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cordeliawhohung · 3 months

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consider this filthy mafia!Soap x nurse!fem!Reader piece a thank you for 2k followers!

mafia!141 masterlist

warnings: masturbation(fem), oral (fem receiving), use of good boy, voyeurism, p in v

"No touching."

Those two words broke Johnny's poor mind, and you watched as his brain shut down and started back up as he stood in the doorway to the apartment with his mouth agape. Once he seemed to regain some semblance of a coherent thought, his eyes raked over you, not sparing a single inch of your body from his gaze. He looked at your bare breasts and your chest as it heavily rose and fell with your labored breaths. Then there was the soft tissue of your stomach and the way your abdominal muscles rippled underneath, tensed with stimulation and pleasure.

However, the most eye-catching sight of all was what happened between your legs. Those deep blue eyes drank up the way your fingers slid along your slit, how you rubbed and toyed with your clit. Even from that short distance he could see the way your arousal coated your fingers, and he drank up the way your hips bucked up into your own stimulation. It wasn't the view he expected to see when he came home from work, but he had no complaints.

"You're killing me, bonnie," he breathed.

Ignoring him for a moment, you spread your legs further as you adjusted your position on the bed, which allowed you to deepen the stimulation. A small groan left your mouth without permission, but you pretended that it never happened as your attention focused on Johnny for a split moment.

"You can watch, but no touching," you reiterated.

Good thing Johnny didn't mind a show.

While you continued your relentless assault on your clit, Johnny carefully climbed onto the foot of the bed where he ensured his movements wouldn't disturb you too much. He quickly settled for your performance where he drank in the view of you with your closed eyes and knitted brows. Sweat glistened along your collarbones and neck, and it dimly reflected the faded lights of his apartment all too enticingly.

As the confines of his jeans grew ever tighter, he couldn't help but think about how he could do it better than you could. Though your moans were sweet and soft, he was always able to pull louder, more desperate moans from you when he fucked you himself. Johnny knew just the right way to curl his fingers inside of you to get your back arching. He knew exactly how much pressure to use when pounding into you that would get you to cry out for him and drag your nails across his back.

He all but got on his hands and knees in order to get a better view of your cunt like he watched his favorite show, and after a while the bed began to shake with the force he used to grind into the mattress. He needed to hear more of you, to feel you, taste you. You were terribly cruel for denying him any sort of treat or attention, fucking yourself on your fingers as if he wasn't even there at all, like he was just some peeping apparition.

Then he noticed it. The tensing of your legs, the way they caved in on your hand with intent to trap it there as your fingers picked up speed. Breaths hitched in your throat as your eyes squeezed tight, and Johnny found himself inching closer to you as if you would potentially change your mind and ask him to finish you off. A violent tremor tore through your body, and he watched in real time as your body began to shake and melt into the mattress with each soft pant that left your lips. There was nothing left of you but a pile of mush and a wet, sticky mess that coated your fingers and thighs.

Cursing, Johnny crawled closer to you where he nestled himself between your thighs but still didn't touch you. Big, blown out pupils met you as you finally opened your eyes, and you couldn't help but smirk at the pathetic sight of him as he tried to fuck you with his gaze alone.

"Good boy," you hummed as you rested your hands on your stomach. "You can touch now."

Without so much as hesitating, Johnny's arms hooked underneath your legs where he yanked your lower half into the air, bringing your cunt to meet his mouth. Large muscles bulged out from his biceps as he kept you trapped in place in order to lap away at you. You yelped at the sudden movement, but a gasp smothered it as you felt his tongue poke into your hole, drinking up your arousal as if he found an oasis in a desert. And he groaned. Groaned as if it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, like you were the only thing he would need to sustain himself for the rest of his life.

"I'm your good boy," he mumbled against your heat. "Was so good, wasn't I? Don't I deserve a reward? Please, baby..."

Before you could even answer, your lower half suddenly crashed back into the mattress and Johnny collapsed on top of you. It didn't take long for his lips to find the soft underside of your jaw where he kissed and nipped at you while his clothed crotch ground against your sopping wet cunt.

"You're so needy," you teased. Johnny only grunted in response as his face pressed further into the side of your neck where you felt your own slick transfer from his face onto your skin. "Go easy, yeah? Still sore from last night."

Without hesitation, you heard Johnny's belt jingle as he unbuckled it one handed. His movements were fast and needy as he eventually yanked his cock free from its restraints where he then pressed it against your welcoming entrance. Both of you groaned, you from the stretch, and him from the delicious way you pulsed around the tip of his dick.

"Yes ma'am."

Smirking, your hands came to rest on his hips where you gently pulled him closer to you. Inch by inch, he filled you until he completely bottomed out, leaving him nothing but a panting mess above you. He hadn't even started to move and you could already feel the way he twitched inside of you.

"Good boy."

#soap x reader #soap x reader smut #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish smut #mafia!soap #mafia!141 #cod smut #f!reader

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charliemwrites · 2 months

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Oooooh I finally did it!! Mafia au part 6! A little bit of that sweet angst/comfort.

Let it be said: Johnny’s no snitch.

Outgoing (“loud” Simon would grumble) as he is, he doesn’t run his mouth about anything important. Doesn’t talk business over a pint or boast his connections in bar disagreements. Doesn’t drop names, flash heat, throw around the weight of his employer. Has never spilled a single fucking secret, not for knives, acid, a fucking gun to his head.

Oh, and please don’t tell the boss.

Let it also be said: Johnny is loyal.

He would happily lay down his life for any of his comrades, lives and dies for SpecGru – for Price. And even though you’re new, you’re one of them now. You’ve quickly found and secured your place in Price’s inner circle, different as you may be. Johnny would go to war for you, and your silly pink sticky notes.

Still, keeping something – anything from the boss. Even a private matter like this…

It happened on SpecGru property, that makes it SpecGru business. And it happened to you, which makes it Price’s business.

That you don’t already know that is… well, that’s between you and the boss. Johnny’s already too involved as it is. (Not that he regrets helping you. Not a bit. If he had his way, that little prick would have left with his teeth in his pocket and a new appreciation for his remaining thumb).

So now Johnny is stuck. He likes you; he really does. That you trust him with something so personal isn’t lost on him, especially in this line of work. He also has a healthy fear of your wrath. (You may not carry any weapons he’s seen, but you’ve got Price grimacing when you narrow your eyes just so. Johnny knows where his cupcakes are made, and he likes them without arsenic, thank you). So, personally, he wants to be able to honor your request to keep the matter private.

But then there’s Price, and whatever he’ll do to Johnny if – when – he finds out about all this.

Johnny’s solution?

“Christ, Gaz, ya shoulda seen it. Never seen the little miss tell someone off like that. Graves woulda been shakin’ in his boots. Will have to ask security for a recording of it.”

Gaz, unimpressed with Johnny’s volume, rolls his eyes and walks away, muttering about tea for his sudden headache. And Price, sitting at his desk, twitches and reaches for his phone.

Mission: accomplished.

Not the most elegant, but he’s a mafia lieutenant, not a fuckin’ spy. Now, to get those pastries you like before Price sees the footage.

“Luv?”

You glance up from the expense reports you’ve been working through for the better part of an hour. Mr. Price is leaning in the doorway to his office, shoulder to the jamb. There’s… an odd look on his face. You’ve never seen it before, don’t have it categorized in your mental files.

“Yes, boss?” you ask, straightening up.

“A word?”

You blink. That’s… different. You don’t like it.

Price is a steady sort of man. Not predictable, but consistent. That this is new, unusual, unfamiliar, makes you uneasy. Reminds you of your last boss, who could call you into his office with an affable grin, only to spend thirty minutes berating you for anything and everything he could think of.

Price has never done that, nothing even close… but you can’t suppress the slight shake in your hands as you smooth your skirt down. Hide it with a little flick of your wrists before grabbing for your ever-trusty tablet. Hell, you probably don’t even need it, but at this point it’s practically a comfort item. Maybe you should name it, put some googly eyes on it.

“Sweetheart?”

You startle a bit. Realize your feet have already carried you into his office and followed him right to his desk. Except instead of standing at his elbow as usual, you’re facing him across his desk. Like you did during your interview with him, when you were still strangers. Like you used to do for your previous boss.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” you chirp, forcing your usual brightness, “those expense reports, ya know? What did you need me for?”

Without a word, he spins his computer monitor around. Your brow furrows as you process the video playing on the screen. You. Soap. Brandon. Your stomach sinks.

There’s no sound, but there doesn’t really need to be. Even in profile, the expressions are crisp – high end cameras. You feel numb as the scene plays out all over again. You and Brandon snipping at each other back and forth. Your rigid spine, stiff shoulders. Brandon’s sleezy confidence. Soap, getting visibly aggravated as the seconds pass.

And there it is, the moment you spun on your heel, done with the conversation, and Brandon reached for you.

When you see Soap’s hand snap out – just a blur on the screen – you have to sit. Muscle memory collects your tablet in your lap, sweaty hands stacking neatly on top of it. Your heart is beating either too fast or too slow.

