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galaxymacbeth · 5 months ago

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Gods of War

mm. what if, hear me out, the 141 were gods. and obviously, gods of war. and what if, hear me out, people try to give them a sacrifice?

cw: some gore, violence, kyle might be unhinged

Her pleads were drowned by chanting. Hands grabbed at her body, free from her dress since the morning when she had been dragged from her bed.

Her mother cried, hunched over the strong arm of her father as they watched her fight against the hands of the village elders’ sons. They knew it was coming, had been warned two nights prior that she had been chosen by the gods. The Gods. Her mother wailed but her father only tightened his grip as she plead for her life.

The dirt was wet, almost mud, and caked her legs, feet, and arms. Every time she slipped from one man’s grip, another would tackle her to the ground then hoist her into the air. Her screams echoed through the village, drawing out the folk so they could watch.

She had no idea when her dress had been torn from her, only that it was freezing and anyone within reach was touching any part of her they could. Some whispered words of prayer at her. As if the gods hadn’t spoken for her life.

Rope wound around her wrists and she begged. The man in front of her, the son of Elder Torsten, kept his eyes anywhere but on hers. His hair was caked in mud, having just tackled her to the ground, and his hands were bloody. Had she done that?

As the rope tightened, she pulled at it, causing him to step forward. She pleaded again, but he never lifted his eyes from her wrists.

She remembered him. They had been friends in their youth, exploring the woods around the village with the other children. She recalled the first time he kissed another boy and had hidden in her house for a week after his father found out.

A sharp command came from behind him, Tage she finally remembered, and he was ripped away so she could stare up at the son of Elder Asmo. The oldest elder. The one who’s word was final. Jarmo was his name.

His face was twisted in a sick grin and his hands gripped her biceps.

“Are you ready to die for your village?”

The other elders’ sons stepped away to reveal their fathers. All of them wore a look of pity, shame at having condemned her to death by proxy. All but Asmo. His face was hard and he had no pity for her. He had sacrificed his own daughter ten years ago to the same gods and never flinched as she screamed over the flames. They had survived the battle by the skin of their teeth. And the blood of their sons.

“You have been chosen,” Asmo boomed, “you will save your people, child.”

Her mother screamed again but it was shuddered by a hand over her mouth.

“We,” Asmo turned to face the gathered village, “are at war. Lost many sons, fathers, brothers,” he threw his arms out and spun slowly, “but we have heard the gods’ will.”

A young girl stepped forward, her face pinched and her mouth open. An older woman put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back with a shake of her head.

“The gods need a tribute.” Asmo’s arms dropped to his side as he turned to look at her. Quieter, just to her, he spoke, “you are their tribute.”

“Please,” she whispered, tears leaving clean paths of skin down her cheeks, “please, don’t.”

“It is not my choice, child,” his hand cupped her cheek, rubbing at the tears and smearing dirt across the skin again. His skin was rough, calloused and gross. She could see the glimmer of joy in his eyes. “The gods have decreed it.”

His voice boomed again, spooking her and earning a grunt from the elders and their sons.

Tage and Jarmo stepped forward again. Tage still never looked up at her. They took her arms and forced her to walk. Rocks cut into her feet, blood dripping onto the dirt as she stumbled to keep up with them. Forward motion kept her from digging her heels into the dirt to stop them.

Other elders’ sons were laying kindling delicately on the pyre she would burn on. One who was the youngest of the sons, Svend, glanced up at her. His eyes lingered on her breasts before flicking to her bare cunt. He was too young to have laid with one of the village girls. How lucky for him to get to leer at her as she was led to her death.

Jarmo hissed at him as he lingered too long and Svend scurried back to lay more kindling down.

She recalled that Jarmo had lead his own sister to the pyre ten years ago. Said nothing as she had her forearms cut to the bone and the fire was lit under her. Watched as she burned. Listened while she screamed.

The icy winds shifted. Kindling flew off the pyre and brushed against her legs. It comforted her.

Svend rushed after it, tripping over his own feet as he struggled to catch the bundle.

A sharp gasp came from the gathered villagers. Tage and Jarmo froze and she stumbled forward, out of their grasp. Her bound hands offered her no help as she fell to the ground.

“Wot’s this?”

