're not even a celebrity.
Just. Imagine. That.
That feeling when you finally lock in and now you’re in your story, watching your characters, smelling the air, feeling the tension, the pain and happiness. And then the story suddenly disappears and you find yourself back at your desk, the blank page now filled with words. What was once a bright blue sky now has swirls of pink and orange, and the sun is setting, casting a golden light on your wall. You lost track of time and you wish you could go back.
Price leaves Simon there, making his way back to his lighter to light his still unlit cigar. The Captain began to grumble under his breath as his frustrations continue to heighten. He sits to take a load off his feet. “Cap-“
“Shut up. I don't want to hear a word come out of your mouth, is that understood?”
A beat of silence. Price smirked as he took his first hit, “Good boy.” He takes another hit. “’s about time you listened.”
Ghost didn't say anything.
Price began to unbutton his belt and pants, sighing with the pressure of no longer being compressed together. He reveals his cock and balls, heavy with all the frustrations he’s been struggling with for the last few days. There was no hiding the way Simon's eye examined it.
“Here.”
Simon starts to stand, “—no, no.” John doesn't give him any direction, knowing Simon doesn't need it. Because Simon knows who he belongs to.
Ghost grumbles, but he begins to crawl to Price. John lazily smokes as he watches Lieutenant Ghost finally listening. When Simon is within grabbing distance, John moves swiftly and grips him by the back of the neck, shoving his face down to his boots. ” You’ve been running around my base yelling at officers and picking fights left and right. And for what? Because you forget who holds your leash?” He hisses, his tone low and threatening.
The man on his knees suddenly has nothing to say, barely struggles against the grip on his neck pinning him down, forcing him eye to eye with his captain’s shiny black boots.
John notices the quiet. A grin breaks around the cigar in his mouth, “The big bad Ghost doesn’t want to fight anymore, hm?” A teasing sneer, “All because he wanted Daddy’s attention.”
That’s when the lieutenant comes back to life, the accusation warming Ghost’s cheeks. He tries to sit back up, but Price is prepared. “Oh, no, no…” The chuckle John lets out adds to the color in Ghost’s cheeks. “You don’t get to act all high and mighty now.” Satisfied with Simon’s shame, John leans back in his chair once again, putting his cigar back in his mouth and moves his pants further down. His proud member on display.
He grips himself in his hand and starts to stroke himself, finding an even, yet pleasurable pace. Simon can’t help but watch his captain’s heavy shaft cause his eyes to roll back, releasing all the stress from the day. Stress that Ghost made.
Desire began building under Simon’s skin. The want to help, to cause Price pleasure instead of frustration, nearly springs forward. But, Price trained Ghost better than that.
John takes in the desperation in the kneeling man’s eyes. He knows that desire is there. He knows what he wants and takes the extra pleasure in not giving it to him. “What is it, boy? This what you’ve been craving all day?”
Simon shakes his head in denial. Price growls, one of his boots gently pressing down on the bulge Simon is failing to hide. “Use your words,” frustration continues to lick up his spine.
“No.”
The hand that isn’t stroking him, reaching out and grips Simon’s hair under the mask, tilting his neck at an awkward angle, forcing eye contact. “No, what?
“No, sir.”
John is finally pleased. Melting back in his throne as he continues stroking his cock, his toe still on the Lieutenant’s. “Finally, a dog who remembers who owns them.” Simon bristles a bit at all. There’s been an itch under his skin he hasn’t been able to scratch.
You wake up groggy. The pain of the pounding on your head is what wakes you up. You groan, curling up into a pillow in your bed.
There’s something wrong with the smell of your pillow. And the bed feels more stiff than usual. Your discomfort adds in to your foul mood and you finally give up and blink your eyes open. There’s a soft light that takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. And then the details come in.
Details you don’t recognize.
There’s a fireplace across from you, lit and crackling the soft warm glow. Next to it is a mini library with a cozy chair in the corner. There’s a man in the chair.
Everything comes back to you.
The shooting. The ambush. The gunshot. The body.
