NOOOOO WHY IS IT SO GOOD

AWWW

He stood outside the courthouse, using the building’s reflective glass as a makeshift mirror. He adjusted the tie she’d picked out for him that morning, tugging it loose and then tightening it again until it sat just right. His free hand ran through his hair, smoothing the strands she’d ruffled when she kissed him goodbye with a sly smirk. The faint scent of her perfume clung to his shirt, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Man, your wife is insane,” an officer muttered as he walked past, throwing him a glance.

Without missing a beat, he chuckled, straightening his collar. “Yeah, no shit. Why do you think I married her?” He shot the officer a grin through the reflection, adjusting his cufflinks like this was just another day in his life. “I’m literally on my way to her trial right now, carrying her favorite cookies and wearing the shirt she insisted on. Hell, I’ve even got her eyeliner in this bag because, and I quote, she wants to look stunning for the pictures.”

He gave himself one last look in the glass, smoothing the fabric of his shirt, before turning to the officer. “And when this is all over, I’ll be paying her bail. Not because I have to—because I want to. She’ll come out, probably ask for a shopping spree or some fancy dinner, and you know what? I’ll give it to her. Every last bit.”

His voice softened as he glanced down at the cookies in his hand, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Because she’s my wife. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

a psa for those writing for johnny “soap” mctavish

as much as a love the works you’re all writing, a lot of people really don’t know how to write a scottish character (and that’s ok !!!! we get like no rep so) so as a scottish writer, i figured i should help you guys out a little bit.

dialogue

johnny has a VERYYY strong accent as i’m sure anyone can work out

however this doesn’t mean he’s suddenly speaking a different language

yes, a lot of slang is used and for a basic definition of scottish slang and how they should be used; use this ! if you have no idea of slang i’d recommend reading through every word

although we like to use slang, i can promise you that if we’re with someone that wouldn’t understand a word of it / someone who’s first language isn’t english, we wouldn’t speak fully scot (for example if johnny was speaking to alejandro or rudy)

there’s absolutely nothing to suggest he can speak gaelic. yeah i know this is an obvious one but i have seen a few people slip gaelic into his dialogue and that’s super duper inaccurate

barely anyone in scotland speaks gaelic (unless you’re up very high north or maybe in the isles). it’s actually almost an extinct language because the english pretty much wiped it out when we got colonised.

something i love to see is when he mumbles little scottish things under his breath. accurate af.

we say shite more than shit. and never ever will a scottish person say ass. it’s arse all the way.

we don’t call people (especially if you’re sleeping with someone !!!!) lass. or lassie. we call kids that.

pet names are normally along the lines of love, hen (my personal fave), sweetheart, little lady, bonnie (sometimes)

also, shagging is sex. shag, shagged, shagger. yeah.

mum not mom. maw, more commonly.

all that being said he does use a loottttt of slang so honestly go ham i love seeing scots language get used because it’s not been used in fanfic like ever before

culture

seen a few people write soap going mad for st andrews day

yeah no we don’t to that lol i barely every remember that it’s actually st andrews day

also, we aren’t all completely versed on celtic mythology. i could barely tell you the first thing about it.

in scotland we’re all kind of touchy, like we’ll greet people with a hug and stand weirdly close to each other so if that’s something you’re writing about it’s important to note that our personal space is really small

not sure where people get this idea from but scotland isn’t all sheep and highlands and fairies and like little huts

yes we have that but we’re a really modern nation and wayyy to many people have a weird perception of scotland

my man is literally from like glasgow (his accent sounds glasgow but don’t quote me on that) he’s not a farmer or anything

we swear. a lot.

KILTS. not skirts, very common to wear in scotland to events like weddings, christenings, anything formal really.

cunt isn’t a horrible word i literally everyone a cunt, sometimes it’s used affectionately

misc.

if you’re gonna write about scottish politics i beg you research it. johnnys probably pro independence and an SNP voter. google it for context

we’re really loud. and we talk really fast. yes, other characters are gonna be confused af

irn bru !!!!!!!!! it’s a scottish drink and ive seen one person mention it and i just about cried i loved it

in scotland you can vote at 16 and join the army at 16 if that’s relevant to you

if you’re going to write about something you don’t know anything about, either do research or ask someone scottish (im more than happy to help!!)

please don’t take these as complaints or anything !! it’s just very very off putting to see people make massive misconceptions and conclusions about scotland! i love that we’re finally getting some hype. anyways ask about anything!! <3

One of my spidersonas, might post the digital one once I finish it.