Your eyes stay locked on the screen until you and Soap disappear into the elevator, and the video stops.

“Should I play the elevator footage as well?” Price asks, voice low and quiet. “That comes with sound.”

It takes all your years of learned discipline and cultivated poise to resist shrinking in on yourself. It does not, however, stop your eyes from burning.

“Sir,” you say, struggling to keep your voice even, “I am so sorry.”

There’s a beat of tense silence as you gather yourself, throat getting tighter and tighter. Your head is spinning with fear and anxiety. What he’ll say, what he’ll do. How you could possibly damage control this.

“I-I don’t even know how he found out where I work,” you say, “and Soap w-was just trying to help. If I’d known that would happen, I would have taken it outside.”

You can barely look at Price as your voice break midway through, the panic leaking into your tone even as you stay frozen in place.

“Did we – is he suing? Is – is that why—?”

The tears escape despite your efforts, dripping fast and down your cheeks as you shudder in a breath. You can’t pay for a lawsuit, especially not if you’re fired over this. And you don’t want to lose this job. You love this job, you love—

“Oh, darling, what a mess you’ve made of yourself.”

You sniffle as Price rounds his desk and kneels in front of you, plucking his handkerchief from his breast pocket. He tuts at you when you open your mouth to protest, already blotting at your cheeks with a surprisingly gentle touch.

“There now, no need to cry,” he soothes, thumbing away another tear before it can fall. “I know it takes you ages to get your eyeliner right. This is nothing to ruin it over.”

“But…”

“I’m not angry, luv,” he continues, voice still low and quiet. This time, it doesn’t make your shoulders tense. “Wasn’t before and definitely not now. Chin up, there’s a dear.”

“Y-you’re not?” you warble.

“Not a bit,” he answers. “Not at you, at least.”

“Then why…?” You gesture weakly at the computer screen.

He sighs, something almost fond passing over his face. “Darling, you could have been hurt. Imagine if Soap hadn’t been there. All of us on the top floor, waiting for you to get back, not knowing something was wrong.”

He shakes his head, cradling your cheek with the same hand that brushed away your tears.

“You’re one of mine, you understand? Anything that happens to you is my responsibility,” he explains. “And I didn’t… enjoy that you want to keep something like this from me.”

You drop your eyes in shame. Of course. An employee assaulted on company ground, his personal assistant no less. Price would never stand for that sort of thing. He looks out for his own, looks out for you.

“Hey, look at me, luv. None of that now,” he coaxes. “I just want to get to the bottom of why you didn’t want to tell me.”

It occurs to you that that tone you heard earlier might have just been genuine worry and maybe… a bit of hurt. You twist your hands in your lap as you gather your words.

“I didn’t… it wasn’t because of you,” you murmur. “I just… was so embarrassed. And I didn’t want to make it your problem. I’m supposed to make your life easier, not harder.”

He huffs, but you’re relieved to see wry amusement on his face now.

“No more of that,” he orders, as softly as he when he wiped your face. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a love.” He gently pinches your cheek, then stands. “Stay here, I’ll get you a cup of water. Take a moment, yeah?”

You nod, sniffling again. He squeezes your shoulder as he passes, and you finally let yourself breathe. Not getting fired, not getting sued. And Price isn’t mad at you. Christ, he needs to work on his approach.

“Kyle.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Look into that knob from lobby. And the little miss’s last boss.”

“You’ve got it.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #mafia!au #oddly wholesome for a mafia au #mafia boss price #assistant!reader #assistant reader #john soap mactavish

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vnards · 1 month

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Mafia!141...

Ghost sat in the back corner of the diner. It gave him the best overlook of the room he needed to scout the place out. The diner wasn’t anything fancy. Small mom and pops shop that still held on the ‘50s service style and appearance. But that wasn’t the real reason why Ghost is here.

The diner was on the edge of the city, a previously agreed upon location that the authorities don’t look at often when shady deals need to be made. The perfect place for a meeting.

The meeting wasn’t for a few more days, but Ghost had orders. And Ghost always follows orders.

It was moderately busy for lunch time on a random Tuesday, half the booths filled with couples or groups being served and workers buzzing about, a well-run machine. There wasn’t really anything for Ghost to note.

Except you.

A younger waitress, post-college age, fidgeting with the uniform’s apron when you’re not taking orders or delivering food. Mingling with the customers in your section, cracking smiles and laughs. Possibly to get a better tip. You moved like a current.

If Ghost wasn’t playing close attention, he would’ve mistaken you as a manager or even hostess. But from the way the cooks and other waiters had silently corrected you when you made a misstep occasionally, he could tell you were still learning. Pretty thing.

“How are you doing over here, sugar?” You came to check on him again, so diligent and attentive. So eager to speak to the boogeyman.

It’s been a while since someone approached Ghost with as much enthusiasm as you do. Maybe since Johnny. If you were scared, you hid it from him so well. Ghost was dressed down, trying to blend in as much as his large frame would allow, with only a black face mask on and hoodie up, his cropped blond hair hidden under. “Could I get another refill, doll?”

A color grew on your cheeks, but you still gave a good effort to hide it from him, “Sure thing,” You picked up his beverage and headed back towards the kitchen. Ghost was unable to avoid watching you.

How you moved. How you smiled. How you laughed.

It made him want to know how you smell. How you taste. A hunger began to simmer in Ghost’s chest.

Ghost scolded himself for thinking about a waitress in a random diner. He should be paying attention to everything but you. He scanned the diner once more, taking note of how many exits were there, how many people were working at one time, how many parents and their kids ate here. Ghost was already visualizing the meeting and how it would go, even a backup plan if things went south.

Ghost’s fingers tapped on the table, the gears turning like a well-oiled machine. Like he’s done this a thousand times before. Because he has done this a thousand times before.

“Here you go!”

Ghost’s fingers stuttered...

More to come~

next part

Masterlist

#mafia!141 #mafia!au #cod #captain john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #poly 141 x reader #vnardshoard

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cinnamon-stixs · 14 days

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'Kinger, do you think we're soulmates in every universe?'

'I hope so.'

(AUs in order:

Vampire AU by me

RPG AU by me

Mafia AU by @laweonakenny

Kinger's royal soap opera by @ominus-potato

Terrible AU by @obamerzslop

Unstable AU by @googleyeyedstarz)

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oceantornadoo · 4 months

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my masterlist💖

mdni!

welcome to the feral things that come from my brain :) feel free to request a trope!

i use #tornadothoughts for all my drabbles and fics and #tornado speaks🙊 for random thoughts

do not repost my work without credit :)

all fics are f!reader unless specified

simon riley (smut):

the man next door (each post is a diff universe)

fluffy simon riley:

mafia au!simon riley (arranged marriage)

johnny mactavish

kyle garrick

enemies to lovers drabble

john price

tired of everyone but you

pad shopping

ghoap x reader

gazs perspective (drabble)

jealousy, jealousy

gender neutral fics (simon riley)

two lieutenants series (simon riley x f!reader)

ts lyrics and the 141

renegade (simon riley x reader)

ttpd headcanons (any 141 member)

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flipphone01st · 2 months

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This probably isn't an original thought, but imagine for a second if you so please. Mafia 141. Price is the boss ofc, he owns a big big big club and a bunch of other things and he's filthy rich. Johnny and gaz are bartenders at the club and ghost is a bouncer. they are all also involved with Price's Mafia stuff they just do the previously mentioned stuff as like a side thing, you know? Now enter reader...poor poor reader. They or a relative get in trouble with price, having to pay a big debt or something but of course they can't pay for some reason, so instead, price makes them work at the club, no pay. Could be another bartender or a performer (like singing not the other thing you freaks 눈⁠‸⁠눈⁠). But now listen closely. At first the boys are like "look at this fuckin loser." About the reader and then after a little while they're like "...look at this fuckin loser." BUT AFFECTIONATELY! While the reader is just trying to get this shit over with. Thoughts????

#cod mw2 #cod au #mafia au #task force 141 #captain price x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #gaz x reader #soap x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #Mafia 141

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sadist1224 · 2 months

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I need the Mafia!141 AU

I just want one more Mafia!141, but where you are not a sweet helpless girl, but a junior police lieutenant who was not accepted back into service due to injury.

And so you work in a bar that belongs to Valeria, and you don't give a shit who's a thug or not, but at some point you find yourself involved in this cycle of mafia events between gangs 141, CorTak, Los Vaqueros, Shadows and Connie, although you are essentially a civilian.

But instead of being a victim, you, as a former policeman, begin to nightmare overconfident mafiosi, defend your point of view and protect ordinary civilians from them.

Of course, you attract their attention, especially 141, who dragged you into this mess.

Sop and Gaz, who come to your bar for the first time, see you and go to greet you with a happy face, and you point guns in their faces, because WHAT the HELL do they think they can just kidnap you to blackmail your idiot ex who dared to steal money from them.

Sop and Gaz, who liked you right away, are still tied up in a chair, and they didn't mean you any harm, but work is work and now they're trying to make amends.