A churning twists the bottom of my stomach. The man in the chair comes forward, acting quickly to offer you a small bin. You take it just in time as the burning bile comes forward.
There’s a murmur behind you, “Isn’t vomiting a bad sign--“
“Shh.”
The man in front of you stays close, but gives you your space. “How are you feeling, princess?” One of the men from the diner.
You’re finally able to focus into the present. In the unknown bed and the unknown room. You try not to move quickly, every motion causing a strong dizziness when you do. But you’re able to see the other two men on the other side of the room. There is one face, well half a face, you recognize, Simon.
You’re still jarred, your entire life changing in an entire night. “Simon?” Your voice is rough and scratchy in its disuse. The man next to him, Johnny, noticed you rubbing your throat, feeling like you’re swallowing dry rocks.
He jumps up, a bit too fast for you to not flinch, and offers, “I’ll get ye some water, hen.”
He leaves without an affirmation, completing a mission of his own. The other two men in the room don’t follow.
The man next to the bed places his hand on the edge of the mattress, moving slowly and orchestrating his movement on the bed. You scootch away, not to make room, but to keep space. “You hit your shoulder pretty hard, love.” He tells you. “Are you feeling alright? Does anything else hurt?”
When you take inventory of your body, you realize your shoulder is aching and your head continues to pound from a headache. You try to lift your arm, but a sharp pain zings down your shoulder “Pain medicine?” You wince.
The man on the bed glances towards Simon, a silent conversation come and gone in a moment. He smiles, soft and disarming, “Of course, princess.” He gets up, the bed shifting back to its original level as your eyes stay on the man when he crosses the room.
Its silent as he leaves. The click of the door a finality. You tense, your guard up.
The only man left in the room, Simon, is quiet, not providing any context on what’s happening. His gaze was solid, focused on you, but there wasn’t emotion there from what you can tell. This is the moment you realize, the strange customer, the one you were crushing on like a school girl, is not who you thought they were. Whispers of scoldings gain momentum in your mind, raising your anxiety to only one conclusion.
You met at a bar when he was on leave and you just couldn't get enough of each other. But he made sure to keep his work life away from you. You knew he worked in the military and would be gone for long periods, but other than that John kept everything seperate.
You worked at the bakery downstairs, twirling around the kitchen in a way that always amazed him when he was at his boring flat. But you always made it brighter.
John couldn't wait to get home to you. You'd both aligned your schedules for each other all weekend and John was excited.
He couldn't wait to feel your softness or taste your lips after all the gore he'd seen. He wants to wipe his hands off the darkness the world can have with your brightness you offer. You were his shining star.
He's walking up the last stairs to his flat when he noticies something's different...off. It puts John on alert.
When he sees the door to the flat sitting ajar, he slides out his pistol.
He waits for a second to see if he can hear anything--nothing, no signs of a struggle.
He busts in the door and he scans the place, ransacked and everything thrown to the floor, but empty. He moves with efficiency to the bedroom which he also finds empty.
"Fuckin' hell." Price curses. He tries to not let the absolute terror of you being in danger distract him from trying to locate where you are.
He scans the rooms quickly, seeing the knives, baseball bat, and the cabinet with pepper spray had been moved--meaning, his sweet girl fought.
Good girl, he thinks.
He pulled out his phone to pull up your phone tracking. Luckily it wasn't in the flat and it was moving west in a car. John wanted to call and hear that you're alright and he's worrying himself sick. But one more look around the apartment and he knows it's wrong.
Otherwise, you'd be here smiling, greeting him home with your soft and gentle love.
The anger that has John moving cracks something in his heart, the special task force Captain turning into something only the field sees. The mono-objective killing machine that is destined to get home. To you.
He rushes back to his car, watching you on the monitor. Such a good girl keeping your phone on you. So smart. He'll be sure to whisper those praises into your skin when he get's you back.
you ever read one of your old fics and think "damn past self. you went hard on that one. i'm so proud of you." while simultaneously thinking "future self got to get their shit together and actually write something, i mean come on now."
