just-jesters-palace
Hi I'm Jester
Don't take this too seriously.20's | mdni!
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Woof woof grrrrrr
CW for dub con, stay safe everyone <3
The bar is exactly as busy as you’re hoping for when you get there. Quiet and intimate, low lights, a hum of conversation but not overwhelmingly loud. The bar is mostly full but not crowded. As luck would have it, you instantly spot a couple empty stools towards the back.
You glide across the establishment, head held high and shoulders back. Pick a seat and smooth your skirt under you to perch. The bartender comes to you instantly; you pick something sweet and fruity (delighted that it’ll match your outfit.)
It takes up until they slide it across to you — a tab opened with your card — that the insecurity starts to set in. What if no one is interested? What if Soap doesn’t show up?
You sip at your drink and pull out your phone, reading your latest book. If nothing else… at least you’re getting out? God.
“This isn’t your usual scene.”
Oh. Oh this is worse than being ignored all night and going home alone. So much worse. Just barely manage not to curse aloud as you turn to your ex.
“Justin…” you start, realize you don’t know where to go from there. “Hi.”
“It’s been a minute, huh?”
You look him up and down. Designer everything, of course, brands printed all over him. No taste, though, none of it is cohesive. You wouldn’t be caught dead at his side ever again.
“How’s your arm?”
His expression flickers, hand unconsciously going to the spot where Johnny tried to tear it off.
“Fine. Thanks.” He gives you a long look. Unfriendly. “You know people have had dogs put down for less.”
You run your tongue over your teeth, fear and anger twisting up in your stomach like hot lava. How dare he threaten your boy like that?! Wish Johnny was here now to take another chunk out of him.
“Not when people trespass on private property,” you reply coldly, eyes narrowing.
He puts his hands up, laughing awkwardly. “Well, now. I wouldn’t call it — let’s just say we’re even, yeah?”
“For that at least.”
You take another big sip of your drink. Find it empty. Make hopeful eye contact with the bartender and nod for another when they gesture questioningly. There’s a reason you love this bar.
“Right… listen, about that, luv…”
“There you are, bonnie!”
You perk up despite yourself. Says something that the creep who sexually harasses you in public is better company than your ex-fiancé. Something zings through you when you realize Soap is bigger than your Justin (hopefully in every aspect). Taller, wider, more muscular. Better jawline and prettier eyes, too.
“Tucked up back here like this,” Soap mock scolds, shouldering past Justin. You let out a little squeak as he scoops you off your barstool, hand just under your ass for a hold. “Almost didn’t see you, hen.”
“H-Hi,” you say, arms going around his neck automatically. He presses his nose to your collarbone and audibly inhales. You shiver.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he continues, voice dropping lower.
He sets you down on your stool again with a wink, then takes the stool next to yours.
“Oi, do you mind?” Justin snaps, bumped out of the way by Soap’s bulk.
“I do, actually.” The look Soap levels him is sharp, cold. Bloody killer. Instantly reminds you of all the alarm bells that normally play in your head when he’s around. “Don’t like puffed up knobs like you around my girl.”
You bite your tongue on a protest that you’re not his girl. Wouldn’t be particularly helpful right about now. You’ll correct him later.
“Your girl,” Justin scoffs. “She was mine before she was ever — hey!”
Soap’s got his fist in the front of Justin’s shirt, jerking him nearly off his feet. A few heads turn. You feel hot with embarrassment, skin prickling at so many eyes on your little trio of stupidity.
“Woah!” You yelp. “Soap!”
You grab his forearm (remind yourself not to get distracted by the muscles cording it) and lean into his line of sight. The near-murderous glint in his blue eyes softens, though there’s still an unnatural sheen to them. Something that makes the hair on the back of your head stand on end.
“Soap, let him go,” you say, quiet. “I like this bar, don’t get us kicked out… please?”
He hums, instantly drops Justin to cup his hand around the back of your neck, fingers edging into your hair. His palm feels so big and harm, a little rough with callouses. You try not to think about how easy it would be for him to manipulate your head however he wants…
“Like when you say ‘please,’ hen,” Soap purrs.
You swallow, feel your cheeks flushing as you say, “Then… you should sit down and have a drink with me. Please?”
He grins, crooked and a little mean. “Anythin’ fer you.”
He drops into his stool again like a king on his throne. You perch gingerly on your own, waving Justin away like an annoying fly. Don’t even look as he slinks off, too busy staring at Soap. Who’s… busy staring at you. As always.
“You never called,” he drawls after ordering. Whiskey, neat. The bartender sets your new drink in front of you; you start sipping to gather your thoughts and nerve. “Lucky I happened to stop in here, eh? Imagine if I’d walked past…”
You grimace a bit. A fantastic bit of luck, that. Thought you’re still not sure what type of luck.
Definitely not going to admit to him that you didn’t call on purpose, wanting plausible deniability if you did see him. As if trying to get him under your skirt by happenstance is better than calling him to do it.