Imagine the faces of Price and the Ghost when Johnny and Kyle tell them that they met you at the bar behind the counter, and the men's eyes immediately light up with interest, because this is Valeria's bar, and she is still a dark horse.

Of course, they are setting up surveillance on you, but you are not blindly sewn, so you literally burst into Price's office and poke him in the face with this espionage. Your threats don't sound so impressive to him, but your sharp angry look and tough stance ignite something in him that he has long forgotten about. And he agrees to stop the surveillance, but in return he sends his boys to follow you.

Since then, there has not been a day when b 141 has not appeared in your bar. Of course, it annoyed you, but then you resigned yourself to working in a bar and helping those in need.

At some point, Joni brings Alejandro and Rudy to the bar, and Valeria is not happy about this, but you calm her down, saying that you keep everything under control.

Johnny, who quietly boils with jealousy when you respond to a light flirtation of Mexicans, but you only give him an angry look.

Kyle, who arrives a little later and finds Sope smoking at the entrance with an offended expression on his face.

And you see the upset expression on the face of the man with the mohawk, and the way Gaz gently rubs his shoulders, trying to cheer him up, and your heart thaws a little bit.

Johnny is ready to blow something up with happiness when you secretly send these two two stacks of whiskey on the house. The smiles on their faces are so bright, like children's, that you can't take offense at these two anymore. But this does not mean that you have posted a Price List or (even more so) A ghost who tried not to contact you at all.

A ghost who already knows where you live, what you drive, what kind of coffee you prefer and what books you read.

A ghost who actually feels sympathy for you for the strength of your character and a moderately kind heart, but he also thinks that you obviously like Gas and Soap more than he does, so he does not want to get into your fragile relationship with his subordinates, for fear of breaking everything.

A ghost who refuses Johnny to go to the bar with him until the last moment, but eventually breaks down when Sope talks about his favorite bourbon, which you ordered just the other day.

A ghost who sees no point in giving flowers, preferring something more practical and necessary for you. Therefore, by the end of the evening, he imperceptibly leaves you a generous tip, knowing what a precarious economic situation you are in, and that you will obviously refuse them if you are given them on purpose.

Price, who has been trying to get information about you all this time after you appeared in his office, but apart from your date of birth, place of birth and place of study, he can't find anything, even with his connections, so he considers you "clean".

Price, who is so intrigued by their new friend from the bar that he sets up a business meeting with Los Vaqueros in it, making a new secret gathering point out of your place of work.

Needless to say, Valeria was not happy about it? But she does not blame you in any way, because you are almost her sister, and if she could, she would have made you her right hand in her underground business long ago, but you deliberately ask not to involve yourself in this.

The bar where you work unwittingly becomes a neutral zone, and the bar area becomes Valeria's area, which means your area. And now you are unwittingly responsible for its inhabitants. But you agree to this, because these people - your neighbors and friends - have become your family and you will do everything to protect your small area from mafia groups and keep peace in it.

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nekronyancer · 1 year

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Enemies to lovers? Mafia AU? Suits and blood? Gun/knife play? Anyone? Only me? Okay. 🧍

#cod fanart #cod ghost #cod mw2 #cod mw2 fanart #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare ghost #modern warfare ii #simon ghost riley #fanart #ghoap #cod soap #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #soapghost #macriley #mafia au

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sabrielmoose · 8 days

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I had the best dream ever and now it got me thinking.

09 MafiaAu w/ Mob boss!Soap and stripper!Ghost

MacTavish who always frequent this one club where Riley works at.

There’s a dancer there called Ghost, who is the star of the show, his performances always sought after, known for both his mask and bratty behaviour.

Of course Ghost had to tease MacTavish the minute he noticed the man watching his performance, practically grinding the pole and making sure to show off his flexibility.

Or bending over way too far for the size of the skirt he has on when serving them drinks, making sure the Don can see the arch of his back as he pours more scotch into the glass. It always leave MacTavish hot and bothered and Ghost with way more tips than he usually make in a month.

Of course MacTavish notices when he’s getting teased and after weeks of the same thing over and over again he had enough.

So the next time Ghost gives him a performance in the private VIP sector, grinding into the pole a bit too much, MacTavish practically pulled him down the stage onto his table and proceeded to bend him over the low table and fuck the brat out of him.

Then he patted the man on his ass when he pulled out of Riley’s wrecked and sloppy cunt and sent him to get MacTavish some more drinks, watching Ghost stumbled away with shaky legs and his cum still dripping out, no longer misbehaving.

(Lmao can’t be bothered to write smut so have that instead. I might expand on it later. If you want to write something about this pleaseee tag me, just so I can read it too lol).

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cordeliawhohung · 4 months

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okay, here's the better run down on mafia!Soap as promised (as well as his fem!nurse!Reader gf <3)

like it's sorta referenced in canon, Soap is the youngest of Price's closest circle. he used to do freelance work as a programmer/hacker and got hired by the wrong crowd trying to steal some of Price's information. impressed, Price actually offered the man a job and he took it mostly because Price paid better. stayed because he also grew to like the man.

people legit call the man Soap in this universe too because he can clean hardware and information like no one's business. otherwise, they'll just call him by his last name or Johnny.

has an odd dynamic with Simon in this universe. more of like his annoying little brother than a good friend. they get along fine, but they don't really interact much outside of work. he's actually really close friends with Kyle, though. the two play games together sometimes, and Soap of course teaches him how to torrent games because fuck activision <3

he's got a few piercings. simple ear lobe piercings that he usually wears simple studs in, but he also has a tongue piercing. just the classic, straight through with a simple bar. he got it because he's a fucking munch

i feel like he wouldn't get many more tattoos than what he already has in canon ngl. if he does, they're def something stupid as fuck that have no meaning. something he probably got due to a dare, or while he was insanely inebriated.

he also doesn't have as many scars as he does in canon. certainly not the one on his chin. he def played football when he was younger, and still likes to play skirmishes every now and then. he also lifts on the regular. sure, he's tech savvy, but he goes fucking insane having to sit around too much, so going for a run or hitting the gym is a really good way to get his energy out!

while he doesn't have too many scars, he still is getting himself hurt a lot. not because he's clumsy or anything, he just really, really, really wants to ensure that something gets done right whenever he's sent out to do "field work." usually ends up with a TBI because of it lmfao.

and that's actually how the two of you met (:

being an ER nurse, you saw a lot of weird shit at the hospital, especially on day shift. then you had this loud man with a huge gash on his head and a suspected concussion roll through the door and honestly you're just glad it wasn't another damn car accident. you were tired of looking at compound fractures.

Johnny is just a fucking loon. literally acting inebriated, and poor Kyle is trying to prevent him from saying anything too stupid.

it doesn't work

at first you have a hard time telling if he's being a creep or not. commenting on your scrubs, how he likes the color, but honestly you've heard worse. but it is sort of cute. he's so loopy he's got this dog-like excitement to him and has a hard time focusing on anything in particular. it's more innocent than anything else.

he falls in love with you the moment you bring him a snack (some shitty and dry saltines and a cup of water). he devours one of the crackers like it's crack and thanks you with his mouth half full.

that's when he gets the bright idea to give you his number. a simple thanks isn't enough for the kind gift you've given him! he's got to let you know that he's down to do anything for you! so if anyone fucks with you, if you need someone taken care of give him a call. he won't ask any questions!

kyle is fucking mortified, hiding his face in the corner of the room, but you just smile and kindly take the piece of paper with his scribbled number.

of course you don't actually text or call him. he was a patient of yours, and that's just breaking so many rules! and you certainly don't need anyone to be taken care of. so you leave it be. despite how adorable his loopy smile was or how pretty his eyes were or... christ, you need to throw that scrap paper away.

and Johnny? well, he forgets all about you. not on purpose or anything, the poor man was hardly conscious when he met you, and he only interacted with you briefly. so imagine his surprise when him and Kyle are out on the town and the man points you out to him asking if you ever ended up texting him.

Johnny is fucking confused. why would she text him? (you gave your number to her, idiot) oh. that can't be. (why not?) because he would have fucking remembered if he had given his number to a girl that beautiful.

now he wants to figure out why you never texted him ):<

anyway there's more to this but my shift was long and my brain is frozen from the fuckin -31 degree weather we got so <3 enjoy lore about the idiot

#mafia!soap #mafia!johnny #mafia!141 #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader

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charliemwrites · 3 months

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Mafia!au part 5!

A bit of fluff, a bit of drama, a bit of Soap!

“Gooood morning, sir!” you sing as you sweep into Mr. Price’s office. “And happy birthday!”

His head shoots up from whatever he was brooding over, brows arched high in genuine shock. Surprise is a good look on him.

“How the bloody hell did you know it’s my birthday?” he demands, sitting back in his chair.

You beam, sauntering right up to his desk. His eyes flick to the round white box balanced on top of your tablet. Nothing big, a little something you baked at home after a couple dissatisfying trials.

“It’s my job to know,” you reply easily.

