Fighter ᵇʸ ᵃᵇᵘˢᵉ

carrd tbt. | prompts.

johnny:

the chant comes from the back seat for what has to be the fourth time since they pulled out of the driveway. johnny glances at the rearview—harper's kicking her feet in the car seat, absolutely radiant about it, both hands fisted in the air like she's at a concert. her hair is swaying every which way. "yeah, honey, i KNOW," he says over his shoulder, thumbing through his contacts, then hits the call button.

ethan didn't pick up. tory didn't pick up. they're at the dojo with silver, phones in their lockers probably, getting their asses handed to them or doing the handing—either way, unreachable.

@taughtpain picks up on the second ring.

"hey so i'm getting harper something called a peanut butter cookie dough smash from the dairy queen," he says, real casual, like he didn't just dial his son from the parking lot because he's having a small situation. then his brain catches up. shit. he's panicking now. he holds the phone closer to his ear, eyes flicking up to the menu board through the windshield like it might've rearranged itself in the last six seconds. harper goes again in the back seat, louder this time, fully committed to the bit.

"robby. the fuck do i do if they're out of peanut butter or something? cry? fight the workers? both? she's two."

he glances at the drive thru line critically, scoffing loudly.

"they've got these things called blizzards. i looked at the picture, robby—it's just a cup. there’s no wind, no snow. it's fuckin' false advertising! back in my day, if you said there was a blizzard coming, people stayed home and bought batteries. now it's just a way to sell a bucket of sugar to a two-year-old. it's BS."

johnny's wearing a dyed pink shirt. it used to be white, and he didn't dye it by choice, but apparently harper snuck a red sock in the laundry and didn't tell him. probably because she's still mad about the kick thing. he'd explained his stance. she'd eloquently said fuck you, with her eyes glowing red, which was a bit jarring.

johnny's face colors some at the comment from @taughtpain, although thankfully not as pink as his shirt is.

he's not mad at robby for being a little shit. that's... well, the standard, now, ever since they got their relationship back on track. seth is somehow even more annoying, too. little shits, both of 'em.

this is embarrassing. this is so un-manly.

he glances down at the shirt like maybe it's changed color in the last thirty seconds. it has not. it is, in fact, somehow pinker than it was this morning—splotchy and uneven, somewhere between salmon and bubblegum. the kind of pink no man over forty has probably ever willingly put on his body.

"don't," he says immediately, pointing at robby before robby can do anything other than stand there. "don't even start. kid." a beat. blue eyes narrow sharply. "you're thinking it. i can see you thinking it. stop it." it's not an order. more of a gruff plead. he is asking robby, man-to-man, dad-to-grandfather if he's being technical, to have mercy on him right now.

he tugs at the hem like that's gonna help. it does not help. the shirt remains aggressively, militantly pink.

"harper," he says, like the name is a full explanation. "red sock. laundry. she's seven and she's somehow more of a menace since the last time i babysat her, i don't know who taught her that. probably wade. or seth." he cocks his head to the side, then continues flatly: "or you. definitely one of you, actually, now that i'm saying it out loud."

he tried bleach. vanessa laughed at him for a full minute before explaining bleach doesn't work like that, which—fine. whatever. he's a karate guy, not a laundry guy.

"it's my last clean shirt," he says defensively, even though robby still hasn't said anything to defend against. "the rest are in the wash. with—presumably—more red socks. i'm gonna open that dryer later and it's gonna look like a crime scene in there. mark my words." he takes a moment to sigh, because what the actual hell even is his life anymore, muttering: "this is fuckin' what i get for refusing to let her try a kick no seven-year-old should try. karma in the form of a passive aggressive, pissed off granddaughter."

an eldritch granddaughter, which is worse. who knows what she's capable of when she's—multiply-versal? whatever. miguel said it once, and he reads those nerd books, so he'd know. (what's a deadpool?, he'd asked seriously one time, and wade had gone very still in johnny's kitchen while damiana looked like she wanted to laugh.) anyway, johnny had decided to just trust miguel on it.

he crosses his arms. then uncrosses them, because it somehow makes the pink more pink. there is no winning here. he sighs loudly, long-suffering, and just gestures vaguely at his entire front like behold, my suffering.

RAISE ME UP AGAIN. // TAKE ME PAST THE EDGE. // I WANT TO SEE THE OTHER SIDE. // WON'T YOU SHOW ME WHAT IT'S LIKE?

au: ethan ( @taughtdefense / @thirdeldritch ) has never needed a reason to protect robby ( @taughtpain ). the soulbond handled that before johnny lawrence was even a name he knew.

but johnny comes to him anyway—not demanding, not bargaining, just asking to be enough—and the soulbond has already told ethan everything he needs to know—what robby carries, what johnny cost him, and what johnny has been trying to pay back ever since.

so ethan willingly drops his wards and opens something in himself that has never been open. unlocks whatever latent abilities had been sitting and waiting in the lawrence bloodline, because if robby's father is going to protect his son, he's going to actually be able to do it, and do it well.

the tether forms, and johnny walks away with something old living behind his sternum.

and anyone who touches what's his is going to find out exactly what that means.

or: an au where johnny becomes a warlock, backed by the third ever being in existence, to protect robby.

important serious lore-defining questions lobbed @opponentcompel's way. i'm a serious rper who writes BOTH johnny & silver.

just seeing johnny wilson-lawrence in the window of a local 7-eleven would probably cause enough stress to turn his ponytail into pure light. he's looking in the mirror every morning with a color swatch, tracking exactly how much robby wilson is costing him in hair dye