#voodoo soap

[brewscoop]

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[writersdrug]

no thoughts just waitress!reader showing up for shifts like nothings wrong after the date situation

just keeping it calm and professional. working her shifts efficiently and no longer bantering/flirting with ghost, who would rather reader melt down and tear into him than putting up the walls around herself hehe

Ok I'm combining some asks here that had some different ideas - I got so many of you guys demanding reparation for making reader cry 😭 here's the comfort chapter! (Still a tad angsty at the beginning)

Ghost had finished your tips for you that night. He had half a mind to slide a hundred in your payout folder as an apology for ruining your date... but what good would that do? That would make you quit for good, if you hadn't already.

He lays in his bed, eyes stuck to the ceiling, still in his jeans and black shirt. He wishes he could snuff out the guilt that sits heavily in his gut. He wonders what you're doing - probably crying, possibly making a half-assed voodoo doll of himself and stabbing his chest with a dull steak knife, because that's all he feels right now.

He gets up early the next day after a rough three hours of sleep. He lumbers down the stairs to the office - Price is there, sorting out cash and working on the next supply order. He looks at Simon, who's rubbing his eyes and looking worse for wear.

"Mornin'." Price says, turning back to the monitor. Ghost grunts in response, dropping himself onto the couch behind Price. His head aches from the lack of sleep, thoughts circling in his mind about how to apologize to you. He can imagine you won't want to talk to him - or, if you do, it'll most likely be profanities wedged between insults. He'd love for you to berate him right now, and make him feel like he got what he deserved.

Price sighs. "You sleep alright?"

"I've had better."

"Nightmare?"

"... yea, somethin' like that."

Price huffs. "I'm workin' front of house today." He says, grabbing the bag of tips and standing up. "Goin' down to drop these in the safe, then I'll help you stock up."

Simon opens his eyes, looking at Price with confusion. "You?"

Price nods. "Dove called out sick. Sounded like she's got the lurgy."

That delivers the final blow to Simon. He knows you're not sick - you're avoiding him now. All plans to apologize are now out the window, and the more time passes, the harder it'll be to do it.

"You've only got yourself to blame, Simon." Price says, heading down to the restaurant floor.

He curses under his breath as Price leaves. How he heard about what happened - he could only assume it had been from Soap. He drops his arm over his face and groans. He wants to call out himself, but then they might as well shut down the entire pub for the day.

Should he try phoning you? Would you answer, let alone allow him to get more than five words out? What would he say? "Sorry I ruined your date, I was jealous tha' ya got a life outside of the pub." There is no variation of an apology that feels like it would be enough. He made you cry, for fucks sake. That was a punishment in and of itself, but he still had to own up to what he'd done.

He sighs loudly; his body feels heavy as he drags himself off the couch, trudging down the stairs. He still has a bar to run.

It had to have been the longest shift of Simon's life, and he even wrapped things up a bit earlier than usual. He didn't have the gift of your incessant chatting or being able to tease you to make the time pass. Price was a solid companion in front of house, but there was hardly a conversation to be held - even with the usual bar crowd. The patrons had a look of confusion for the majority of the night, wondering why Soap wasn't popping his head out of the kitchen to chat every once in a while - and why the hell the owner was serving tables, and not the chipper, spunky waitress.

When Simon had locked up for the night, he noticed your bike was no longer in the alley. Johnny must have dropped it off on the way back to his place.

Today isn't much different - at least, not for Simon. He's still suffering from a lack of sleep, he's irritable (he had a spat with Johnny in the morning, over something he can't even remember), and his work ethic is suffering. He's not worried about slicing bar fruit; it'll give him something to do later, when he needs it. Maybe the rush will kick him back into shape.

He stares at the dishes on the edge of the bar - they're all in need of a good polish, but he finds himself stuck on staring at the bar fridge. There's nothing else he needs to stock up on - it's packed completely full with wine, champagne, and cans of beer. He gently kicks the side of it with his boot. He should be checking the to-go boxes, helping Soap with setting up the condiments and soups, making sure the tables all had full salt and pepper shakers. That's what you would be doing. But, you're not here, and neither is Price. He can only hope tonight isn't as busy as the previous night, otherwise he'll have to close some tables. Which would make customers mad. Which would make Price mad. Which would-

Suddenly, he hears three loud bangs against the back door. He freezes, the sound triggering a Pavlovian response. He immediately looks up to the kitchen window - Soap opens the door, and you come jogging inside. You greet him with a smile. He asks how you're feeling, and you say "much better".

He doesn't know what to do with himself, but he just stands there like an idiot as you hang your bag and jacket on a hook. Stands there as you push your way into the restaurant, barely sparing him a glance as you scurry by him. Stands there as you run up the stairs, two at a time, diving nose-first into your chores so you can avoid Simon.