He blinks– a habit you flatter yourself thinking he might have picked up from you. “What else do you know about me?”

You tilt your head at him, a smug curve to your lips.

“Just the basics. Your full name and birthday,” you demure. Hold up your free hand and start rattling off on your fingers. “Height, allergies, tea preference, pastry preference, blood type, drink of choice…”

You set the box in front of him and resettle your tablet in the crook of your arm. He stares at you for a beat, expression bleached from surprise to outright shock. You spin your stylus around your fingers.

“Which is why I made you a marble cake with whiskey instead of rum.”

His eyes lock onto the unassuming white box. It’s not a big cake by any means, about six inches in diameter and only one layer. Just a small something for Price to have for himself. God knows the rest of the boys (and Farah) get enough treats from you as it is.

“You made this?” he asks, leaning a bit forward.

“Yessir,” you declare, “and I’m pretty good at it too. Perks of stress baking.”

He runs a hand down his face, as if his beard got ruffled. “Christ, you need a raise.”

“Yes. Anyway – I’ll get you a plate after I’m done,” you say, swatting at his curious hand. He huffs but sits back to give you his full attention. You smile in reward and begin reciting his schedule for the day.

He listens, only interrupting when he needs clarification on little details. You try not to be too endeared by the way his eyes occasionally flick to the covered cake. When you finish, you twitch your nose at him knowingly.

“I’ll get you a plate before I get started on that expense summary,” you say, turning on your heel.

You hum in surprise when a large, calloused hand catches your wrist. It’s not the hand of a businessman, you think, but a man used to work. A man who does the hard things for himself. Before meeting John Price, you would have scoffed at the thought of a rich man knowing labor. Price though… well, he’s been proving to be a welcome exception since the very start.

“Thank you for this, love,” he says, voice hitting that tone and pitch that makes your insides squirm. He caresses his thumb over the tender skin before releasing you. “Really.”

You can already feel the blush climbing up the back of your neck, over your ears, creeping onto your cheeks. Can’t ever catch a break with him.

“Well, don’t thank me ‘til you’ve tried it,” you try to deflect.

“Weren’t you the one saying you’re decent at baking.”

“Yeah, well… maybe I poisoned you or something – for that time you closed my skirt in the door.”

He sputters a bit. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from giggling at the indignance on his face. Such a handsome, almost regal man. You love to rile him up.

“I apologized. Profusely.”

And offered to buy you a new skirt entirely. The way you’d shrieked that that was not an appropriate response made Soap choke with laughter as people stared.

“Yeah, well, I hold a grudge,” you reply, shrugging.

It’s true, but not about things like that. Graves and his assistant? Oh, that’s practically a blood feud at this point. A silly little accident where your boss left a crease in your fourth favorite skirt? That’s not even something to forgive him for, but you sure as hell will never forget. Especially when he still seems mildly sheepish about it.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” he grumbles. You’re not sure if he’s talking about grudges or poisoning, but the dramatics finally make you laugh.

“But I could be the last,” you call over your shoulder as you flounce out.

Not for long though, returning with a disposable fork from the breakroom. There’s something amusing to only you about a man in a thousand-pound suit using cheap plastic.

“Come to see me keel over for yourself, then?” he asks.

“Well, I can’t have you getting cake crumbs on the expense reports,” you reason.

He’s already got the lid open. No icing on the cake – you’re shit at decorating, so you chose a recipe without icing. The flavor of the whiskey and sugar should be plenty. To make up for it, you folded a tiny placard and wrote “Happy Birthday, Boss!” in your best loopy cursive.

He takes the fork, fingers brushing yours in the process. You remind yourself not to snatch your hand away like a scandalized Victorian lady. Christ, you really need to get it together.

“Tell me how you like it,” you say, making to leave again.

“Come try it yourself,” he protests.

You pause, give him an amused look. “I didn’t actually poison it, sir. You’ve not done anything that heinous. Yet.”

He snorts, carefully digging out a respectable bite from the edge. “If you see fit to toss a little rat poison in, then I’ll likely having it coming.”

You hum. “Arsenic is more my style. Classic.”

In the corner of the room, Simon makes a little noise you’ve come to recognize as repressed laughter. You shoot him a quick, amused look, before shifting your attention back as Price gestures with the fork.

“Regardless, you should get a little taste of the fruits of your labor,” he offers.

The fruits of your labor, you think with a bit of regret, will be his enjoyment of your baking. You’re not sure when his admiration became your favorite part of the day, but you’re spoiled for positive feedback from your otherwise stern boss.

“You first,” you insist, “it’s your birthday after all.”

He keeps unnerving eye contact as he brings the bite to his mouth, tongue flicking out to catch any spare crumbs. He hums, eyes closing a for a second in enjoyment, before opening and fixating on you again.

“That’s bloody brilliant, love.”

He scoops up another piece, brings it right to your mouth. You hurry to put a hand beneath in case it falls; don’t even think before parting your lips. Sugar and whiskey, chocolate and vanilla, burst across your tongue.

“Oh!” you hum, hiding your mouth while you chew. “That is pretty good.”

It only occurs to you as he takes another bite for himself, a twinkle in his eye, that you just ate after him. Used the same fork like it was nothing, like that’s an acceptable thing to do as his assistant. You’re not squeamish by any means, no. It’s just… it’s gotta be crossing some sort of professional line. You can’t imagine any of your previous bosses ever sharing with you like this.

“Let me tell you, if you did poison it,” he muses, “I wouldn’t mind it being the last thing I ate.”

You roll your eyes, swat lightly at his arm again. “I told you; it’s not poisoned.”

“I know, you just took a bite,” he answers smugly.

You click your tongue at him, playing at exasperated. “I’m going to work now.”

“Ta, love.”

“Oi, li’l miss?”

You glance up at Soap curiously.

(Recognize, in the back of your mind, that it’s a nickname that’s not only spread – thanks, Simon – but that you’re responding to as quickly as your own name now. You should probably feel some type of way about that. Probably righteously annoyed or something. You don’t.)

Soap is standing at your desk, shifting from foot to foot. Uneasy. But the expression on his usually friendly face isn’t nervous. It’s… something else. Something you don’t know how to decipher but makes you sit up a bit straighter, alert.

“What’s up, buttercup?” you ask, voice light.

“There’s some bloke down in the lobby, says he’s got a date with you?” he explains, frowning deeper than you’ve ever seen.

It gets deeper – and angrier – when he sees the blood drain from your face. You push your chair away from your desk to hide the tremble that’s trying to infest your hands.

Absolutely not. This is your place of work, dammit. Where you’re calm and collected, the person anyone can turn to for solutions. You’ve worked so hard to craft this sleek vessel of professional grace and you’re not about to have it sullied like this.

“He does not have a date with me,” you state, keeping your voice flat and tight. “Would you come down with me, please?”

“’Course,” he replies instantly.

You stop by Price’s office, knock twice, then poke your head in when he calls for entry.

“I’ve just got to pop out for a mo’,” you explain, “I’ll be right back!”

He nods and you duck out again before he can notice anything amiss. For a rich bastard, he’s too observant of others. (Especially you.)

“What’s he here fer, then?” Soap asks in the elevator.

You let out an annoyed puff of air. “A reality check, I assume.”

He side-eyes you but doesn’t ask any further before the doors open.

Sure enough, standing in the lobby, is the last man you want to see. Your ex, Brandon.

“There you are, bunny. You’ve been keeping me waiting for—”

“One, do not call me that. It’s inappropriate,” you interrupt, crisp and sharp. “Two, I haven’t been keeping you waiting, because there’s nothing to wait for. Three, get out.”

He rolls his eyes, that smarmy curve to his lips never leaving. You don’t think he’s even noticed Soap just behind you yet.

“Look, I know you’re still in a mood about everything,” he says, “but that’s why I’m taking you out. To smooth things over. Clear the air, and all that.”

“You’re not taking me out,” you repeat. “Get out.”

He crosses his arms, tilting his head in that condescending way you’ve always despised. It sets your teeth on edge, makes you burn with anger.

“This isn’t your building,” he goads, “you can’t kick me out.”

“Might as well be hers, mate,” Soap interjects, “she could kick out the goddamn queen.”

Brandon’s focus shifts to him. You feel a curl of vindictive satisfaction when his expression curdles a bit. Soap may not be a particularly tall man, but he can be intimidating. Built thick and strong, doesn’t bother to conceal his physique at all with his sleeves rolled up his forearms. And you’re not oblivious to his looks either. Soap is a handsome man. A walking ego bruise for a man like your ex.

“Fine,” he huffs, “then come outside so we can talk like adults.”

You click your tongue, fold your hands behind your back to conceal the way your fingers clench into fists. “We did talk like adults. You just failed to listen like one.”

And ohhhh, the petty satisfaction that bubbles through you at the way his teeth click in shock, a flush of embarrassed anger curtaining his face.

“Now, I’ll ask one more time and then my coworker is going to toss you out himself.” Soap chooses that moment to crack his knuckles. “Leave this building. You’re not welcome.”