Her head snapped up and the breath left her lungs.

Standing atop the pyre, one hand resting almost playfully on the hilt of a broadsword and the other leaning a forearm against the stake she was to be tied to, stood a man.

His chest was bare, though covered in scars and intricate tattoos. Low on his hips was a tartan kilt, something like the Northern men would wear. It was bright; orange red and blue mixing together to mimic the fire she was to burn in. At his hip hung a broadsword, hilt covered with a gilded cage.

Her eyes had barely made it to his face when he spoke again.

“Ahm no’ speakin’ another language, aye?”

She shook her head and took in the final pieces of his features. A proud stripe of hair centered his head, though it didn’t appear that he’d maintained it in a long while. His eyes reminded her of the sky right before a storm rolled in; dark but vibrant with the possibility of destruction. On his lips was a lopsided, dark grin and she could recognize her god when she saw him.

“Then wot is this?”

Casting a look around her, every head was bowed but hers. Even Asmo had collapsed to his knees and buried his face in the dirt.

“Looks like a tribute.”

Her head whipped to the left.

Atop a thatched roof stood another man. What little skin she could see was dark and his eyes were trained on Asmo. He wore leather plated armour and a hammer at each hip. From the distance, she couldn’t make out any of the details on the weapons or armour. But she could recognize her god when she saw him.

“Nah,” the Northern man shook his head, “tributes a’ taken on the battlefield. No’ at home.”

“Dunno, Soap,” her eyes snapped back to the rogue, “looks like one to me.”

A quiet hum came from behind her, but she dared not turn away from the two gods in front of her.

“Somethin’ tae say, elder?”

“F—for you, great warriors,” Asmo’s voice shook when he spoke but the intent was clear.

“I remember this place,” the rogue was suddenly beside her despite her never blinking, “more disgusting than last time I was here.”

The rogue crouched down to her, “well, most of it.”

“Oi, focus,” Soap snapped from atop the pyre. The rogue smirked, shooting the look to Soap, before standing back up.

“Tributes are warriors,” a new voice shook the earth as it rumbled, “they die in battle.”

Beside Soap stood a berserker. He was clad in a wolf skin, his shoulders almost too big to be covered by the flattened legs. A set of steel pauldrons capped his shoulders and leather crossed his chest to keep them in place. Some of his chest was bared and scarred as Soap’s was. On his back hung a shield with a greatsword at his side, a red gem resting in the hilt. His face was obscured. Though the wolf pelt hung on top of his head, a human skull was pressed to his face. She could make out the scar that ran from his neck, through his lips, and into the skull.

“And yet, I see no war.”

A hand brushed against her back and she let out a cry.

“I mean you no harm, little one,” he said.

The final man stepped around her and yanked a dagger from his side. One stroke had the ropes falling to shreds and he offered her his free hand.

He looked like a knight. Armour thick and clinking with each shift of his body and the wind. It was silver with delicate gold filigree carved into it. The armour reminded her of the king’s guard, though the current king favoured red and black and no one had seen a silver and gold knight for over three hundred years. For there was only one.

A pelt was draped over her frame as she took his hand and was guided to her feet. The rogue had removed his gloves and was tightening the pelt around her shoulders.

“Did we not make ourselves clear ten years ago?” The knight sheathed his dagger and the scabbard vanished into thin air. “Did the graves filled with the bodies of fresh men not heed you? Are you simply,” the knight stomped to Asmo’s form and pulled him to his feet by his hair, “stupid?” The elder screamed but the noise was cut short.

“Do you think you know better than the gods?”

“N—no! No, great warrior!” Asmo’s hands grabbed at his scalp and the knight’s armoured hand. The knight merely slapped them away and dropped the elder to the ground.

“Are you alright, dove?” The rogue pulled the hood of the pelt, a cat of some kind from the snout that fell over her head, up and smoothed the skin over her shoulders.

She nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady in his presence. In any of their presence.

“I remember you,” the knight scoffed, “I remember the cries of your wife. The look on your face. Do you remember what happened after the girl died?”

“Y-yes, sir, yes, great warri—” the berserker backhanded him to the ground again.

“What’d we tell ya?”