You know what I love in bands?

I love when they include their cameraman in music videos. Like, omg! Such cool outfits! I love how the panels are—who’s that in a hoodie?

So out of style with the video, and that’s what makes them stand out! Like, of course I mainly love the band. But the camera guy in that one video has gotta be my favorite main-side character blend. So cool!

OC rant

gentleman masc!oc who looks scary, but is a paranoid sweetheart.

gentleman!masc oc who maintains a rugged and strong appearance, beefy biceps and strong calves. They have hands that almost seem to dwarf the average woman's hand, handling heavy tools like they barely weigh as much as a large bag. Their hands are like sandpaper, their voice like frayed rope, and eyes like a dull void phasing through you--even if the only reason they stare at you is to fantasize about how they'd cuddle you. gentleman!masc oc who even though you hesitate to approach, do so anyways, and shoot up a conversation. You take a seat next to them at the bar, shooting a 'Seem lonely, you waiting on some guys?' and ordering a margarita from the bartender. What you don't see while you're ordering, however, is their hands freezing from their phone and brain short-circuiting. Why would someone like you want to talk to them? They look like a damn mafia boss. They doesn't necessarily try to hold the conversation, because they are utterly horrifying when it comes to talking. They're afraid they might turn into a murder nerd again and shoot one of those stupid 'fun facts,' which messed up their last date( it was barely even a date, just a hangout at most). They nod with every thing you say, although subtle, and try to keep their cool. gentleman!masc oc who opens the door for you with a slight smile as you walk out, satisfied with the conversation. They walk you to your car, and makes sure you drive away from sight safely. They may not be able to snuggle you in bed later, but they hope they can meet you again. You're the first person to walk up to them willingly, maybe they'll stop by again tomorrow to try and find you here again soon. (thanks for listening to my rant, first 'legitimate' post i've made so far. heavy inspo off some of these amazing cod writers)

Just something I’ll use to catch up for now, please ignore !!

Can’t stop thinking about poly141 who get so wrapped up in their own bullshit they begin to neglect reader. So you leave 🤷🏼‍♀️

It wasn’t a big deal at first. You understood that their jobs were intense to say the least. You own a bookshop, which in itself was exhausting, but you understood how they could get carried away with work.

You had excused the many delayed returned texts or missed FaceTime dates when they were deployed. When they came home, they almost always made it up to you. Showering you with attention and quality time.

But the past two returns home have been… different.

Usually at least one of them made a beeline to your shop or your loft if it was too late in the evening. You always held your breath when it was just one of them.

“They’re okay.” Was the usual answer. “Everyone made it back okay.” It was only then that you could melt into whoever’s hands you were in.

After one of their recent returns home you had voice to Price that you didn’t appreciate several days passing after they came back and no one had bothered to tell you. He had snapped. Arguing that a mission doesn’t finish just because they land back on soil. There was paperwork and debriefing to be done. If and when they wanted to see you they would.

He didn’t apologize until later. Crawling into your bed, using one of the keys you had given them. Blaming the stress. How they had almost lost Johnny for the reason of his outburst. What else could you do but forgive him?

So you had given them space after that one. Not holding it against them to decompress before seeing you.

The next time was the final straw. Solidifying how little they cared about you and how much power you had given them.

Johnny had come in around 7 one evening. He was dressed nicely, for civilian standards. You were reading a book on the couch when he had let himself in. You were wearing on of Simon’s sweatshirts and panties. He took you in for a moment before scooping you up.

He fucked you absolutely stupid. Adamant on having you cum on his tongue, his fingers and his cock. You were only able to bask in the afterglow of him filling you up before he started pulling his pants back on.

“What are you doing?” There were times that you would practically need a crow bar to get Johnny detached from you just long enough to relieve yourself. You had gotten many a UTI courtesy of Mr. John MacTavish.