You drop your arms and turn on your heel, ready to get back to work and compartmentalize this until you’ve got a fuck-off sized glass of wine in front of you.

“Hey, we’re not—”

Even if you did see what happened, you don’t think you could have followed. It happens so fast. One second, Soap’s eyes are on you. Burning with questions and fury on your behalf, checking that you’re okay. The next, he’s darted past you. There’s a scuffle, fancy shoes squeaking on polished floors, a thick, wet pop. Then Brandon is shouting in pain.

You jump, twist to see what the commotion is. Soap’s got a white-knuckled grip on Brandon’s extended wrist – though now it’s bent at an awful angle, you realize he must have been reaching for you. Your skin crawls.

“Away ‘n bile yer heid,” Soap growls, shoving Brandon back roughly.

He doesn’t fall on his ass but it’s a near thing. With the eyes of reception, a few employees, and you on him, he spits a curse at Soap and retreats. You stare after for a moment, lips parted in shock.

“All set, miss?” Soap asks, adjusting his sleeves.

“Um, yeah,” you say. Blink and pull yourself together. “I mean, yes. Let’s head back up before the boss misses us.”

He places a hand on the small of your back on the short walk back. It feels grounding rather than proprietary; you’re grateful for it. He lasts until the doors close before turning to you.

“The hell was that about, lass?”

You sigh, smooth your skirt down for lack of anything else to do. “That was my ex. He wants to… reconcile, I suppose. And he’s quite keen on getting his way.”

Soap mutters a few choice words under his breath. Scottish slang, you suspect. You’ll have to get him to teach you sometime.

“Anyway, thank you for your help,” you continue, eyes on the elevator doors. “I can’t believe he showed up here. I’m so embarrassed.”

“You’ve nothin’ to be embarrassed about, hen,” he protests. “He’s the creeper here.”

You sigh. “I know, I just… you don’t think less of me, do you? That I didn’t… take care of him myself.”

Soap’s expression softens. He draws you into a quick one-armed hug. “You did take care of ‘im, far as I’m concerned. I was just there to enforce. No need to mess up yer pretty nails, aye?”

You smile, small but genuine. “Thanks, again.”

“Anytime, li’l miss.”

The elevator chimes as it reaches the top floor. You turn to Soap just before the doors open.

“Oh, and please don’t tell the boss.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #mafia boss price #mafia!au #assistant!reader #oddly wholesome for a mafia au #john price x reader #john price #john soap mactavish

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vnards · 2 days

Text

Mafia141 p.4

The boys react quickly, like they’re trained to do. You don't.

Ghost is able to tackle you to the ground before bullets start flying through the windows.

The sound of gunfire and glass shatters the peace, a familiar ringing to everyone but you. One moment you're focused on not spilling anything, now, with the mugs shattered on the floor, a heavy weight on top of you, and loud shots piercing in the air, you felt like you couldn't breathe.

The bullets seemed endless, embedding themselves in the walls and booths. Another body covered you, keeping your face pressed to the floor. There was crying. It’s coming from you.

After what felt like minutes, the shooting stopped.

Silence followed.

“Sit rep.”

The body above you finally lets you lift your head. You look around to see the diner in carnage. The plush in the booths were torn and shredded, some of the stuffing still hovering in the air. Everything glass on the counter were shattered. The cold wind came in through the broken windows.

“Good here.” A voice broke through the ringing in your ears.

“Johnny?”

“A'm right here.” He grumbled. There was a string of words that sounded like cursing.

Your heart is still pounding like a mallet as the boys around you began to get up.

You were being moved before you could even realize it. You were being lifted in the air and back on your feet like you weighed nothing before you could get your bearings. Simon’s eyes scanned you over as you were finally able to start moving your tongue again “W-what-“

“Gaz, secure the perimeter.” Movement followed his orders, one of your “customers” move to Simon's order. Your confusion is hard to hide. “Go get your stuff. We’re leaving.” You look around at the two remaining men left in the diner; Simon, his hand on your back, keeping you steady and Johnny, the Scottish man with a Mohawk and his white dress shirt bleeding across his peck.

“You’re hurt.”

Both men looked to where you pointed, Johnny grumbled under his breath, “Fuckers ruined my new shirt.” He poked at the blood, some coming off his hand as he examined it.

Something about seeing him bleeding shocks you back to life, “T-the first aid kit is in the back. I can-" you move to go retrieve it.

Johnny caresses your shoulder “It’s alright, little bird, it’s just a scratch. I’ll be fine.�� The vibrant blue in his eyes holds a boyish joy to them. “But I’ll never say no to you.” He winks.

The sudden flirtatious attitude from Johnny was whiplash compared to the carnage that surrounded you. “Not now, Johnny.” Simon scolded. It didn’t look like Johnny was sorry, “I gotta tell Price the meeting’s a bust.” He slides his phone out, trying how to not pissed the boss of about this. “Make sure she gets her stuff.” He was at least going to grant you that before bringing you into the mess that is tonight.

Johnny salutes, trying to break under the primal fear of the past few minutes that consumes you into being paralyzed in the moment. With Ghost and Gaz gone, it’s up to Johnny to keep you calm enough to not go into shock. His chest puffs up a bit, being given the opportunity to keep you safe and calm, but it’s not the time. “Actually, birdie,” Your eyes finally meet his, “I could use that first aid kit. Could you get it for me?”

A task. Something to help you move forward. You nod soundlessly and gave yourself a moment to calm your shaking hands, your barely controlled breathing.

First aid kit.

You enter the back of the room and head to the office where your stuff is. You’re mind is still a blank with static before you have a chance to realize you’re not alone.

Another weight, this time less gentle, slams you against the frozen storage and pins you there. The wind is knocked out of you as a body twice the size of you, unable to scream or cry in pain. “No one mentioned there would be a reward.” The stranger leered.

You try to speak again, but there’s a third body knocked into you. Your head is slammed against the door and everything hurts. You fall to the floor, no longer pinned against the cold door. Regardless, the world still spins.

You hear a struggle and the few moments of clarity you can get shows that Johnny is grappling with on the floor outside the office, his opponent in a headlock. The other man throws an elbow that connects and his grip falters, allowing him to get the upper hand.

The strange man swings again, this time an elbow to Johnny’s nose knocks off his balance, “You fucker!” He growls.

The larger man is able to tower over Johnny, taunting. You are so paralyzed in fear when you spot the shine of a barrel coming out.

A shot rings out. There’s yelling

When you open your eyes again, the body that was towering over Soap was toppling over, dead weight. The blood pouring out of the hole in his skull a shocking horror to you. You finally start to scream.

The darker skinned man came forward in your field of view, “You’re okay, princess, you don’t need to be scared.” Too late. You slip out of consciousness.

masterlist

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #cod #mafia!au #mafia!141 #poly 141 #mafia x reader

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celenawrites · 9 months

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The House of the Rising Sun - I

Summary -

Running to the enemy territory, asking for help was foolish.

It was even more foolish of you to think that their help will not cost you anything.

Note -

This is a first draft with minimum/no edits.

Updates will be slow due to a multitude of reasons.

No Y/N.

Reader is female, for the most part.

Chapter Summary -

You make a deal.

word count - 4.8 k

warnings - slow-ish build up, violent descriptions, threats, sexism, cursing, etc.

AO3 version

God, you were stupid.

You had been told so your entire life - by your parents for believing you will be the master of your own fate, writing your life the way you want it to be; by your peers for wishing something different because they couldn’t comprehend why you wanted to run away from such a lavish, fulfilling life; and by your ‘beloved’ for even thinking that you’d be anything more than a fever dream rendition of ‘50s Stepford wife that he would occasionally bring out to galas and parties in tight dresses that showed off your bosom a bit too much, hoping to curry favors with like-minded bastards who leered at you with heady eyes and hands itching to cop a feel of you.

You feel the shame that comes with making the wrong choice - you can feel your ears burn and your eyes sting with tears, can feel your tongue turn to lead and your mouth dry up as if it’s filled with cotton. You inhale deeply, and you feel your throat bob painfully as you greedily gulp in any amount of air you can get in the clammy warehouse.

It’s either this or getting locked in a cage forever.

You didn’t even think of making a getaway the moment those men decided to bind your hands tightly and covered your head with a sack, cutting off your connection from the outside world entirely as they abducted you, hoping to get high praise from their boss for such a pretty catch. You feel your spine creep up with goosebumps as their disgusting hands touch you and manhandle you, forcing you to lie down in what you assume to be the trunk of the car. The sack over your head does a good job at hindering your sight, making it impossible to note the car or its license plate.

You stay stuck, occasionally moving and bumping around in the claustrophobic space and you can only pray to God that you make it out of this ordeal alive.

For what feels like hours, you let your body sway with the movement of the vehicle and feel the extra tyres dig into your ribs at every bump or pothole, helpless to do anything at all. Eventually, the car comes to a stop and you are grateful that the constant moving and the smell of petrol didn’t make you spill your guts out in the back of the car, the sack over your head promising nothing but a pitiful death by choking on your own vomit.