“Why did you stop in here?” You ask, looking to change the subject.
“Could smell you,” he answers, eyes twinkling.
You wrinkle your nose, kick at his shin. Want to blame it on the alcohol, but you drink red wine most nights of the week. This is just… placebo and desperation.
“You’re so nasty, you know that?” You huff.
He arches his eyebrows, grins wolfishly. “Could show you how nasty I can be,” he offers.
You wrinkle your nose even as your cheeks burn. That’s exactly what you’re hoping for.
“You can’t keep talking to me like that,” you complain.
He snorts in amusement, hooking his fingers beneath your stool and tugging you closer. Until your knees are between both of his, jeans brushing against your thighs.
“Here’s the thing, darlin’,” he murmurs, low and private. “I think you like when I talk to you like that.”
You swallow audibly, hands dropping down to twist nervously in your lap.
“I think it makes your pretty pussy all wet and swollen when I get all mean like this,” he continues. You shake your head; his palm clamps down on your thigh beneath your skirt, thumb sweeping back and forth over the sensitive skin. “Think she’s fuckin’ aching fer me to make good on all my promises. And you can get all shy and sweet here, but I bet all your cunt wants is to be mounted and bred like a bitch in heat.”
And he’s right. Of course he’s fucking right. That goddamn bad guy fantasy and your shallow, needy pussy, and Soap’s stupid fucking everything.
You feel like you’re about to explode when the bartender sets his whiskey down, snapping the tension like a rubber band. Feel dizzy as you lean away, sipping desperately at your own drink in an attempt to cool off. He gives you all over maybe fifteen second before opening that sinful mouth again.
“So how about it, bonnie? Did I hit the mark?”
You feel frustrated tears pricking at your eyes. Blink and look away at your nervous hands.
“I-I don’t even know you,” you mutter. “You could be dangerous.”
“I am dangerous, baby,” he replies, “just not to you.”
You shake your head. “You’re awful.”
“Mm and you want me to do awful things to you.”
You sigh through your nose, that little logical voice blaring again. He’s going to hurt you. He’s going to use you.
(Would that be so bad, if you go in knowing it?)
A tug at your necklace startles you out of your thoughts, his finger hooked beneath the pendant. You lean in with a noise of protest, afraid he’s going to break it. Gasp as your lips brush his.
“Whatever’s goin’ on in that pretty head, let me fuck it out of you.”
You shudder, hand balanced on his thick, muscular thigh. Can feel a twitch near your thumb. Holy shit.
“I’ll be so good to you, princess,” he promises. “Let me be good to you.”
You suck in a breath. Now or never.
Well, if nothing else, maybe you’ll let Johnny eat him if he’s turns out to be a bastard.
“Prove it,” you breathe.
He guides your chin up, eyes blazing with hunger.
“Yeah?” He asks.
You blink, muster up your courage. “You heard me. Or are you back out?”
His expression goes deliciously dark. “Oh, I’ll prove it, lass. You just sit right here and I’ll get us sorted.”
His fingers slip just that last little bit up and start teasing at the lace of your panties. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to sip at your cocktail while he flags down the bartender. His nails scrape lightly across the fabric over your clit as gets your card and throws down enough cash to cover all three drinks.
When he pulls his hand away, you have to bite back a whimper.
“If you don’t get up right now, I’m haulin’ you out of here over my shoulder,” he growls in your ear.
You’re up in an instant, smoothing down your skirt. His hand stays glued to your lower back as he ushers you out to the lot. Sits you down in the passenger seat of a black pickup, barely waits for you to buckle yourself in before peeling out of the lot.
You’re about to tell him your address when you hear the clink of a belt, a zipper. Eyes wide as they drop to his pants, to him fishing a huge, hard cock out of jeans.
“C’mere,” he near snarls.
“Soap, that’s not— mph!”
The head of his cock catches on your teeth, but that only seems to spur him on, hips twitching.
“Gonna ruin that pretty makeup, your pretty hair. Gettin’ all dolled up like that for any fucking wanker to see.”
He twists his fingers in your hair and presses you down, your cheek rubbing against the shaft. He feels huge and unnaturally hot. You press your thighs together as you imagine how it’s going to feel inside of you.
“This isn’t safe,” you complain, mouth open as you gasp against the flushed skin.
He curses, tugs you up so that your lips press against the head, already dripping. Your eyes widen in the darkness, shocked and flattered that you’ve already worked him up this much.
“Not gonnae let anything happen,” he promises, “but you need to convince me not to spank this pretty ass black and blue.”
You squeal as he releases you hair just to deliver a harsh smack to one ass cheek, the sting making you clench up.
“H-hey!”
“You want me to slap that pretty pussy too? Bet I could make you cum just tapping that little clit over and over again. That what you want, slag?”
“N-no!”
“Then show me.”