“Dinner with my family tonight.” He explained by the time he was already buttoning his shirt. “The youngest just graduated and ma’ feels the need to go all out.” Now came the tie. Johnny was actually wearing a tie. To go to dinner. “A fancy dinner in London.” He huffed. “Meanwhile I’m out scufflin’ with bloody fuckin’ terrorists and I get a pat on the back.” He gave you a peck on the cheek before heading out the door. Promising to call you later.

You just sat in your bed. Still naked. Almost in shocked. He had fucked you and just… left. You were close to a panic attack as you called Simon.

Simon wasn’t the one to cuddle and coddle. But there was something so soothing at the sound of his voice or even how his heavy body felt perfect laying on top of you. Yes. Simon wasn’t the time to lift you up with words, but he was your own security blanket. Just having him close helped.

“Can you come over?” It wasn't unusal for Simon to be the one to come later in the evening. Insomnia was a bitch to deal with and you could sleep through the sounds of whatever he played on the tv. Most of the times you were content laying your head on his lap as he ran his hand along your head as if he were petting you. It was a bit cringe, but it knocked you out every time.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. The low timber of his voice already calming you.

“Johnny came over.” You sniffled. “He just fucked me and left.”

“Not surprised.” He scoffed. You could almost see him rolling those deep brown eyes of his. “If you wanted to cum, I’m happy to come over and help.”

For whatever reason, that only seemed to make you more upset. “You’re not listening.” You said, trying to spell it out for him. “He left. Like didn’t even stay and cuddle just left. Fucked me and left.”

“That’s why you’re calling me crying about?” He almost seemed… annoyed.

“Yes!” You said, nearly snapping. All of the tension from the last several months coming to the surface. “I’m not just a warm body to keep a bed cozy until you assholes decide you need to get one off.” Assholes. You called them assholes. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”

“Johnny is Johnny.” Simon tried to defend, not really caring to continue the conversation now knowing that you weren't in any sort of physical harm. “He wanted his dick wet and from the sound of it, that’s what he did. Don’t hold it against him because he had other things to do.”

“It’s not just Johnny leaving.” Your throat felt like it was tightening. A telltale sign you were close to crying. Whether from sadness or anger you weren't entirely sure. “The only time any of you want anything to do with me anymore is to fuck.” You missed date nights and lunches. You missed texting any and all of them about your day, about theirs. About new books. You had been trying for months to tell them over dinner one of your books got picked up. Yours was being traditionally published.

None of them had bothered to even try penciling you in.

“You got yours.” You heard the popping of a can top. Simon was settling in for the night. Once he popped a top at home there was no getting him out. He wasn't coming for you. “I don’t understand what you’re bitchin’ to me about. Yeah, in the beginning we indulged ya a bit? Dressed you up, took you out. But you should have known spreadin’ them legs of yours wouldn’t end with one of us puttin’ a ring on your finger.”

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? These were the men that pursued you. Initially, individually, but when tensions became to much they offered a solution. All of them. Four times the attention, of the affection.

Four times the love.

But also four time the neglect. Four times the amount of heartbreak and disappointment. Loving all of them meant putting yourself in a position to let each of them hurt you in their own way and they had.

John's constant state of snapping at you as if you were one of his men.

Johnny swinging by as if you were just a fuck buddy. Not even bothering to give a peck before leaving.

Kyle essentially ignoring you for weeks now. Ghosting you for hours or having to cancel on date nights last minute or claiming that he really did forget that the two of you had planned to meet for lunch.

And now there was Simon. Telling you that all you meant to them was what was between your thighs.

Spreadin' them legs of yours wouldn't end with one of us puttin' a ring on your finger.

None of them ever intended on making this into something more. That much was clear now.

You didn't know what to say to Simon. You couldn't think of a witty retort. You couldn't find the proper insult to whirl his way. You couldn't convey just how much his words had hurt.

So you did the only thing you could.

You hung up.

IM SCREAMING WHAT????

just woke up and my dumbass read your tags as "Brothers Karamazov" and went "heh. Nice book" haha BUT. Makarov? I'm interested 👁️👁️

Nik had bypassed the security and snuck in through one of the bedroom windows. There was no one waiting for him in a van outside. No Watcher, no Bravo Six. This was something he had to do alone. Something he should have done many, many years ago.