He can't speak. Should he? What can he say? "I'm sorry," for starters, but it isn't that simple. He thought you might have quit, and was preparing his heart for the worst. But now, here you are, running back and forth through the pub and setting up your tables - and it feels like you've never been farther away from him.

In all honesty, you can't bring yourself to talk to him either. You're feeling just as ashamed with your behavior two nights ago as he is about his own. Why the fuck would you expect someone - let alone your boss - to do your chores so that you could run off and have fun on a date? Not only that, but you'd made a scene; you felt like you had half-assed the ice bins in your scramble to get them cleaned, and then you sobbed in the middle of the restaurant. The cherry on top, however, was when you called Price yesterday and told him you had a cold, calling out of your shift. It was a cowardly thing to do, and you could tell he wasn't buying your story.

But: bills need to be paid, rent is due, and you can't lose this job. So you sucked it up and came in today - Simon is easy enough to ignore, separated from you by the bar.

At first, the quiet bartender was relieved that you had showed up for your shift - he wouldn't have searched for a new waitress if you had quit, instead choosing to deal with the consequences of his actions. But he's quickly getting more and more irritated with the silent treatment you're serving. You only talk to him when necessary: a simple "thanks" when you grab your drinks and run them to your tables. You busy yourself between rolling silverware, (over)stocking napkins and condiments, and even going so far as to spray the menus down and scrub them with a rag. You spend more time in the kitchen with Soap; each peal of laughter shared between the two of you is another arrow in Simon's chest. He's stuck behind the bar, listening to woes spilling from drunken lips, forced to watch you flit around and pretend he doesn't exist.

You can't keep this up forever.

Still, you do for most of the night. Even when your shift is coming to an end, the kitchen closed while you close the tabs for your remaining tables, you don't cave and sit at the bar with Simon. You sit at the farthest table from him, the farthest chair, in fact, skimming over your tip receipts - and talking to Soap (who was only able to sit with you since you had helped him knock out his tasks).

Simon's never been as angry with Soap as he is now - and the worst part is he knows it's not justified. He's watching from behind the bar, polishing glasses so hard they might wane into cups. He wants to talk to you. He will talk to you before the night is over. He doesn't expect forgiveness, but he expects that you'll at least let him offer an apology.

One of the regulars at the bar looks to whatever Simon is glaring at, chuckling quietly when he sees you. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Stuff it, Mike." Simon grumbles.

Meanwhile, you walk back from closing out your last table, plopping back in the booth with Soap. "What are you doing after this?"

"Sleepin'." he replies instantly, tossing back an onion ring. "Been dealin' with a grumpy bawbag since early this mornin', and I'm beat."

You glance over at the bar; Simon's back is facing you as he organizes the beer glasses. You really should apologize to him... you just couldn't figure out when the right time would be. He'd still be working by the time your shift ends, and you don't even know if he wants to speak to you at this point.

"Is he mad at me?" you ask, tapping your pen on the table.

Soap sighs. "I'm not goin' t' be the middle man, Bonnie." he says, looking at you intently. "If ye feel like somethin' needs to be said, go talk to 'im."

You groan, leaning back against the seat. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"It just isn't! He's already pissed at me, and he probably thinks I'm a slacker. What good is an apology?"

"Ye won't know 'til ye talk to 'im, hmm?"

"What if he fires me?"

Johnny barks with laughter, and you frown. "I'm being serious."

"He'd never fire ye." he says, getting up out of the booth. He stretches both arms above his head and lets out a grunt. "In fact, he was throwin' a fit yesterday n' today 'fore ye came in. Bitch took it out on me."

You winced. "I'm sorry-"

"Save it fer 'im." Soap interjected. He left you at the booth with the onion rings and your tips, disappearing into the kitchen. You huff, hunching back over your tips and scribbling through them.

Deep down, you know Soap is right. If anything, you could just apologize to Simon. If he chooses to be grumpy about it, so be it. You've got tough skin... still, you can't stand the thought of him being upset with you - not because of your work ethic, but because you liked him. A lot. And you wanted him to like you back, even if it was in the most platonic way.

But that didn't change anything. An apology was due, and you were going to give him one before you left tonight.

You grabbed an onion ring and popped it in your mouth, grimacing when you realized they were cold. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Simon making his was across the floor to your booth.

Great. Guess the apology is coming now.

He stops at the edge of the table, wiping his hands in a rag. You pretend to punch numbers into your phone's calculator, but they're all random - you just want to look like you're busy.

"May I sit?" he asks, tucking the rag into his back pocket.

You mumble out a "sure", still not looking at him. You hear his large frame slide into the seat across from you, polyester squeaking underneath his weight. You continue to do random equations on your calculator, letting a thick blanket of tension settle between the two of you. You can feel his stare burning into your head, his arms folded over his chest... and you notice that his mask is in his hand. You finally look up at him.