Asmo cowered under the skull’s hollow eyes, “it must be—”

“Battle.” The berserker stabbed his sword into the ground. Straight through Asmo’s thigh. “We don’t take innocent souls.”

“She...she fought,” Asmo cried, “she bloodied them!”

“An’ tha’ makes her a warrior?” Soap stabbed his sword through Asmo’s bicep. “Fought a battle, she did, but nae the kind like us.”

The rogue bundled the pelt around her tighter, almost as if he was trying to stop himself from leaving her side. Up close, she could see the iridescent filigree in his leather and the shimmering of the onyx hammers at his sides. They twinkled with power and she reached for his hand.

Gaz’s head snapped to look at her. His deep, brown eyes froze her entire body.

“Don’t tell me you feel pity for him,” he whispered, “don’t show him mercy.”

Her hand loosened in his grip and the hammers glitched blue.

A sharp, instant scream tore through the silence and the rogue pressed a wet hand to her cheek. Blood covered his armour, skin, and face. His hammers dripped with it.

Asmo lie, what little was left of him, on the dirt. Blood spilled from his neck into the crater where his head once was. Brain matter splattered over those close enough to watch the savagery and the rogue brushed some away before it fell onto her hand.

“Gaz.” The knight bellowed, but cut himself off before he’d begun.

“A sacrifice has been taken. See to your wounded,” the knight commanded, “we will be taking what is ours.”

She could not even find it in herself to fear the words he said.

masterlist

dividers by @/cafekitsune

#my task force #simon ghost riley #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #call of duty #gods!au #simon riley x reader #john price x reader #john mactavish x reader #kyle garrick x reader #tf 141 x reader #galaxy writes

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galaxymacbeth · 3 months ago

Text

Advent

the homecoming

cw: soap is a little shit

She did not expect the fortress to be quiet.

There were no grunting soldiers. No screams of war. Not even the smashing of steel and flesh. Nothing.

The fire in her room was dim but warm as if not to remind her of her almost fate. The pelts on the bed were soft as if they had seen years of use before her. The dresses in the wardrobe were calming as if lavender was woven into the fabric.

And she was not bothered. No one knocked on her door. Only the clink of silver alerted her to breakfast, lunch, or dinner being set outside the door.

The fortress was quiet, calm, and unlike anything she’d ever learned of her gods.

In truth, she didn’t know if they had ever really been her gods. Her village was one of the many that had chosen the war gods as their patrons. It was what spurred them to battle more often than peace. She merely adopted the worship as her parents before her and their parents before them. Left offerings of meat and steel at the altar in town, hoping never to experience the wrath of the gods personally.

Only once, in her childhood, had she questioned the worship of war gods. Once, when she was still naïve enough to think peace was an option.

“Mama, why do we pray to them?”

Her mother looked down at her, eyes soft with frown lines creasing the corners, “we pray that they do not turn their wrath on us.”

“We pray that our enemies will die.”

Her head snapped to look at Elder Asmo. His face was hard, eyes trained on the bundle of meat in her hands. He stood in front of the altar, lighting the fat candles that covered it.

“Do you wish to be cut down? Raped and pillaged?”

“Elder, she’s only a child,” her mother whispered.

“Children must learn,” Elder Asmo stepped up to her. He towered over her head, never leaning or crouching to meet her eyes, “do you?”

“No,” she mumbled. Her hands clutched the offering to her chest. Blood seeped from it, through the cloth, and into the fabric of her dress.

“Then you pray to the war gods to be spared.” His eyes flicked to the red dripping from the bundle, “best save the blood for Gaz. He does like it, so.”

She nodded vigorously, releasing her tight hold on the meat and stumbled up to the stone altar. She set it in front of the idol of Gaz. Without her permission, her hand reached towards the idol.

Then she stared at the ground. A gasp came from behind her. The child lifted her head at the seething Elder Asmo. A sharp pain bloomed in her ear, though she dare not reach up to touch it. Dared not invoke the wrath again.

“You dare touch the gods? Go, get out of my sight.”

Her mother scooped her into her arms, rushing out an apology to the gods and began towards their house.

It did not seem that the war gods would spare her.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, a clink of silver sounded outside her door. She waited for a moment before opening it.