You seal your mouth around the head, sucking and licking at the precum beading at the tip. Try to brace yourself, nearly gag as he hits a pothole and shoves into your throat. It’s noisy and messy, eyes watering from how thick and deep he is already, not letting you up for more than brief gasps of air.
“Fuck, that’s it baby. Work your tongue just like that…” he groans.
You lose track of everything but trying not to gag, his threat lingering with each obscene slurp and twist of your tongue. He tastes better than you expected, and the scent of him surrounds you. Musk and pine, something familiar that niggles at your cock-drunk brain. Can’t be bothered to work it out though, not when he’s tugging your hair. Not when he comes to an abrupt stop and you deepthroat him.
He yanks you off with a near-animal growl. You whine, scrambling to brace yourself and panting. Your head feels foggy. Know your panties are soaked through; shocked you’re not dripping down your leg. If you were sitting properly, you’d probably leave a wet mark on the seat.
You moan as his mouth crashes into yours, tongue sweeping inside like he owns it. He licks the taste of himself off your tongue, hands fumbling your seatbelt off, dragging you over the center console to straddle his lap.
You gasp at the sight of his rock hard, angry cock next to your pretty dress, pressed up against your stomach. Show just how deep he’ll be inside your guts.
“Fuck, look’it that,” he groans rutting against your stomach. “Oh you were made to be mine.”
You scream as he scoops you up, stepping out of the truck with you over his shoulder.
“Soap!” You shout. “Soap, put me down, my dog—”
“I’m your fuckin’ dog,” he replies.
“No, seriously, he’s protective—”
He grabs the spare out of its hiding place and shoves the door open. You brace for angry barking and growls, but hear nothing. Soap doesn’t even pause. He just kicks the door shut and storms down the hall to your room, like he knows exactly where he’s going.
He drops you onto the bed, watches your breasts bounce as you settle on the mattress. He strips off int he blink of any eyes while you’re still catching your breath.
“W-wait, wait, my—”
He flips you onto your stomach, hikes your ass up high in the air. You squirm, try to crawl away, but he slaps your ass so hard you see stars. He places his palm flat between your shoulder blades to bin you still.
“S-Soap,” you whine as he shoves your skirt up over your ass, palms a cheek. Spreads you open just to let the flesh jiggle back into place.
“Fuck,” he growls. It sounds off. Sounds deeper, rougher now.
“Just-just slow down…!”
He yanks your panties aside, plunges two thick fingers into you. You squeal, legs kicking uselessly against the mattress.
“Oh, you’re plenty ready,” he says, dark, almost to himself. “All ready to be mated and bred. All mine.”
That finally starts to break the lust-drunk haze. Open your mouth to tell him absolutely not, it’s been way to long and your need to be stretched—
He forces his entire cock into you with one brutal thrust. You scream, cry, try to flatten yourself against the bed but he won’t even let you do that, muttering about “presenting” properly. It hurts but it feels good, know that’s it’s just too much.
“Soap,” you sob, “y-you can’t— you have to… I’m-I’m gonna break.”
“Shhhh, no you’re not,” he soothes, grinding a bit deeper. Your eyes roll back, keening through your teeth. “You were made for me. You’re all for me.”
You shake your head, but he just chuckles.
“Yes, baby, yes. You let me in, you kept me. Now we belong to each other.”
“Soap, w-what are you talking about…?” you manage, fists tight in the sheets. He draws back once and slams into you, hard, mean.
Leans down so he’s rumbling directly in your ear.“‘S Johnny, hen.”
You blink, confused and overwhelmed. “W-what… n-no. No, Johnny is my….”
“Woof.”
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Today I’m thinking about reader who owns a café/restaurant/bakery, and when you fuck up the recipe for something you accidentally summon Demon!Simon who decides you’re coming back with him to share with the rest of the 141.
(Cw for dub con)
He is, of course, mildly annoyed that he’s been so rudely pulled away from his afternoon tea with Johnny, and just as baffled as you are that he’s standing there with you, covered in flour, looking like you’re about to pass out.
“Messed up the recipe, didn’t ya?” You nod, incapable of words at the moment, and he sighs, dragging a shadowy hand down his face. “The salt?”
“Uh-huh…” All you can do is stare at this thing that’s just appeared in your kitchen in a smoky cloud, slack jawed and frozen to the spot because, apparently, adding too much salt to pound cake results in summoning sinfully attractive demons. “W-what do you want?” You tell yourself the wobble of your voice is because of the whispering tendrils of shadow and smoke that slither around him, crawl and twine up his arms like serpents before dissipating into the velvety darkness that floats around him, not because of his chiseled fucking jaw or the cut of his Adonis belt disappearing below his waistband.
“Me?” He scoffs, tilting his head to peer more closely at you. “You summoned me, little witch-”
“I’m not a witch,” you interject, but he pays you no mind.