It had been too simple, which meant Makarov knew he was coming. Wanted him to come. But Nik had no choice. John had lost a man; his heir, his protegé. He would stop at nothing now, risking even his own life in pursuit of revenge.

Makarov didn't look up as Nik opened the door to the study. He didn't even flinch, the white of his arm sling stark against his black military fatigues. He must have broken it in his escape.

"You are getting sloppy in your old age," Makarov murmured. Nik clocked the sidearm on the table near his hand, and the AK propped up against the nearby wall.

"I know your traps."

"And yet you walk into it willingly. That can only mean you are here on behalf of your favourite whore."

Nik swallowed down the flare of rage that burned behind his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides. "Your obsession with him ends tonight."

"Obsession? Hardly. But it was always... entertaining, seeing how far a man like Price could be pushed before he broke." Makarov ran gloved fingers over the paperwork on the desk before him; maps, stolen intel. Impossible to tell. "And yet, he never did. You have to admire that. It's why he’s still alive... for now."

"You still see him as the biggest thorn in your side. Why? What makes him so special to you? You have killed so many... What is one more?"

Makarov looked to the side sharply, bringing Nik into his periphery for the first time. "It’s not about killing him. It’s about breaking him. Price is a symbol—of everything I despise. The British... the Americans... they think they can control the world with their petty morals and weak ideals." Makarov chuckled; a low, humourless sound in the back of his throat. "Price represents that. He stands against everything I want to achieve. And I won’t rest until I’ve shattered him, piece by piece."

Nik clenched his teeth, fingers flexing against his palms. "You are delusional. Price is no different than you or me. He does what he thinks is right. But in the end, he is just another soldier."

"No. Price has always been more than that. He’s a man who refuses to accept his fate. He clings to his honour like a fool, and that is what makes him dangerous." Makarov turned, leaning against the desk, his broken arm adjusting against his chest. "And that is why I will break him. Because when he falls, everyone will know the truth. That no one is beyond my reach."

Nik stared at the face he had not seen in person for so many years. Always passing each other at a distance, never crossing. It was like looking through a portal into a mirror universe; Makarov was what he could have been. "Price might be a symbol, but so are you. You just do not see it yet."

Makarov's face warped into a snarl. "I am no symbol. I am the storm that will sweep everything away. And when the dust settles, only my vision will remain. Price... and his ideals, will be nothing but ashes."

"We will see about that."

Makarov tilted his head back and sighed at the ceiling. He moved slowly, lifting the sheathed machete from the table and throwing it to the floor between them. Nik knew what he wanted. How he intended this to end, and the painful memories made his chest ache.

Makarov's nose twisted into a sneer when he saw the pain flash over Nik's face. Even after all this time, Makarov could still read him. He knew how much healing Nik had done in the decades since they had fought in the snow, two shirtless boys, one all skinny, pale limbs and the other grown enough into his manhood to always gain the upper hand. To always be the one to inflict just enough harm to stave off worse.

As they threw punches, executed throws and latched each other in chokeholds, numb fingers scrambling through the ice for the blade, their father had watched with watery eyes, rinsing away his grief with vodka.

Makarov, whose heart had hardened, not healed, showed his teeth in a sharp parody of a smile. "Just like old times, big brother."

I was actually crying, stop-

Johnny sings. Simon mourns.

cw: mcd, grief, suicidal ideation.

Price had put the bullet in Shepherd and Ghost had put the bullet in Makarov as they had agreed. That meant the business of the 141 had concluded. Without Johnny, Simon intended to disappear. Properly this time. There would be no crawling out of the grave he’d dig himself. There had been no tears shed, no outpouring of grief. Simon was completely and utterly numb. Like someone had encased him in ice the moment the light had faded out of Johnny’s eyes; any hope for Simon had died with him, leaving only the shell of Ghost to be puppeted by Price’s orders.