In place of the tray of lunch she’d eaten was dinner. Picking it up, she popped her head out of the door. The corridor was as quiet as her room. No footsteps retreated and no person was leaving.

She closed the door, set the food on her desk and resolved to leave her room the next morning. She was unsure of what she would find, but the silence was deafening.

When the sun rose the next morning, she was awake. Usually, she would sit at her desk, staring at books she could not read, until breakfast was set outside her room.

Today, she brushed her fingers over the dresses in the wardrobe. Most were simple, plain, like something she would have worn while working alongside her mother in their small plot of land. Four were different. Unlike anything she would have ever been allowed to wear—even on her wedding day.

Each was a weave of vibrant colours and she hesitated to touch them the first time she saw them. Her mind wondered how they’d arrived. Were they loot? Stolen during a raid on a village? A castle? Were they for princesses and queens? Ladies of the court? Were they washed of bloodshed from the day they were obtained?

Were they made for her?

Her fingers snagged on the laces threaded through the bodice of the blue dress. She couldn’t put her finger on why it felt so familiar. It was a deep, stormy blue that beckoned her to put it on. As she pulled it from the hanger, a breath left her at the realization that it would be easy to put on herself. Not that she had seen a single maid to help if she couldn’t. The skirt was a matching blue, though the underskirt that just peaked through the front was tartan. And still, she could not quite put her finger on why it was so familiar.

Freshly dressed and hair brushed behind her shoulders, her fingers trembled to open the door. Would they want her looking around? Or was her presence in the fortress merely because she was given to them?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to stumble into any of them. Gaz had been kind and gentle, even the Knight was soft and spoke lowly to her. But they were war gods.

Having found no shoes, her feet sounded gently as she walked.

The walls of the fortress were near bare stone. Sconces lined the hallways she traversed. An intricate tapestry hung around a corner; depicting hounds hunting a unicorn. Ornamental swords and daggers hung between sconces every so often. She wondered if they were truly ornamental.

Her hands tangled in the soft linen of the dress when she found a set of stairs. It spiraled up to a turret.

The tower looked over the land of the fortress. It was surrounded on all sides by a dense forest, the trees so close together that it was almost pitch black inside. The path to the front gate was almost impossible to see, as the trees butt against the high walls of the fortress.

A courtyard sat inside the walls, set up as if soldiers would spend days training on the field. But it was silent.

She wanted to laugh at the idea that the silence was even worse outside of her room. At least she had the fire to fill the space.

She gathered her skirts and began back down the stairs. The second her foot hit the bottom, though, she froze.

Soap watched her, leaning against the wall across from the stairs. Her head ducked to her chest, dropping her gaze from his. She could feel her knees give way but a hand caught her arm before she sank to the ground.

“None a’that,” Soap whispered.

“I—I’m so sorry, great—”

Soap sucked his teeth, “don’ call me tha’, bon, look at me.”

To her surprise, she shook her head at him. She couldn’t look at him, not his face, not in his eyes, not even at his boots that had stepped into her line of sight. Her eyes squeezed shut.

His fingers curled around her chin, lifting her head, and he laughed.

“’M not gonna hurt ye,” he cooed, “yer wearin’ my dress.”

At that, her eyes shot open. The blue of his eyes was lighter than the first time she’d seen him. Like looking at the clear sky.

“Y-your?”

“Aye, picked it out an’ all, looks lovel’ on ye,” he nodded, a smile growing on his lips as her eyes scanned his face.

Scars dotted the skin of it, one cutting through his chin and continuing into his left brow. His teeth, which had started to appear as his smile widened, were perfectly straight and his lips thin. Her eyes finally stopped at his.

“Gaz didnae think ye’d leave yer room,” he let go of her chin to step back. Her head remained where he’d left it.

“How long?”

“Week’s past,” Soap shrugged, “ye’d be happy tae know yer village won.”

Her head shook, “I don’t…I don’t care.”

His smile grew wicked, eyes shifting dark, “aye, atta girl. Didnae deserve somethin’ so sweet.” He took a menacing step towards her. Her foot caught on the stair behind her while her hands dropped her skirts to catch on the arched doorway.

“Soap.”