It's not the first time you've seen his face - you've caught glimpses of it when he smokes in the alley, or when he eats whatever Soap throws under the warmer for you and Simon. But this time, he's not taking it off to be convenient. And, dear god, you're just now paying attention to how scarred, rugged, and handsome he is - but now's not the time for those kinds of thoughts. You feel like he's reaching out an olive branch, showing a possible vulnerable side to himself. So, you place your pen on the table and lean back.

He stays quiet for a moment longer, trying to figure out how to start this. He wants to make sure that you know he's here to apologize, not to ask for forgiveness. From his silence, you assume he's waiting for you to go first.

"I'm sorry about Tuesday night." you say, eyes dropping to the table. Simon's astounded that you're the one apologizing, but you continue. "I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, and I'm sorry for trying to dump my job on you."

He feels worse, now. Was that even possible? He was expecting anger, insults - a detailed, frustrated explanation of what you did last night since you did not go on that date. But you're the one saying sorry? You think you're to blame for all of this unspoken aggression? Oh, you really do confuse him, sometimes...

"You don't need t' be sorry, luv." he says, gazing at you with a softness you'd never seen before, not in his brown eyes, at least.

"No, I do." you say, nearly pleading with him to let you be apologetic. "I was being a brat, and whether you usually do the ice bins or not, I shouldn't have expected you would do them without asking." You push your pen on the table, doing your best to convey your feelings. "And yeah, I was late for my date, but... well, he sounded like a dick, anyways."

Simon chuckles, watching you stare at the table. "Well, I owe you an apology, too. I jus'..." he sighed heavily, running a hand down his jaw. "I don' even know. Guess I was bein' lazy, or... I got jealous tha' you've got a life outside of this pub. Feels like you belong here."

He immediately regrets saying that - it sounds way too possessive and... just straight up weird. But you smile, taking comfort in the fact that he still wants you here. That this was the whole reason behind the mess.

"Soap called you a bitch. Said you were an asshole all day."

Simon scoffs. "Yea... 'm pretty sure Price would tell ya the same. And he wants ya back, too. Couldn't stand waitin' on tables, he was tryin' t' trade places with me all night."

You laugh. The world seems alright again - not perfect, but good enough. It might take a night of sleeping the tension away before you're fully back to your normal self, but this is a leap in the right direction. You look at Simon, into his brown, steady eyes, as they stare right back at you.

He breaks the silence. "I really am sorry for ruinin' your date."

You smile softly. "Thank you, Simon. I forgive you."

And just like that, the weight of his guilt is lifted away. The lingering sourness remains, a reminder that he had made you cry. But you had forgiven him, which was more than he was hoping to get tonight.

"Are we better?" you ask timidly.

He nods once. "Better."

You smile - you slowly slide your stack of receipts to him, biting your lip. "Cool - can I have my money?"

Just like that, his smirk drops - but you know it's all in good humor. He huffs, snatching the stack from the table and scoots his way out of the booth. "Always got money on the mind, eh?"

"I've always got rent on my mind." you retort, following after him with the bowl of onion rings. You plant yourself at your usual spot on the end of the bar, right near the POS where Simon cashes out your tips. He tries to hurry up, assuming you want to dip and go home after such an intense conversation. He slides the mask back over his face and punches his code in, trying to edit your tips into the system as quickly as he can.

"Simon?"

"Hm?" his response is instant, turning around to look back at you. You've got your phone on the bartop, and your back and jacket on the unoccupied seat next to you.

"Can I stay for a drink?"

He's melting on the inside, only held together by his own skin. He sets your receipts down and opts to do them later, right before whenever you decide to leave. He won't miss on an opportunity to have you stay longer.

"Course, luv. What's it gonna be?"

"You know how to make a cosmo?"

He chuckles, grabbing a glass from the shelf behind him. "Sure do."

[call-of-duty-incorrect-quotes]

Soap: If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous.

Soap: If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous.

Rookie01, taking notes: What if it bites me and it dies?

Ghost: Then you’re poisonous. Learn to listen.

Rookie02: What if it bites itself and it dies?

Ghost: That’s voodoo.

Rookie03: What if it bites me and someone else dies?

Gaz: That’s correlation, not causation.

Rookie04: What if we bite each other and neither of us dies?

Soap: That’s kinky.

Price: Oh my god…

[cumikering]

Gym bro Soap x reader 3 (end)

3.7k | fluff You never had to ask again (part 1)

It was close to three months before you saw each other again.

Johnny was on the incline bench with his weights when you called his name. He froze. Nobody needed to know that soft voice still made him weak.

“H- Hi.” He turned to you, placing his dumbbells on the ground before searching your eyes. “I hope you’ve been alright.”