“The only thing I want is to get back to my tea.” Johnny would have pouted had he been here to hear that, offended by the notion the tea is the only thing he’s missing right now, but the image of pouty, puppy-eyed Johnny, whining about Simon not paying enough attention to him, has his lips curling and cock stirring.
“Tea?” Such an innocent thing, blissfully unaware of his wandering thoughts.
“That not a thing here anymore?”
“Um… yeah, it is. I just… demons drink tea?”
“Among other things.” He revels in the way your eyes widen, lips falling open in shock again, and you take an unconscious step back. He takes a step forward and watches your throat work to swallow, thinks you’re rather pretty when you’re scared and confused as he prowls ever closer. “Well, since I’m here,” he braces his hands on the work bench opposite of you, leans forward and you stumble back into the counter behind you, “how about we make a deal?”
“A deal?”
“That is how these things tend to work.” Your hands grip the counter behind you hard enough to dent the smooth metal surface, knuckles blanched and fingers trembling.
“But I… I didn’t mean to summon you! It was an accident, I-” You don’t get to finish your protests, stunned into silence by the sudden closeness when he’s suddenly chest to chest with you, slipping through some fold in the fabric of space and reality to crowd you further against the counter, bracketed between two impossibly muscular arms.
“Doesn’t matter. ‘M here now, and ‘m not leavin’ without one. I’ll even let ya choose which part of ya I take with me.” He can feel your poor little heart beating frantically against his own chest, can see the confusion and fear on your face as you struggle to parse out the meaning of his words.
“P-part?” He hums, tilting his head again and letting his gaze drag over you, leans further into the plush swell of your breasts and bends down to brush his nose against the column of your neck, breathing in your lush scent. His hips are pressed flush to yours and he can’t help but notice how soft you are against him, even rigid with fear as you are, how perfectly you fit there, and he grinds into you, pressing you further against the counter.
You whine against the metal digging into your back and it sends a shudder snaking down his spine, draws a low, throaty growl from him, and he draws back just enough to peer into your stricken face.
“P-please don’t… don’t hurt me.”
“Only if ya ask me to.”
“I’ll give you whatever y-you want.”
“I want you.”
Your eyes are so wide, irises a speck of color against glassy porcelain, an errant splatter of paint on an empty canvas, and you shiver beneath him, bite your lip so hard he can smell the tang of blood in the air when you break the skin, and his tongue darts out as he imagines tasting the sweet ichor staining your lips.
“You… you mean my soul?” There’s a cautious optimism to your voice, as if selling your soul to him and his ilk is preferable to the other possibilities, all of the wicked scenarios, floating around in that pretty little head of yours. He hums in thought, drags a finger from your elbow up to your shoulder, and his lips peek back in a sharp-toothed grin when you tremble at the sensation.
“I do. Or I could just take you, soul and all.”
“But I’m a good person, I can’t go to-”
“Hell? Oh lovie… all the good girls go to Hell.” He croons and chucks you under the chin, forces you to stare up into the dark depths of his gaze, and grins down at you.
“No, no that’s not true-“
“Lucifer was an angel, Gods favorite, before he fell.”
“He fell because he defied his orders.”
“He was damned because he fought for freedom.”
Your face twists into a frown, brows drawing together and eyes narrowing at him, and he chuckles at the spark of defiance growing in you. He finds it amusing how you suddenly find your wit caged between his arms and pinned against his chest, like his mere presence draws out the rebellion in you.
“If you take me back with you, what do I get out of this? It is a deal after all, that’s how these things tend to work,” you throw back at him, puffing up your chest and standing a bit taller.
Johnny is going to love watching you combust, and Gaz is going to absolutely adore you, lives to compete with Johnny for pretty moans and whimpers of their names. Price will revel in taking you apart, piece by piece, and Simon… He’ll be there to stamp out the flames, to put you back together and show you the real difference between Heaven and Hell.
“Come with me and your little restaurant will only ever know success from this day forward, will never see another month in the red.” Your brows pull tighter and you bite your lip again as you consider his offer, ask yourself if it’s worth it, and he can see it in your eyes the exact moment that you decide it is. “Wha’d’ya say, lovie? Do we have ourselves a deal?”
“Yes.” Your voice is small, hesitant despite the determined set of your jaw, and the moment your assent leaves your lips Simon’s swooping down to capture them with his own, swallowing your gasp as he tastes the iron on your skin—sealing your deal with him.
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Meet-cute with Gaz:
In the grocery store because you accidentally took his cart in the haste of festive shopping.