When Simon had pulled that trigger and Makarov’s body had hit the floor, he’d felt nothing. No triumph, no closure. Just an emptiness. A great, yawning void where emotions should be. Where Johnny should be. He’d learned long ago that revenge healed fuck all, so he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. But it had felt like just another kill. Just another fruitless step towards the inevitable darkness that awaited. Price had watched him in the back of Nikolai’s Black Hawk with a crease in the centre of his brow, but Simon had been lost in his own head.

Simon had little doubt Price had seen the writing on the wall and when he had summoned Simon to his office two nights before Simon was due to depart Hereford, Simon reckoned it would be a last ditch effort to get him to reconsider the plan he knew had been percolating on the inside of Simon’s skull since they had spread Johnny’s ashes over Moray Firth.

Simon knocked twice and waited for Price’s bark from the inside before he turned the handle. “You wan’ed to talk, sir,” Simon murmured through the mesh of his mask when Price continued to scribble on the paperwork in front of him.

”Yeah, Simon. Take a seat.”

Simon watched Price’s hand. Something weren’t right. There was a subtle shake to it, and Simon realised that it had been the thickness of Price’s voice that had drawn his attention there. Looking for reassurance in the strongest, most trusted pair of hands he knew. But, it was almost like he’d been—

Impossible.

The chair groaned under Simon’s weight and he scooted forward to the very edge of it, back straight, curled fingers on top of spread thighs.

“What ‘m abou’ t’ show ya, I need ya to know I had to make a decision to keep it to meself ‘til now,” Price said. “I needed ya focused. If ya never wanna see me again, I’d understand.” When Price looked up, Simon wanted to gag. Not from disgust, but because his body didn’t know how to process the quiver of horror that went through him at the remains of Price’s tears. His eyes were red, still glistening. His breath caught in his lungs and he had to force himself to let it out in a stuttering grunt.

“Whot is it?” Simon managed, finally.

“Ya need t’… we got ‘em, now ya need t’ start healin’. For him. Ya can’t jus’ throw away what he was denied, Simon. You…” Price pinched the bridge of his nose and trailed off, clearing his throat. Whatever this was, it was eating him alive. Price reached for his phone as he stood up to circle his desk, his thumb sweeping across the screen until he found what he was looking for. “Watch this. I’ll send it t’ya after. But I need ya to watch it here, olrigh’? I jus’—just in case, I can—fuck, jus’ watch it, Simon.”

There was that shake again and Simon took the phone quickly. The face he saw on the screen, frozen behind a large black play button, made a knot tighten in his throat. “Johnny…” His thumb hovered, his fingers creaking around the plastic case of the phone. Price reached down, his own thumb brushing over the top of Simon’s nail to help him those final few centimeters.

Johnny came to life before Simon’s eyes. ”D’ye really think he’ll wanna hear me croonin’ like a wee cat?” He asked the man behind the camera. Hearing his voice again lit a tiny pilot light deep in Simon’s chest and it was like feeling warmth again after being buried beneath ten feet of ice. A pressure began to build behind Simon’s eyes, but he swallowed it down so he could focus on the irreverent bastard that had given his life meaning over the last few years.

”Don’t you Caffliks sing ev’ry Sunday, la?” Price. That was Price. He only went a bit Scouse when he’d had a drink, and judging by the flush in Johnny’s cheeks, they both had. Simon glanced up and saw the pain on Price’s written in deep lines around his eyes.

”When…?”

”While you were away,” Price croaked. “Jus’ shut it. Watch.”

Simon looked back to the phone. Johnny was looking over his shoulder, the scruffy back of his mohawk facing the camera. Someone spoke—Garrick. “Weren’t you an altar boy? Bet those old priests helped you hit the high notes.”

”Get tae fuck ye filfy cunt.”

”Oi, oi, lads, now now, c’mon… fer Simon. E’ll love it.”

“Right, an’ ye sure ah can’t jus’ tell him over a tiext, maybe a… ye knoow, a water emoji…”

”Naw, naw, he’s a proper romantic, like. C’mon, look… I’ve got…” Price played a few chords and the camera shook. The picture turned upside down and then righted itself, and suddenly Simon was looking at the both of them as Price set his phone against something on a nearby table. Bloody wankered, the both of ‘em. Despite the pain balling in his chest, Simon’s lips twitched into a faint smile.