The trunk is opened and you are pulled upright, and all you are thankful for is that you are out of that closed box of a space and you can finally breathe. You feel disgust at the sweat that coats you, but sigh out in relief as the soft breeze caresses your skin as it cools your body. You do not resist as you are forced to walk, hearing nothing but a few uncomprehensive murmur behind you as your ears buzz and your mind screams at you to RUN RUN RUN RUN RU-

You shove that line of thought somewhere back in your mind, somewhere unreachable because you know, you fucking know that if you even slightly move in a way that seems threatening, these guys will not hesitate to empty their guns into your body.

They just need an excuse for it anyway.

You have decided to not give them that.

You feel the creaky metal doors slam shut behind you, the noise reverberating in your ears; your lack of sight heightening your other senses, making you undergo a sensory nightmare of sorts as you try your best to survive in the unknown territory.

You come to a stop, and feel someone guide you with their hand over the small of your back - the touch nauseating you, flashes of unpleasant memories making you shiver in fear and rage, and it is almost enough for you to strangle the guy; if not for your bound hands and the threat of death imminent in the air.

One of the goons takes it upon himself to grab your arm, hard enough to dig it into your skin - a promise full of bruises and malice. Then he guides you roughly a few steps forward, before pushing you down on a chair. He unties your hand, and you barely get a second of soothing your reddened wrists before he’s tying you to the arms of the wooden chair with ropes that dig into you. He does the same with your legs, and it’s not long until your body is bound to the chair you’re sitting on. The ropes are thick, and you resignedly accept your defeat when it’s due - knowing that you clearly don’t have the strength to break out of your binds. You can only hope that these people at least have the decency to hear you out before they discard your body down the river.

You feel the gun press against your temple, the gunny sack over your head doing nothing to cushion the pressure on your head. You can only hope that the safety is on, or the guy with the gun is not too trigger happy. You don’t want to paint your brains out on the grimy floor anyway.

It’s just a precautionary measure, you console yourself.

You won’t get shot. Not yet.

You are disoriented by your surroundings when your sack is pulled over your head, exposing you to the people around you. The few white lights dangling over you blind you, and the ropes are already chafing against your sweaty skin, and the white bodycon dress sticks to you, already dirtied by the grime and the dust you have encountered along the way.

I must be a sight for sore eyes, you think sarcastically, blinking away the pain to take in the men standing before you.

You have heard of them. Of course, you have. You do not stay a part of your family without knowing about the infamous 141. The elite of the elite in the dark, dirty business your family partakes in. People rarely see them, some even wish on shooting stars to get a meeting of a lifetime with the members of 141 - some of the finest, richest men in England’s mafia. Almost all of the sea routes belong to them, allowing them to easily smuggle in arms, drugs and more into the Queen’s dear country. Allies of 141 benefit from their profits, and are even offered protection. Relation to 141 meant only one thing for people - pure, absolute power over everything.

Your father had once hoped to be a part of this organization. He had endlessly tried to impress them, wishing nothing more than a lick of the power they held in their scarred, steady hands - all of the lies, deceit and illusions failing him, as he ultimately couldn’t carve a place for himself in the group. This failure of his made him jaded, angry at the world and the rest of your family for this unfair transgression committed against him. Finally, he planned to use you as a pawn to expand his power, forging an alliance in marriage with an ally that has always served as a thorn in the side to the chagrin of 141.

Enemy of my enemy…

You partly blame them for your sorry state, half-heartedly wishing that they would’ve entertained your mercurial father for just a little longer so you could elope with your friends and leave the country, never to return. However, the thought of that madman having the power to influence all of England always left a bad taste in your mouth.

The men in front of you are the most powerful men in all of England. Possibly one of the most powerful men in the continent of Europe even. The four men are dressed to the nines, a stark contrast to the filthy warehouse you’re stuck in, and you cannot help but look up at them with aching eyes, staring at them in awe and reverence.

The man with the skull mask draws your attention first, leaning against a table you missed to take note of earlier. He’s dressed in all black - a black coat over a white shirt that hugs his wide shoulders tightly, and you cannot miss the brown holster against his hip, his hands in the pockets of his black pants. You cannot deny that you’re intrigued about him and all that he hides behind that mask of his. His eyes, looking like two brown dots from where you sit, size you up - highly alert and ready to swiftly get rid of you, if it comes down to it.

Your eyes shift a little to the right and you find yourself staring at a majestic man. He’s dressed in a three-piece, along with a well-groomed beard, and his dark hair is combed back, not a strand out of place. He’s old enough to be your daddy, but by God, he looks like someone who could ruin you. The men behind you bow down in reverence and you can only assume that he’s the ringleader of this circus show - a dangerous circus show where you’re most likely to lose your life.

The man standing to his right seems to look closer to your age - dark, tall, slim with a pretty face and full lips. His curly hair seems to have a mind of its own, letting a coil or two loose on his face, which he quickly tucks behind his ears swiftly. What draws you in the most are his eyes - dark and mischievous, carrying a brightness in them that you can only recall in childhood photos and you almost feel envious as your own has dulled down over the years.

And the man beside you speaks, “You alright?” and your concentration shifts to him. Your eyes widen a bit, surprised to not notice him before - with his accent and mohawk and kind eyes that crinkle a bit when he looks at you, his visage directly blessed by a Hellenistic deity whose name you have long forgotten.

You drop your gaze to look at your lap, embarrassment creeping up on you like invasive ivies - you probably look out of place, with your white dress and the way you gaped at them probably gave them something to laugh about after they’re done getting rid of your body today. You do not reply just yet, your hammering heart making it hard to focus on them and the barrage of questions.

You have been ill-prepared.

You ran away on a whim, with nothing but the bare necessities packed up. You had not expected to make it this far, straight in the heart of your mortal enemies’ lair. You had focused so much on leaving without a trace, that you had forgotten to cook up a half-baked story that could satiate the natural curiosity of the 141.

They have been something out of a fairytale for you, a fable used to scare people into subservience. And yet, these godly men stand before you, grace your unworthy eyes to admire their visage until you’re ultimately slaughtered like a lamb for wandering too deep into their territory.

You wait and in turn make the men around you wait for an answer - something, anything really; and with each second passing by, you cannot help but give into the panic that’s taking control of your frail body. Your lungs burn, and no matter how deeply you breathe, you just cannot seem to soothe the ache within you.

Maybe I’m having a heart attack, you think earnestly. If I die right this instant, I will not have to deal with my family. Or my betrothed. Or with 141.

However, fate has often been cruel to you.

The man with the mohawk notices your shortened breath, instantly alarmed at your worsening state.

“Oi, Ghost. Pass me the bottle”, he asks, and through bleary eyes you notice him catch a flying plastic bottle in his hands. With gentle fingers, he grabs your chin and tilts your head up until your eyes meet his. His fingers rub gentle circles into your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. He gently urges you, “Open ya mouth for me, hen. Drink up”.

Suddenly parched and unable to handle the multiple eyes on you, you silently comply as you tilt your head back and open your mouth. He gently presses the bottle to your lips, allowing you to take slow, sure sips from it. Some of it trickles down, wetting the neck of your dress but you can hardly care as you gently lean back as his fingers slowly play with your hair, sending pleasant tingles down your spine - almost enough to make you whimper in relief.

After a while, when he deems it enough, he retracts the bottle from you and caps it, putting it down near the foot of the chair. You compose yourself, silently berating yourself for letting these men see you at such a low point - so weak and vulnerable.

But no more of that.

The small reprieve offered by the man standing nearby gave you enough time to compose yourself - enough time to cook up a story that will save you from showing all your cards on the table. You can only hope that by the time you’re finished with this ordeal and have gathered enough resources, you can finally make your getaway far away from here.

God knows you’d kill for a vacation right about now.

Your eyes meet his again, and he smiles down on you kindly, deciding this is a good time as any to finally introduce himself to you.

“I’m Soap. Lassie, dae ye hev any idea aboot where ye’re?”

Weird name, but you nod your head nonetheless. You don’t know where exactly you have landed up, but you do know that you’re in their territory, with no allies to support you or protect you.

The very thought of it terrifies you.

“So, ye dae ken who 141 is?”, he asks again, and you nod your head in confirmation as you finally recognize his accent as somewhere from up north in Scotland.

“Why are you here then?” a deep voice with a Manchester accent asks you, and your eyes flutter across the room until they land on the masked man again. The distance along with his mask makes it near impossible to gauge what he’s thinking, how he’s looking at you - but you can wager a solid guess.

He’s probably looking at you with distrust, like you’re a skittering deer caught in headlights - about to run off to god knows where if given the chance. He’s thinking about how shady you are, how you need to be vetted before they even entertain you and your potential sob story or how he itches to shoot you in the head with the gun he has kept in his holster.

Frankly enough, you don’t give two fucks about his thoughts.

“You’re 141, and I have valuable information. Information that can help you gain access to parts of England you constantly fight over with other gangs”, you speak up, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear you. You are surprised that your voice doesn’t crack, your eyes don’t shy away from the heated look the skeleton-wearing man throws your way.