"Sorry ma’am, I reckon this one’s mine." With that smile and pretty eyes of his. Instant goner
#cod#kyle gaz garrick#kyle gaz x reader#gaz x reader#cod fluff#may have happened to me minus the meet cute#he’d call you ma’am outbof respect kinda like alex
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Between @peachesofteal, @ceilidho and @charliemwrites I have been plagued with mind rotting thoughts of manipulative!Johnny and I wrote this in a feverish haze
So uhhhh yeah, here’s 1.8k words of Johnny being an overbearing and possessive menace to reader
This will be part of a larger collection of works The Wild Hunt Masterlist
This is a dark fic, 18+ MDNI, descriptions of kidnapping, coercion and mentions of death below the cut
Snow falls beyond the frosted window panes, flickering like static in shafts of warm-hued lamplight and collecting in powdery, white drifts. The picturesque cityscape and the dissonant overlapping of conversation coming from the gathering of family and friends in a quaint town house decorated for the upcoming holidays feels like something plucked out of a cliché holiday romcom. Except this isn’t a yuletide gathering, and the congregation of familiar faces is one less tonight.
This is a wake. And an odd one at that.
You didn’t believe in the myth that deaths are more frequent around the holidays, and you certainly didn’t believe in a black cat that eats the souls of the recently deceased if you don’t throw a proper party with games and drinking, and enough food to feed a small army, at the wake. But this is Scotland, and the country is teeming with myths and superstitions.
So, here you sit. Curled into the corner of a sofa with a glass of… something. You’ve been told it’s like eggnog, done the Scottish way.
Great aunts, uncles, cousins several times removed and friends of the deceased distant relative all nurse their own glasses of the festive drink, and various recounts of fond memories are shared amongst the group gathered in the living room. There’s one voice that stands out among the others, and you watch with reserved interest as the mohawked man it belongs to tells his story. It’s a little louder, with more bravado than the rest, narrating his memory with a jubilance that belies great fondness.
You’d never met the man everyone was reminiscing about, only came tonight because a cousin on your fathers side—the Scottish side—had cajoled you into going with her to the wake so she’d have someone to talk to besides her mother. You didn’t understand why she’d begged and pleaded as you sat in your corner alone while she flits about here and there, talking to just about everyone there about anything and everything. A trait you had not inherited from your Scottish patronage. You’re so deep in your own thoughts in fact that you don’t immediately register the added weight on the sofa beside you, the way it dips and bows beneath it, until that lilting bravado is crooning in your ear, close enough to feel the whisper of warm air from his breath on the outer shell.
“How’d ya know Captain MacMillan?”
You blink, realize you’d been so entrenched in your own thoughts that you hadn’t even seen the man you’d been watching stand from his seat and take up the empty space next to you, and a flush of embarrassment blooms across your cheeks when you realize he must have seen you staring. When the rest of your body catches up with your brain you turn to face him, finding his face mere inches from yours.
He smells like the earth after it rains, like petrichor, and it mingles with something tangier—something sharp—like the honed edge of a blade. His smile is just as striking, all teeth and curling lips. Feline.
And his eyes—bluer than Loch Lomond on a clear, sunny day, and glittering in the same way the sunlight catches on the cresting ripples at the water's surface. They feel just as deep and endless too, the way his pupils flare and swallow that brilliant blue as he studies your face with a startling intensity, devouring every detail. Something rattles and trills in your mind at the way his gaze seems to drag you down, down, down, where it’s hard to breathe beneath the waves, and you can’t tell if the sound is sweet music or a frantic warning.
The realization that you haven’t yet given him an answer dawns on you and you suck in a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“I uh… I didn’t know him. I knew of him though—a distant relative,” you explain and your fingers curl tighter around the glass in your hands.
He doesn’t lean away, remains firmly inside your little bubble and cocks his head in a manner that reminds you of a cat watching a bird outside a window. Hunting. He’s so close you can see the shadow of a beard, freshly shaved but with new growth already pushing its way to the surface to darken the sharp line of his jaw.
He hums. A low rumbling sound that emanates from deep within his chest. “Didnae ken the Captain comes from such a bonnie family,” he says in that swaggering bravado, and it almost sounds like a purr. “What’s yer name, hen?”
You give him your name, along with an outstretched hand which he takes in his large one, palm and pads of his fingers rough and callous against your own, and his pupils flare wider, causing his eyes to darken a sinful shade. “I’m Johnny MacTavish. Or Soap, if ye like,” he says, and holds onto your hand for just a few seconds longer than he should, the warmth of it branding your skin before he lets go.
“Soap?” you question and quickly pull your hand back into what remains of the personal space he seems intent on crowding, feeling like you’ve reached for a hot pan without a mitt.
“It’s muh callsign,” he says and drapes an arm over the back of the couch behind you, caging you into your little corner.
More bells.
“I’m military. SAS, like the Captain.”
SAS.
Suddenly you’re seeing all of the things that had drawn your interest to him earlier in a new light.
He’s built. Broad shouldered and bulky in the arms and thighs that have been creeping closer ever since he sat down. The scar on his chin that pulls taught when he smiles with all his teeth. The metallic tang that lingers on his skin. How silently he had suddenly appeared on the couch beside you.
Danger.
He places his broad hand on your thigh and your eyes jerk to his. There’s a menacious glint flickering in the dark pools that reels you in and pulls you under, like the kelpies young children are warned about.