”Awrigh’, but if he rips th’ shite outta me, ‘m gonna pish in ye boots next op, sir,” Johnny said, squinting at Price. He lifted his phone from his lap and tapped at the screen. In the next moment, a grainy violin played a few notes and then… and then… and then…

…Johnny started to fuckin’ sing.

“Oh, my love seid tae me ‘will ye meet me by the sea? Ye c’n kiss me underneath the misty mo-o-on’. He is stunnin’, he is pretty, he's as warm as amber whiskey, and as bonny as the heather on the hill.” Price played along beneath Johnny’s voice, smoother than honey, warmer than an August evening. The smile that split over Johnny’s face as Price echoed ‘oh my love’ in his gravelly voice, still perfectly in tune, made something crack at Simon’s core.

Johnny drummed his fist against his thigh. ”When I was a young boy, my mother seid tae me, "find yerself a pretty lad, don't take his love fer free", from fields of Aberfeldy t’ the shores of Loch Maree, I knoow that he's the only one fer me.” His palm opened as he sang through the chorus again, his heel bouncing against the floor, his shoulders relaxing, his voice lifting as he stylised through another ‘oh, my love’ before breaking into the next verse. Larger than life, brighter than the sun. Simon’s next breath burned out of his lungs like it was made out of dragonfire. He—Johnny was singing to him—Johnny was—Johnny—

“He was dancin’ by th’ fire as a pi-per played a tu-u-une, he wrapped his arms around me an’ he asked, ’are ye my groom?’ A dram of amber whiskey an’ a twinkle in his eye, we danced beneath the Caledonia sky—oh my love seid tae me, will ye meet me by the sea, you c’n kiss me underneath th’ misty mo-o-on. He is stunnin’, he is pretty—”

The crack widened. Simon felt his chest quiver, his heart thundered, something weight-bearing gave way, a molten chill coursing through his veins, like glacial ice had melted away and now threatened to drag him under in the current as it searched for an exit. Johnny continued to croon through the chorus, his voice lifting and falling, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Simon’s entire world narrowed in on him, his cheeky smile, the handsome cut of his jaw, the stupid fuckin’ ferret fuckin’ haircut the fuckin’—the fuck—the fu—

The song ended and Johnny stopped the backing track on his phone. Price’s hand stilled on the strings, his whiskers twitching. “Well, bloody ‘ell, that weren’t ‘alf bad.”

“Man of many fucking talents! The bastard’s toast, mate.” Garrick called from somewhere off screen.

”Aye,” Johnny said, and then looked directly at the fucking screen with those bright blue eyes full of promise, and life, and love… looked directly at the—he was looking at the—“Be seein’ ye, L.T.”

Simon didn’t remember leaving the chair.

He didn’t remember staggering for the door.

He didn’t remember yanking his mask from his head as the balaclava suddenly felt suffocating rather than protective, stifling him like Ghost was trying to keep a stranglehold.

He didn’t remember when his hands began to shake, his fist threatening to shatter the phone, breaking the white plastic of his mask, or when his knees gave way. Only that Price was there to catch him when he began to fall apart, strong arms wrapping around his chest. Simon’s fingers scrambled into Price’s back, clawing at the firm bulwark of it as the first broken noises wheezed from his chest. “Johnny… Joh—Johnny…”

”I know, son. I know—i’s ok, i’s ok, I gotcha, let it go… s’olrigh’…”

Price held him so fuckin’ tightly, buried his face in Simon’s neck as they ended up on their knees, Simon’s manic scrambling too much even for Price to handle. Every raw emotion, every broken part of himself that he had pushed down to get the job done, poured out in the animalistic, shattered sobs that wracked through his entire body. Ugly, gasping, broken noises, with tears, and snot, each breath rasping from his burning lungs as he fought against the tsunami of agony that pulled him under.

Simon clutched the phone to his chest, like he could absorb the image of Johnny into his heart and use it to glue the shattered pieces together, his face buried in Price’s shoulder, blunt nails biting into the cotton of his shirt, howling like a wounded animal as everything he had lost, everything that he could have had, finally swallowed him whole.