A growl left Soap’s throat as he turned his head to the hallway. At the far end stood the berserker, wolf hand hanging at his back. Without it, she could see the skull with red splats of blood decorating it. He began towards them and she tripped back into the stairs, hitting the stone with a groan.

Soap’s head snapped back to her but the berserker’s hand snatched his chin, “told ya to leave her be.”

“Ah did!”

The darkness in his voice dissipated as he cried out at Ghost. It lingered in his eyes, though, and Ghost leaned into his face.

“Then what’re ya doin’?”

“She’s wearin’ my dress, no’ yers,” Soap bit out, slapping at Ghost’s hand but achieving nothing. She could see his fingers dig into Soap’s cheeks.

“’S cause no one told ‘er what they mean. Go.” Ghost yanked Soap away and shoved him towards the hall. “Now, Soap.”

Her breath stuttered in her lungs as she watched Soap growl again but turn away from her. The sword at his side rattled as he stormed away. She released her breath only to suck it back when Ghost turned to her.

His head listed to the side as he took in her cowering form. The lower half of his face was covered and all she could see was the deep brown of his eyes. Hands reaching for purchase behind her, he chuckled and shook his head.

“Nowhere t’ run up there,” his voice reverberated on the stone, “nowhere t’ run here.”

“My room,” she gasped out, “I-I want to—”

Ghost chuckled again but turned away from her to follow after Soap. She watched, eyes wide, as he disappeared around a corner.

Then she shoved herself to her feet and took off towards her room. The door swung open and slammed shut against her back, breaths panting out while she struggled to undo the bodice of her dress in her panic.

They were war gods, after all.

“Do you even have tact,” Gaz hissed.

Soap laughed meanly, throwing his head back while the Knight rubbed at his forehead. Ghost stood by the window, watching the trees sway in the wind.

“The first time she leaves her room in a week and you corner her,” Gaz stepped into Soap’s chest, “she’ll never come back out.”

“Good,” Ghost announced, “doesn’t need ta be anywhere near us.”

The Knight let out a long sigh, then slams his armoured fist to his desk, “she’s our charge. She doesn’t have a choice.”

“Give her to Laswell, she can take care of the girl,” Ghost demanded.

“She’s ours,” Gaz spit, shoving Soap away to charge towards Ghost. A sick grin filled Ghost’s face as the rogue stood chest to chest with him. “We aren’t giving her away.”

“An’ you think ya can stop me? With your pretty hammers?”

“That’s quite enough,” Price shoved his hand between the two and shoved Gaz back, “she isn’t going anywhere.” He turned to face Ghost. “She is ours.”

“Soap nearly—”

“Ah wasnae doin’ anythin’ tae her!” Soap threw his hands out and cried out. Gaz snickered at him but leaned back against a table to watch.

“She was backed to the wall, mutt.”

“An’ she’s not likely to leave her room again,” Price whipped his head to look at Soap, “all over a dress.”

“Could feel it,” Soap mumbled, “like bonnie was callin’ me. Yer all jealous it wasnae yers.”

Price let out a breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before sitting in his chair. His hand rubbed at his beard while his eyes scanned each of them.

They could all feel it when she touched them, ghosted her fingers over the fine fabrics and pulled at the skirts. An unfortunate result of asking the favour of a fellow goddess. Farah had a sick sense of humour.

“Everyone will leave her be. No one,” he pointed a finger at each of the gods standing around him, “is to approach her first.”

“Isnae fair, sir,” Soap whined.

“Find fault in yourself, MacTavish. Our girl was hurt. I will not have you furthering that,” Price extended his finger towards the Northman.

Ghost smirked at Soap behind the Knight.

“Captain.”

They all turned to Gaz.

“With all due respect, why should we three be punished for Soap’s deeds?” Price nodded him on. “Why don’t we all see her. Together. If Soap can’t be trusted to behave alone, we all keep him in check.”

Soap’s mouth opened, but Ghost slapped a hand over it, dragging him into his chest. He struggled against the hold, but gave up after a sharp look from Price.

“Alright. We’ll invite her to dinner,” Soap’s eyes lit up, “I’ll invite her to dinner. And you,” Price raked a hand as far down Soap’s hair as he could before gripping it, “will apologize to our girl.”

Gaz snickered behind him.