Don’t get too close to the water or you’ll drown. Don’t get too close to him.
His hand feels more like a paw, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your leg like a cat sinking its claws into fresh meat.
“They’re choosin’ teams fer quarters,” he says with a nod in the direction of the coffee table where guests have begun to gather around an arrangement of disposable cups, bottles of scotch and a collection of coins, splitting into two groups. “Think ye should be on my team,” he says a shade darker, fingers digging harder into your thigh and lips curling back to reveal his feline grin once more.
You pull your leg away from him, tugging it closer to your chest, and your heart thumps insistently against your ribs, pulse quickening in the way prey that recognizes the hunt does. You feel like a mouse caught between the claws of a kellas cat, half-wild things that roam the highlands.
“I-I actually have to go,” you blurt and shoot to your feet before he can sink his claws in further, discarding your half-empty glass on the end table. “I don’t hold my liquor well, and I have an early morning tomorrow.” It’s a lie, but how would he know? You snatch your sweater from the arm of the sofa and shove trembling arms through the sleeves. “It was… nice meeting you though.”
Was it?
“A-and I’m sorry for your loss.” The words come tumbling out like you can’t say them fast enough, tripping over your own tongue as you hurry to extricate yourself from his grasp. You don’t wait for him to return the sentiment, turning on your heel and making a beeline for your cousin.
You tell her you’re tired and heading home, offering a brief hug for her and your aunt before you have to walk back through the living room, right past Johnny, to get to the door. You don’t know if it’s relief or dread that flutters in your stomach when you see Johnny no longer occupies his spot on the couch as you cross the room. Isn’t anywhere in sight.
With your down coat bundled tightly around you, you step out into the cold night, immediately hit with icy wind and stinging particles of snow against your cheeks. Your car is parked just around the corner, less than a minute's walk. And you take hurried steps away from the town house towards the pavement.
You should have been more careful.
One moment you’re turning the corner towards your car and the next your feet are sliding out from under you on ice-slick pavement, sending you to the ground in a bone-shuddering fall.
Your skull cracks off the pavement and it echoes between your ears. You lay stunned on the ground, unable to do more than groan at the pain radiating from the base of your skull down your spine.
And then there’s hands on your shoulders. Large, warm hands that glide up your neck and prod at the tender flesh at the back of your head. You groan at the painful press of calloused fingers and a familiar voice coos to you.
“Took quite a tumble, wee rabbit. Ye really shouldnae have been walkin’ so quick through all this snow,” he says as he retracts his fingers from your head and they settle on your shoulders again.
You groan, trying to open your eyes and see through the flakes of snow that blur your vision as you try and fail to lift your head.
“Dinnae move too much, ye’ll hurt yerself more.” His hands move from your shoulders to snake beneath your knees and under your back to lift you from the ground.
You moan as the motion jostles your head and sends a blinding jolt of pain through your skull, exploding behind your eyes and sending stars dancing wildly across your remaining vision.
“Shhh wee thing, yer awright. I’ll make sure that pretty little heid of yours is tended to.”
You’re being carried, cradled to a broad chest by burly arms. Smells like rain-
No…. No, no, nonono-
You try to force your eyes open, fighting desperately against the tunneling of your vision to see through the hazy edges and blurry focus.
You’re shifted against him and you cry out as pain flares bright behind your eyes again, and he coos, telling you he’s got you now. He’ll take care of you.
Broken whimpers bubble up in your throat as you’re laid down on something soft, and you wince against the rumble of an engine as it purrs to life. Everything sounds like it’s underwater, and somehow amplified to rattle your brain in your skull. You feel heavy, arms and legs turned to lead.
“Was here fer the captain, but when I saw ye, so pretty curled up on that sofa… knew then I was leavin’ with ye instead.”
It’s the last thing you hear before your fading consciousness suddenly gives way to complete and total darkness.
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Thinking your going on a hiking date with Ghost and his dog.
But instead of a cute puppy, there is a grown man with a mohawk by his side.
#i’m laughing so hard#the mental image#he’s not even embarrassed about it just nonchalantly treats soap like a dog#rb
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Okay, so here’s the angst that I’ve been thinking about all morning because I can’t commit to writing a full thing for it right now:
You were part of the 141.
A recommendation by Laswell that Price took to heart, welcoming you aboard with a handshake and a grin. The rest of the team happily brought you into the fold.
You, Gaz, and Soap became a trio of mischief, thick as thieves. Played pranks, ate meals, watched movies. They always made you feel like one of the team, even though you were the newest member with the most to prove.
But Ghost. Ghost was something else. Your mentor, at first. And in the course of training, you two became… something else. Not that he’d ever admit it. Even with your scratches on his back and your kiss marks on his throat, he maintained an aloof air.
You thought it was just his issues. Trauma and all that. You were patient when he needed space, pushed when he was an asshole. Tried to give as good as you got.