The leader straightens up, asking you what you have been dying to hear ever since you stepped foot in London.

Finally.

“And what do you want from us for that?”

“Protection.”

It isn’t long till you are untied from the chair by Soap, finally rubbing your raw hands - cringing at how your wrists ache and your feet are no better, but you leave them be. You thank him for untying you, finally ‘free’ to walk on your own as you are escorted by him and by his masked companion to a black Mercedes-Benz 200. Soap is kind enough to open the door for you, letting you sit at the back of the car. He closes the door and goes around the vehicle, finally taking his seat as the driver. You look out the window, wondering where the other man would sit - beside Soap or beside you.

Your query is answered when you hear the car door opposite to you slam shut, watching him warily as the hulk of a man climbs inside and adjusts himself, sitting carefully to not bump his head onto the roof of the Benz. The car hums to life as Soap finally inserts the key into the ignition, dabbling with the manual shaft and finally driving - enroute to a new, unknown destination.

The skull-face (a nickname your brain supplied you with) looks at you pointedly, and you finally look back at him after what felt like a millennia of him burning holes into your skull.

“What?” you snide, clearly with no energy or tact to be bashful around the man who is totally capable of breaking your bones with his bare hand.

He nods, and it draws your attention to the little blindfold he’s held in his hands.

You groan out, not ready to return to the shadows just yet.

“Not again”, you almost whine out, turning around so your back faces him and you wait for his deft hands to cover your world with darkness again.

“Gotta have to, love”, you hear Soap say as his steady hands steer the wheel around and work the manual shift to change gears, “Protocol says so. It’s just for newcomers, ain’t it, Ghost?”.

The man behind you grumbles but refuses to grace his partner with a response.

So he’s called Ghost.

You grumble slightly before crossing your arms like a petulant child, but not before making a sarcastic quip.

“If you’re going to get kinky with that blindfold on me, at least take me out to dinner first”.

You let out a sigh as you feel the dark piece of cloth tighten around your eyes, and you can hear Soap guffaw out loud.

“That’s a good one, lassie!”, he laughs, and you feel the car turn slightly as he drives on the road, feeling a few bumps along the way.

Ghost scoffs a little at your little snide - it’s lighthearted and breathy, and it seems like you may have just won the lottery by winning his approval.

It’s small but it’s a start.

“And if you’re worried about dinner”, Ghost speaks, and you jump slightly at the sudden sound he makes.

“If you survive the night, you might be able to get some after all”.

After what seems like a drive of thirty minutes, the car finally comes to a stop and you’re glad for that.

The silence had been comfortable, it gave you time to think and process all that has happened so far. But you’re also eager to get the blindfold off your face and finally see where these men have ‘escorted’ you to.

Feeling your anxiety, Ghost graciously takes off the piece of cloth over your eyes, and you blink dumbly, trying to get your bearings about you. He gets out of the car, before walking around it and opening your door for you.

What a gentleman.

You climb out of the vehicle, finally looking at what was in front of you.

Despite being a mafia heiress and witnessing luxury of all levels, you look at the mansion in front of you with a reverence unmatched - unable to believe that this is where one of 141 possibly lives here, or operates from.

The grandeur of this place is indescribable. The mansion is Victorian, and is surrounded by acres of grassland, laid with concrete routes that you’re currently walking on. There is a fountain across the main door of the mansion, and in the center of the water pool stands Aphrodite, her marble figure adding a touch of classicism to it. She looks serene, despite her residence being among the tumultuous water of a fountain. There are roses growing around the marble piece, surrounding the deity with color - almost as if these flowers have been planted as an offering to her.

It is a lovely sight. You wish you could look at her forever.

And yet you move onwards, leaving behind the goddess of love behind you, sneaking a final glance at her as the wooden door closes behind you.

There’s an ache that settles in the middle of your chest as you follow the two men inside, mourning your past and yet awaiting the future ahead of you.

The study room is majestic.

Walls are covered with shelves filled with thick books. You can recognize some of the classics kept there, mainly Russian literature that talked of death and human suffering. There is a red loveseat to your left, with a small coffee table with a glass top. And to your right, you can find a small cabinet, locked and untouched, as it collects dust in the large room.

You see the leader of 141, Jonathan M. Price, sitting in his leather chair, reading a file laid out on the oak table. He looks like he belongs here - regal and untouchable. And you almost feel out of place in your dirtied dress, and you’re certain that the sack over your head has messed up your hair now.

The fact that he looks attractive as fuck, sitting and reading with his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his strong arms, does not help you. At all.

You wait until he finally looks up and notices you standing between his men. He gives them a look, and they both leave you. You feel Soap gently pat your shoulder as he closes the door behind him, following his companion out.

“So, why should I not throw you out for the police to find you?”

That’s the first thing he says to you, his eyes scrutinizing you as he gets up from his seat, walking until he’s at most half a dozen steps away from you. One of his hands picked up the glass of scotch on the table, sipping it with narrowed eyes.

You gulp a little at the unspoken threat - at the hidden promise of delivering your body in pieces at the threshold of your childhood home, at the implication that if the next words that come out of your mouth doesn’t satisfy him, you won’t walk out of this room alive.

“I know how to help you. I promise. The information I have is valuable”, you speak, feeling your chest swell with pride when you don’t stutter your words, when you don’t cower in fear in front of the dangerous mafia leader, when you don’t get on your knees and beg him to spare you.

“And the price is what, protection? Do you think I’m daft?” he raises his voice, and now you cannot help but flinch a little.

“Take a gamble, sir. It won’t hurt to try someone new for change”, you bargain with him, hoping that he’ll take the bait. You’d both win if he did.

There’s silence in the air, and you take this as permission to present your case before your metaphorical judge, hoping to persuade him from not condemning you to death and striking his gavel down.

“Just once. Give me a chance this one time. I won’t let you down, sir”, you almost beg, and you see his eyes waver - just a little bit, and that is enough for you to keep going.

“I’ll tell you something that’ll help you out, and if I’m right, you give me a fair chance. Keep me here, safe and protected. And if I fool you….”, you feel your stomach drop as you finish:

“You are allowed to do whatever you wish with me”.

You wait now.

He doesn’t speak for a few moments, and your agitation doesn’t help your restlessness. Your leg bounces in its place as you look at Mr. Price, unsure of what is going on inside that dangerous, beautiful brain of his. And when you finally open your mouth to say something, anything really - he beats you to it.

“What’s your name, girl?”

Your brain struggles with the sudden interest in what you’re called, and you wait a beat too long to answer him with an alias(“Marie”, you call yourself and all Price does is look at you like he doesn’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth). That makes you look suspicious. Fuck.

But you have been suspicious all up to now, you might as well keep up for now.

Moreover, they’d get off your back when you prove yourself right.

Or you’d buy yourself just enough time to run away again.

You’ve been getting better at that now.

After you tell him all that you can, making sure to keep the more sensitive information under wraps for now - for everyone’s sake really, you look at him as Price nods, gently rubbing his forehead and now he looks almost forlorn, the stress of running an illegal empire taking a toll on his body and soul. He looks older now, frailer somehow - and in this moment, you almost feel sorry for him.

“Fine, I’ll entertain you for now”, he breathes out, and you almost find yourself crying from joy.

You almost contemplate getting on your knees and bowing down to him to show your gratitude, but you do no such thing. Instead, you offer him a small smile and you don’t fail to notice how he drinks it all up like heady ambrosia.

But his next words force you to stay on your guard:

“But if you do anything suspicious, make sure I don’t notice. ‘Cuz I’m not as forgiving as I look”.

Price quickly dismisses you, now tired and in no mood to entertain his new guest, as he calls upon one of the men from the warehouse to show you ‘your room’.

Kyle(That’s the name of the young, pretty man) silently escorts you to a room on the third floor of the house, and despite following your escort with sharp eyes as you take a note of everything that interests you or stands out, you still find it hard to memorize the layout of this place.

He stands before a teak wood bifold door, and he opens the door for you to walk inside. Before he leaves you to your devices, he kindly informs you, “Dinner will be at 8. It won’t be hard to find the dining hall”.

And then he’s gone.

He has been apprehensive about your provisional arrangements; you had seen the look he sent to his leader when Price asked him to show you the room you’d be staying in.

You know he doesn’t like it any more than you do, but you’re touched at the hospitality he’s extending towards you - a temporary white flag for the unstable truce you have established between yourself and 141.

You take in the room with a white bed and white sheets, with sparse decoration and a cleanliness you can never find in someone’s room.

So this is a guest room.

You find your bag to be there, and you wonder if Price or Kyle asked someone to leave your belongings here. The bag looks untouched for the most part, and the tightness in your chest lightens a bit at that.

You think about taking a bath and changing into the spare clothes you packed in the duffel bag in a hurry. You think about going out and exploring the place, thinking of all the secrets you can soak up into your being.

But you’re so tired.