“Need I remind you who butchered the cunt we had to thank for her?” Price didn’t have to turn to see the smirk on Gaz’s face dip.

Both Price and Ghost released Soap and Price dismissed them from his quarters. He sank into his chair, head dropping into his hands. Never would he had thought a single mortal could tear into the fabric of the gods’ world. Yet she sat in a room, inside his fortress, unaware of the chaos she could reign over them.

The knock startled her from her book. She’d spent most of her morning and early afternoon reading; isolated.

Padding softly towards it, she opened the door an inch, then fully.

“Sir—”

“Please, pet,” Price cooed at her, “you can call me John or Price.”

Her mouth shut but she nodded. They stood in silence a moment before Price shook his head. He’d been staring too long.

“I’ve come to ask you to dinner.” Her mouth fell open. “The boys and I would like to apologize for how you’ve been treated since you arrived. Soap especially.”

Lips smacked together while she studied him. His face was gentle, calm and almost wary of standing in front of her at all. Blue eyes—different than the chaos of Soap’s—bore into her soul. Instead of destruction, they held hope and confidence.

“Please don’t feel pressured,” he continued, “we’d love your company but understand if you’d like to be left alone.”

“I—” her voice caught in her throat but Price thought it was the most beautiful song he’d ever heard. “I’ll consider it.” It quieted, barely audible had it not been for the dead silent fortress.

But Price just smiled and bowed his head, “that’s all we ask.” He stepped back and she took in the leisure of his clothes. A simple linen tunic, yet framed with gold trim, and a paid of brown trousers. Whatever belt cinched them at his waist was hidden beneath the fold of his tunic. His boots were like those her father wore while working in their field—simple and old and browned leather. No weapons to be seen.

She barely recognized her own god.

“Thank you, pet. If you do decide to come, simply say it and the torches will light your way to the banquet hall.”

Price bowed low, as if he bowed to royalty but caught himself as he stood.

“Don’t feel that you need to wear one of our dresses—we don’t hold court here.”

“Thank you, Sir—John.”

His heart had never beat faster.

“Of course, little one. Until tonight.”

Price stepped back. Confident, sure she would accept if only to see more of the fortress and how they lived. Their prize was a curious one if nothing else.

Behind the closed door, she panted. Like John’s, her heart raced. Unlike John’s, it was not from joy. Pet—the name had wedged itself into the crevices of her brain. Little one had been rattling around, the thing he’d called her on the very day he saved her life. So her heart raced with apprehension and a healthy hint of fear.

He’d told her not to feel pressured but how could she say no? To not only one god but four?

As if sensing her distress, the sound of water trickled in from her personal bath. The steam wafted at her feet. Pet stepped towards the room, hands and legs shaking but never stopping until she was bare and sunk into the scalding water.

She spent the afternoon sifting through clothes. One dress not quiet enough, the next too courtly and loud. This one too simple. That too fine. She audibly reminded herself to stay far away from the four opulent dresses. Fingers reached for them before she froze in place. How cruel to wear just one dress.

Though she did consider the darkest one. It had to be Ghost’s. Would Soap feel shame at her wearing the gown of the god who’d saved her from him?

Pet wondered if Soap ever felt shame.

Washed and dressed in a simple red kirtle, she stood in her doorway.

“I...” she eyed the dim sconce across from her, “I’d like to join them.”

In an instant, it flared and the hallway was bathed in bright flame. It trailed down the hall, the left corridor brighter than the right.

Her path.

It’s only about two minutes before she’s stood in front of two thick wooden doors. Plain but holding her entire world now. Sealing her off from the men gods she was handed to.

Her hand barely lifts before they inch open, creaking on old hinges. By the time they sit fully ajar, her hand had reached the height of the handles but is frozen in place. Silence fills the pregnant air. John stands from the small table, a wide smile on his face.

“Pet.”

John is at her side before she realizes it. One hand hovering over the small of her back so close she can feel the warmth of it.

“Come sit,” he leads her to the table where she avoids all three pairs of eyes that study her.

The banquet hall is large, the ceiling towers over her with a single ring chandelier hanging in the center. There are other tables, lined so neatly in rows that point towards a stained glass window. She doesn’t get to spend any time looking at it.

John pulls out a chair at the head of the table.