And then a mission went wrong. Maybe you didn’t follow orders, or you just made a stupid mistake. Maybe both. You ended up nearly captured, badly injured. Barely got away and only because Ghost put his own ass on the line to save you.
You woke up in the hospital room alone. Gaz visited you just before discharge, only to bring you a change of clothes and warn you that you were in deep shit. Even then, you could sense the wall between you two, a glass pane of separation. You could see him on the other side, but he was completely separate.
Soap couldn’t even look at you, jaw tight whenever you tried to speak with him. He was mad, you knew that. You tried not to take it to heart.
You sought out Ghost before Price, pissed that he couldn’t even have the decency to visit in the infirmary. What you get instead is an ice cold tirade. That you were a child with a crush that became a liability. That you weren’t fit for the 141, that he wouldn’t work with you on missions going forward unless the rest of the team was there. That you clearly mistook a “release of stress” with something meaningful.
When you did get called to Price’s office, you could tell from the look in his eyes. He agreed with Ghost. He told you, blunt (but trying not to be cruel) that you should consider transfer. That he wasn’t sure you were a good fit for the team. You were a good soldier but not good experienced enough.
You called Laswell for a transfer as soon as you stepped out. Were on a plane three hours later. Didn’t say goodbye to a single one of them.
By morning, you were meeting your new team.
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Dad!simon on Christmas Day.
How’s he dealing with it
FESTIVE HEADCANNONS
this man treats this day like any other, always have and always will. he never had good experiences as a kid and in his adult life he was always asking to be deployed or on call by the base around this time.
he gets up early still, does the done and eats the stuff that the kids left out for santa while smoking a cigarette LMAO they’re def the family to leave a glass of whisky instead of milk too. dad’s law.
though he will never deny you of anything you wanna do for the kids. seeing that glint in your eye over how happy this season makes you, it’s almost healing for him in an indirect way he couldn’t describe.
so when you wake up and quietly come downstairs to find him aimlessly scrolling through the fucking news app on his phone while sat by the back step, you know his mind is preparing itself.
he insists he’s fine but the last three years in the morning solely he’s almost went through a whole 20 of cigarettes. even though it’s all planned out and he knows who what when where and why, there’s a general unease.
but when you go to wake the kids together, his mind sticks to the moment and for a few seconds there’s even a smile or two.
hanging by the doorframe while you wake up each one about how santa has been and their lil faces fucking LIGHT UPPP, jumping from the bed to tell dad too that santa has been. receiving a nod as if he didn’t trip up on presents while laying them with you last night.
he still doesn’t know what you bought though, watching pending transactions ping through his credit card with a squint.
he’s there watching the kids open things and genuinely getting a haul himself, giving a “let me see that” every now and then
he hates hosting. but hates going elsewhere. it’s like a migraine to get around every year between you. though, eventually settling on soap and his family coming round along with your own family.
and as soon as johnny is there with a loud bustle of noise and his kids who yell about what they got, asking simon’s daughters what they too got, he felt somewhat relaxed.
that’s his family in a way.
“alright big yin, what’d santa bring you this year, eh?” johnny’s opening line with a one armed hug as his other hand was holding a bag out toward you.
him and soap relax into one spot for the night and begin drinking. having it be your turn to chef up this year, him and johnny are responsible for watching the kids. not that they really ever did.
later though their youngest kids are knackered and end up sleeping on their chests, sat across the table from one another simon can’t help but deep it sometimes.
he’s around a table at christmas, with his fucking family and youngest child sleeping on his chest.
the world did not end when he was 16.
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Everyone on base jokes that john price just swooped up kyle garrick to be his sergeant. that he just took kyle from wherever he was before.
Kyle took the joke too seriously and 'followed in the footsteps of his captain' when he saw you. So enraptured by your beauty, he suddenly had a want for a girlfriend so he simply took one...took you.
Your kidnapper is so charming and nice, giving you whatever you want (aside from letting you go ofc), he even surprises you with a romantic candlelight dinner when you start giving up on trying to escape.
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In this 1fur1 au….may I raise you wolf!price? The dog/man basically struts right into your home out of the woods and immediately takes his place as pack leader. It doesn’t matter that you’re supposed to be the one giving orders, price is in charge now.
You want to get off the couch and away from the mass of cuddles? Absolutely not. Price will be giving you a look so domineering you are sitting right back down no questions asked. He has you well trained ;)
The others don’t seem to mind the new addition either, making way for a new top dog. Price is quiet and doesn’t cause trouble, but if you’re late home be prepared to face his doggy wrath
Okay, so I love this concept, but I’m gonna raise you one - and write a new part for it.
(Don’t worry, Gaz is coming soon. This ask just really spoke to me lol).
This is also a part 1 — part 2 coming soon.