The clock hanging on the wall tells you it’s a little past 6, and you have some time before dinner will be served. You think of your bruised body, and your sore wrists and the headache that’s blooming across your temples, about how hard it is to keep your eyes open and look around you.

You look at the soft bed, and think how it won’t be too bad to rest for just a little.

In the bed, under the soft covers, you think of everyone you left behind. Your power-hungry father, who is probably going off the walls, swearing to kill you with his own hands when he sees you next. Your ignorant little brother, who’s been sent to America to study business at Harvard. Your betrothed who has quite possibly become the butt of the joke overnight.

You are scared of how he’s feeling, about what he must be planning for you, should you ever make the mistake of returning back to him.

(You’d rather the 141 kill you and dump your body under the bridge, brutalized and scarred beyond recognition.)

And your poor mother, who will now deal with the repercussions of your actions.

For her, you cry.

fin.

NOTE -

*Reader doesn't use her real name, she uses an alias but it will be temporary and rare. (probably)

Also it was tougher for me to describe the places and furniture more than writing the overall plot, etc.

And I'm posting this late at night, so any errors are the responsibility of future Cel.

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dovabunny · 3 months

Text

My mafia au Fic ~ Debt ~ is now complete!

Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52835890/chapters/133643044

Art in poster used with permission from the iconic and angelic @wombywoo in her post 'Black Tie'🌻❤️

#john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #cod mw2 #cod mwii #ghostsoap #soapghost #my writing #mafia au #debt #fan fiction

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flipphone01st · 2 months

Note

PLEASE write the mafia 141 idea you posted🥺I'm in love with the idea so much already!!!

Mafia 141/Bartender reader- Part one

Johnny🧼

Mostly Johnny/reader in this fic, because ive decided to split this up into different parts that will focus on different characters Like part 2 could focus of Gaz/reader.

Warning: not proof read, bad joke, swearing, alcohol and smoking, Johnny is a lil shit, and pushy, poorly written accents, (if I forgot anything that could have a warning let me know )

this is literally my first time actually writing a full fic so it's probably mediocre, FEEDBACK AND CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS GREATLY APPRECIATED. Other then that I hope you enjoy :)

Stupid uncle, stupid debt, stupid bar. You hated this, but you suppose its your own fault. If only you had just closed the door when your uncle showed up at your door begging for help because he had gained massive debt to one of the most infamous crime bosses in the city... Johnathan Price...if only you had just said no and didn't drive your ass down to Price's club and demand to speak with him, didn't try and bargain for your uncle...maybe then you wouldn't be forced to work for the bastard...

Two hours...thats how much longer you'd have to spend standing behind this bar. You swear to god, if other drunk yells at you you'll shove a jigger down their throat, and your 'coworkers', if you could even call them that, weren't making your life easier. If anything they were hellbent on making it worse. "Yer lookin' a bit peely wally." Johnny chuckles while cleaning a margarita glass, it was just him today, said Kyle was off doing something for Price, you didn't want to ask what.

You glance up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion and slight annoyance "..huh?"

"Means you look like shite." He clarifies.

You sigh and stand up, nudging an empty box away with your foot "thanks... asshole." You grumble. He chuckles and raises his hands in mock surrender, "Awe come on, I'm just funnin' with ya. You look fine, a wee bit red in the face, but that's it." He grins, you didn't hate him, he could actually be quite hilarious sometimes... sometimes...You roll your eyes. He laughs and takes out a cigarette, lighting it up. "Ya want one?" He offers.

"no...I thought price didn't like us smoking around the drinks.."

"Aye, he doesn't." He shrugs, taking a drag of his cigarette. "but what ol Pricey doesn't know won't kill em."

"mm.." your nose scrunches in disgust at the smell. you take a small step away, not wanting the smoke to settle on your clothes. He blows smoke out the side of his mouth, away from you "yer no fun ya know that?" You scoff, "pft..I can be fun.", while crossing your arms, and leaning back against the bar with your lips shaped into a slightly grumpy pout. "Oh?" He chuckles again, leaning back against the bar himself "can ya? Let's see, tell me a joke."

you think long and hard "uuuuuuuuuuuh..ok I got one. What do you call a fake noodle?" Johnny squints his eyes "...what?"

"....an impasta..."

"..."

"..." You're both silent, completely silent.... just staring at each other...

"..." Johnny sighs "that joke was dogshite."

Your shoulders slump forward in defeat "I know." He chuckles, "Well at least yer aware." before taking another drag of his cigarette. before looking at you with the most smug grin you've ever seen "but that also just proved my point...yer no fun, pipsqueak."

"Pipsqueak?" You raise an eyebrow as your eyes narrow

"Yeah, you heard me. Yer a wee'un." He teased, god you wanted to whip that stupid grin off his equally stupid face. "you're not even that much taller than me."

"I'm seven inches taller than you." He points out.

"...nuh uh.."

"Fuck ya mean, nuh uh?" His eyebrows furrowed as he tries not to laugh, on the other hand, your brows furrow in annoyance. "I mean, nuh uh."

Johnny chuckles, and places his hand on top of your head. He then leans down, the tip of his nose almost brushing yours "dena it alllll ya want..." His eyes were locked with yours, the faint smell of cigarette smoke almost making you recoil in disgust. he leans even closer, you try and lean back but you're stopped by the bar. "...yer still a pipsqueak!" then ruffles your hair aggressively.

You slap his hand away, glaring at him while fixing your hair. "Jerk! Don't do that again." you grumble, and to make matters even worse, you feel your cheeks heat up a bit. "Awe, someone's all hot and flustered now." He smirks, giving you a small jab with his elbow "c'mon now, I was just joking around, relax."

You groan softly and roll your eyes, pushing him away and walking to the other side of the bar, trying to find anything that you could use to ignore him. Johnny grins, quickly putting out his cigarette and following after you "see! that's exactly what I'm talking about. Such a grump...don't tell me yer so boring that ya don't even like a bit of harmless flirting?"

"go away, Johnny." You don't look up from the drink you were pouring for a costumer "Aww, c'mon. I'm just tryna lift yer spirits." He wraps his arm around your shoulder "you like me don't ya?" He grins, not expecting a positive answer.

Your eyes widen and you move out from under his arm "no." Was your immediate response, your voice stern. Johnny grins wider and moves to stand right in front of you, leaning right up and practically invading your personal space. "Don't lie to me now. I bet ya daydream about me, don't ya? About all of us? Me and the lads, hm?"

Your face goes red "what?" He grins, almost deviously "you think I haven't noticed the way ya seem to float off into lala land while staring at me or Kyle work? When Simon's gotta rough up some jackass? Or even when price is literally just in the room with ya? Don't try to dena it, pipsqueak...just can't keep us all out of yer fantasies eh?" His hands slide their way onto your hips, he didn't seem to care about the bar patrons laughing and ooing, some even getting annoyed that the two bartenders were flirting with each other instead of enabling their alcohol addiction.

Your brain felt like it was short circuiting, it had become uncomfortably warm. If you were a truther..you'd admit that despite hating these four men...they were kinda hot. But you're a god damn liar and you'll be one till the day you die! "i-i!..no..no way!.. you're crazy! There's no way in hell id ever like any of you like...that.."

"Mm...sure... I'm definitely crazy." He leans even closer, his voice a whisper as he presses his body into you, the two of you basically chest to chest "...crazy about you." He leans down to try and steal a kiss, you're eyes widen comically large but thankfully before you could even react the gruff voice of Simon makes Johnny freeze just before his lips could graze yours "That's enough, you two 'er supposed to be workin, not swapping spit." He glares at Johnny, you didn't notice it but there was a slight hint of jealousy in his dark eyes... you didn't notice, but Johnny sure as hell did.

Johnny quickly backs up from you, and then looks at Simon with a smug grin on his face "Jeez... Yer no fun either, Si. We were just messin' around." Simon stares him down, not breaking eye contact with Johnny for a good two minutes, until finally letting out a deep sigh "just keep it outside of work..." then glances at you, "Price said you're free to go for today.."

You nod "uh..thank you." You awkwardly stutter, still trying to process what just happened and understand how it made you feel... were you embarrassed? Very. Were you necessarily uncomfortable?... strangely enough...no, you weren't uncomfortable. Simon nods then walks off into his little office behind the bar, Johnny watches him go, then his gaze wanders back over to you "Sooo, ya gonna head off then?"

"yeah.." you answer, somewhat shyly. Johnny nods, a quick look of disappointment on his face before he masks it with a smile "alright, then...have a good night, pipsqueak." He shrugs playfully, and begins walking off to serve a poor bastard that had been trying to order a drink for the past five minutes. ".. you too, Johnny.." you mutter while walking out from behind the bar to towards the break room to get your stuff and finally leave....what a weird ass day...

END OF PART ONE. Please let me know what you thought

#task force 141 #cod mw2 #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #eventual!gaz x reader #eventual!ghost x reader #eventual!price x reader #gaz x reader #ghost x reader #captain price x reader #mafia 141 #mafia au #soap x reader #soap mw2 #taskforce 141 #mw2 x reader #gn!reader

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