“Shouldn’t you...” she glowers down at it.

“No. There is no leader.”

Pet tries to remember every, any, thing her mother taught her about propriety. Class. It was a thin, shallow education.

She sits slowly, lifting only to let John push her chair in. There’s a single plate in front of her. One spoon, one fork, one over sharpened knife. A goblet.

Were they not gods? Did they not live in opulence?

Was the table they ate at really only six chairs big?

“O'right, lamb?”

Her head snaps up. It’s then that she takes them in. John is very much the same as he’d been that afternoon. Soap wore almost the same thing he always did, though a blue tunic covered his chest and dipped into his achingly familiar kilt. She could only assume they didn’t appreciate a lack of clothes at dinner. Gaz had an apprehensive look on his face. His usual leather jack was gone, instead he wore a deep purple gambeson. The top buttons were undone, allowing her to see faint scratches along his neck and chest.

The final man god was one she’d never seen the face of. Ghost. His features were handsome, royal almost. Rather than any level of decorum, he wore only his undershirt and linen hosen. Around his neck was a loose scarf that he’d begun to pull over his lower face.

“Wait!” She hopped to her feet, chair scraping against the wooden floor. Ghost froze his movement.

His lips were split unevenly by a cut, the skin pulled into a cleft over his left canine. To her surprise, his nose was unbroken and perfectly straight with only a slight bump to it. A gentle face for a berserker.

“Come now, pet,” John sucked her attention from Ghost, “let’s eat.”

She lowered herself back into her chair and glanced at John. He now wore an expression similar to Gaz but was trying to hide it.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. Ghost cocked his head at her. “The fortress. It’s...very beautiful.”

“’S not how most would describe it,” his voice rumbled in her head. John set things in the middle of the table, slapping at the hands of Soap and Gaz.

“Pet eats first.” John boomed at them. He motioned for her to pick from the plates he’d set down.

“I can wait,” her voice shook but John’s head shook faster.

“Nonsense. Eat,” John pushed the platter of meat towards her, “they can wait a little longer.”

“Ah dinnae think ye eat as much as us,” Soap whispered. She turned to face him, fear coursing through her veins. “Ahm sorry, bonnie.”

She swallowed hard but said nothing as she picked through the meat. Attention drawn, she missed the narrowing of John’s eyes as she only took the smallest pieces of pork. Ghost pushed a basket of bread towards her, of which she took a small roll.

After filling her plate, her eyes flicked to John’s. He nodded for the rest to dig in. Each god set some piece of their meal on her plate. Ghost set two more rolls down, Soap another large piece of pork. Gaz portioned out a serving of potatoes and John filled her goblet near to the brim with red wine.

“Now,” John brought a bite to his mouth, “we should start by apologizing for your less than hospitable welcome to your home.”

“We just wanted you to settle in,” Gaz continued while John ate, “didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long.”

“’N ahm sorry fer wha’ ah did,” Soap cut in, “wasnae good of me.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

“’S not,” Ghost said, wiping his face on the back of his hand. John sighed but said nothing. “Soap’s a dog. Not well behaved around pretty lambs.”

“L—lambs?”

“He means you,” John supplied, “eat, pet.”

She speared a piece of pork and shoved it in her mouth. The meat was tender, juicy and the best thing she’d ever had. Made her barely able to contain the groan deep in her throat. Gaz chuckled at her face.

“Regardless, you should know that you are allowed anywhere you’d like to go in the fortress. Nowhere is off limits to you.”

“What else is here?”

The four deflated. They’d truly left her with no idea about her new home.

“Jus’ aboot anythin’ ye can think of,” Soap finally admitted, “an’ anythin’ else ye’d like.”

“I’d like?” Her head tilted, goblet freezing in front of her lips.

“Yes,” John swallowed and set his fork down, “we’re Gods, little one. Anything we want will readily appear to us.”

“I’m not.”

They quieted. Thought for a moment.

“We’ve never had a...mortal here,” Gaz admitted, “but, by virtue of your village’s...offering, you should also be granted whatever you want.”

“I want my moth—” Ghost stood, slapping a hand over her mouth. He towered over her chair causing her entire form to still.

“Don’ do that.” His voice was hollow and ugly. “Don’ ever ask for a living being.”