Three fuck-off sized wolf dogs is a lot. Like, a lot. There’s the fur, the food, the playtime. And then just the sheer clinginess. You’ve always thought of yourself as a dog person, that they just naturally are drawn to you because you tend to be quiet and respectful of boundaries.
Your boys though. They’re something else. Johnny was the easiest of the three to acclimate to your household. When it was just the two of you, bonding and learning him was easy. Whoever had him first had already done a lot of the work training him. And he naturally seems to like girls better so.
Ghost was more difficult. Clearly some trauma there, and a more wolfy-attitude towards humans. Primarily that he doesn’t seem to understand (or agree with) dumb pet things like harnesses, collars, and about 50% of the commands you give him unless you use your Serious Voice. He’s gotten less stingy with affection as time has gone on and his trust in you has grown.
Helped in part, you think, by learning his personality and behaviors. He’s a creature of strict habit. Likes his routines. Likes his space even more; you’ve always been respectful when he wanders off to another room, or when he climbs off the couch to lay nearby but not with you. You never mind, just call that you love him and leave him be.
Konig has been your biggest challenge so far. A lot of trauma there. And possibly a naturally shy personality; though it’s so hard to tell after everything he’s clearly been through. He’s been improving steadily each day, little by little. He’s sweet as can be, affectionate and snuggly when you manage to get him to join you and the others. The least aggressive with men when you take them for walks.
You’re lucky, the boys are so well-behaved — dislike of men notwithstanding. Scary dog privilege is a true blessing when you live alone, with no close neighbors, and right next to the woods. And they are so ridiculously sweet with you at least.
Still, they can be a lot. Any one of them is nearly the size of you, when all three of them decide to act up, it’s overwhelming.
Johnny will starting howling, pissed that Ghost has pinned him again. Ghost will start barking and grumbling - presumably trying to shut him up. And then Konig will insert himself, whining and tapping his feet, trying to break them up, you think.
Sometimes they’ll knock it off on their own, and Ghost will sneeze, shake off, and everyone will come to sit with you. But sometimes…
“Boys!”
You wade in between them, get a hold of Ghost’s scruff and push him off with your thigh against his muscular shoulder. Nearly trip over Johnny as he tries to scramble up and get at Ghost, crying and growling at the same time somehow. You curse as Konig bumps into you, nearly makes you fall over Ghost, who backs up with his nose scrunched up like he’s gonna bite.
Which is about the time you’ve had enough.
“Boys!” There’s a blessed beat of silence. “Outside, now!”
Johnny charges for the door, barking over his shoulder at ghost, who is quick to follow. Konig is slightly slower, head ducked like he knows he’s being part of the problem.
You groan with relief as they pile outside, all three immediately getting into another tussle. They’ve been keyed up the last three days no matter what you do and today seems to be the day it’s finally boiling over. You just wish it was on a day that the yard isn’t wet with mud.
Well then. You drop onto the porch steps and run your hands down your face, sighing. Best to let them stay out as long as possible — try to make bath time a little easier, at least.
You hear nails on the wood next to you, a little squeak, a snort. Figuring it’s one of the boys, you reach a hand without looking and tangle your fingers in their scruff. Pause because… that does not feel like any of your boys.
No way.
You pick your head up, turn slowly. And yup, there’s a dog you’ve never seen before. Another weird wolf one. Not as big as Konig at least. Closer to Ghost’s size — and actually similar in coloration. Cream and tan, with sharp blue eyes, a funny pattern along his cheeks and jaw that looks a bit like a beard.
“What in the…” you breathe, “is there some kind of doggy magnet on this house or something?”
You creep your fingers up his neck and around to his chin, give him a little scritch before he tilts his head to sniff at your wrist.
“Hi, handsome,” you coo, “oof.”
You hurry to prop yourself up as he shoves his muzzle into your stomach, nuzzling up under your shirt. You squeak at the cold, wet nose on your skin — and then again he licks at your ribs.
“Alright, alright,” you huff, shoving at his chest.
He backs up, though not far, ears perked forward and eyes bright. You stare back at him for a second, then sigh and do your due diligence, searching for a collar or microchip. He waits patiently until you’re done, then stands and shakes himself off.
You arch an eyebrow as he barks twice. All three of your boys stop, heads jerking up and turning to the two of you on the porch. Another bark and your little pack comes trotting back. When Johnny tries to nip at Ghost’s haunch, the new dog rumbles low in his chest. And to your shock, Johnny falls in line and slinks inside.
“Huh,” you say.
The mystery pup sneaks a kiss to your cheek before following the others inside. When you just sit there for a second, staring, he twists to look at your over his shoulder and gives you a little “boof.”
You laugh. “Bossy bastard.” And follow them in.
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Thinking your going on a hiking date with Ghost and his dog.
But instead of a cute puppy, there is a grown man with a mohawk by his side.
#ghoap x reader#cod mw2#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley#weirdos (affectionate)#ghost x soap x reader#john soap mactavish
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