Her blood chilled. Soap had recovered from his wince and Gaz’s shoulders sank with a loosed breath.

“You don’t want to know what happens should you ask for a living being, pet. Nasty business.” John shook his head, eyes lost in thought. A memory?

Ghost lowered his hand and himself back into his seat, “try somethin’ less fleshy.”

Soap groaned, “och, dinnae say it like tha’.”

“W—what about a sweetroll?”

A moment later, a weight filled her empty hands. She lifted the pastry to the table. It was warm and some of the icing oozed down the browned roll.

“Good,” John beamed, “anything you ask for is yours.”

They slipped into silence. Eating and drinking with little murmurs between Soap and Gaz. Pet tore small pieces of sweetroll away, setting them on each of their plates as she ate it.

“What am I to do?”

“Hmm?” John hummed around the sweet.

“All day. For...ever? What will I do?”

“Ye dinnae have any chores, if that’s what ye mean,” Soap spoke around his meal. John hissed at him but Pet spoke before he could get the chastisement out of his mouth.

“I can’t do nothing for the rest of my life.” She pointedly ignored Gaz’s wince. “Please.”

John hummed again. Ghost shifted in his seat across from him.

“I could be a priestess.”

“We’ve enough of those to last an eternity. And that would involve you leaving for the mortal world.” John shook his head. Her face soured but his stared right back at her.

“I—I could keep the fortress!”

“’S magic, lamb. Don’ need upkeep.”

She tossed her fork onto the table with a cry, “something!”

“Pet,” John slid from his chair to kneel at her feet, “we can find you something. Just enjoy dinner. Please.” He took her hands in his. Pressing a kiss to the back of both of them, she stared down at the God with wild eyes. A cleared throat jerked both from their stupor and John rose to his feet.

“Now. How about more sweetroll, hm?”

By the time dinner was finished, she was exhausted. Soap and Gaz spent most of the meal’s remainder fighting for her attention while Ghost sat quietly beside Soap—listening but never interjecting. Only when Soap pushed too far, made their Lamb—their Prize—flinch back, did he correct the mutt. John joined in their laughter sometimes, but like Ghost, spent most of the time watching Pet.

When she announced she was too tired to continue, the younger Gods argued over who would walk her back to her room. They were silenced by the banquet doors slamming shut. John smirked at them over his goblet.

Ghost walked silent behind her, watching her body sway with her four goblets of wine. She babbled on as she walked; detailing a rare moment of peace in her home when she was a child. Ghost growled out a question about her father, but she just turned to him with a smile to rival Johnny’s and said:

“No. My father was a good man. Never hurt me or my mother.”

His scowl melted as she leaned against the wall, unaware she was standing beside his bedroom door.

“Do you have a name?”

“Course I do,” Ghost gently pulled her arm along, towards her own room, “we all do.”

“C—,” she leaned into his hold, “can I know?”

“’S Simon.”

“Simon...lovely.” She hummed. Simon smiled at her but never stopped leading her to her door. It danced through his mind, the sweet sound of his name on her tongue. What would it sound like if she cried it out, pressed between his chest and his bed?

At her door, he pushed it open but did not enter. His lamb slipped in, kicking her shoes off and collapsing onto her bed.

“I miss my home.” Her voice dropped along with her head.

Simon had promised himself that he would never enter her room without her explicit permission. Yet broke it to kneel at her feet.

“I know, lamb,” he held her cheeks in his palms, “but you’ll be safe here.”

Her watery eyes met his, “where do the warriors go?”

“Don’ worry yourself with that. Sleep now.” He hesitated for a moment before unlacing her kirtle for her. Once it was loose enough for her to pull off herself, he stood to his full height. She watched him with those watery eyes. “Sleep, lamb.”

He stepped back, never turning away from her, and pulled the door with him. As it clicked shut, she shed her clothes and clambered under her furs. The fire breathed warmth into the room as she slipped under.

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ye girl did a lot of (way too much) research on medieval clothes for this so please applaud. also i proofed this like 8 times so if you find an error no you didn't.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

#gods!au #captain john price #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john mactavish x reader #my task force #cod #call of duty #poly!141 #tf 141 x reader #galaxy writes

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