It felt forever ago, since the last time he saw your smile or heard you laugh at his lame jokes, since the last time you made tea at his. It had been forever since you wounded his heart.

“I have. I hope you are too.” Your gaze dropped to your feet.

“Aye. I’m fantastic, of course.”

“Right. Um- well, I didn’t mean to disturb.” You took a step back. “Sorry, I’ll leave you to it.”

You walked away before he could protest. He took a beat before picking his weights back up, surprised by the wave of emotions that rushed back from the innocent exchange.

He wasn’t facing the door so you could have walked out if you wanted to avoid him, but you went out of your way to greet him. Were you trying to be friendly? Why was it only a hello before you rushed away? Did you change your mind?

It was stupid, but he would be lying if he said he’d stopped thinking about you, let alone missing you. He wondered about how you were doing, about work and your fitness progress. How had you been shopping without him driving you? It was too far of a walk to carry your groceries.

But you must have already found someone. Any man would want you, and would claim you as his you as soon as he could – the way Johnny never had the balls to. He should have spat out the flickering hope out of his mouth and extinguish it under his heavy boot, so why was he walking over to you on the elliptical after he finished his set?

“I was wondering if ye’d like to get dinner? Just to catch up a bit?”

You should tell him he was insane, and break his heart once and for all. Maybe then he could finally let go.

But you smiled so gratefully at him instead. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Did he hear you right? He wasn’t helping himself, but he was a hurting man with a hole in the shape of you in his chest.

You spotted each other. It unwedged something from his chest, like a dead clock finally moving its rusted hands once more. Working out alone could never compare, and the satisfied smile on your face after each set still made him swell with pride.

Half an hour after the session, Johnny knocked on your door before strolling to the nearby kebab shop. He willed himself to not get ahead of himself, for his heart to stop fluttering as he pondered what the dinner meant – the dinner that hadn’t happened yet.

“Have you got a deployment coming up?” You glanced at him.

“Not yet. I just came back last week, was away fer almost a month.”

“And you’re alright? Not hurt?”

“Bruises here an’ there, but nothing time can’t fix.” He clasped a hand over his chest.

“You got a new haircut,” you noted, nodding at his hair.

“Och, aye.” He ruffled his short hair with a chuckle. “I… I needed the change. Somethin’ easier t’maintain.”

He used to enjoy standing out with his mohawk, but if you weren’t looking, it didn’t matter. He only wanted your attention.

“The beard too?”

He’d forgotten he’d let his stubble grow out. Was it ugly?

He rubbed a self-conscious hand down the side of his face. “Just tryin’ things out. Not sure I’ll keep it.”

“You look different, but I like it.”

He averted his gaze from your reassuring smile and continued his steps.

He let you split the bill that night, already thankful you said yes to dinner. At the table in the far corner, you popped open your meal.

”Erm- I finished the papercraft. I messed up a few times and had to paint over some parts so it took forever.”

“I hope you like how it turned out.”

“I do. It’s real pretty. I can take a photo fer ye.”

“I’d like that.”

That smile made his stomach flip again so he shoved another bite into his mouth. What kind of voodoo hold did you have on him? Someone please smack Johnny across the face, because how dare he fantasise that this was another Friday night date with his missus when before this, you hadn’t even spoken for over two months.

He cleared his throat. “Hav’ ye been? To Edinburg Castle?”

“No, which is weird come to think of it.” You laughed. “I love castles and Scotland isn’t even that far.”

“How so?”

“Oh, I guess I just never had a reason to go.”

“Well, it’s beautiful this time of year. Maybe my maw’s stew can be it,” he pretended to tease. Pretended, because how mad would you be if you knew he meant it?

You let out a small laugh as you held his gaze. “Maybe.”

Did you miss me too? The words threaten to claw up his throat and he forced them down with another sip of his drink.

You probably only spoke to him because it’d been long enough, thinking he’d have moved on. You wouldn’t think he was pathetic if you knew the truth, would you? That he was close to tears from how much his bones hopelessly ached for this, and how natural it was to be with you even after the void.

After the meal, he dawdled. Would time sit down and catch its breath? It didn’t have to hurry, really. His chest had just stopped bleeding, and he wanted to be here a little longer before it poured again.

He told himself to not think that maybe you lingered too. That you leaned back with that shy smile and toyed with the straw of your empty cup, pretty lashes flicking as your gaze went between his eyes and the floor… Like looking into his eyes too long would shift the stars and make you change your mind.

He didn’t mind at all.

Alas, the shop had to close. Johnny let out a resigned sigh as he pushed the glass door open of you, accepting that the magic would vaporise with your exit. At least he’d had another taste – his last. Maybe it would be easier now. Maybe in a few more months, it didn’t have to hurt anymore.

He dragged his feet to yours, bracing for the finality of the goodbye. His chest had started to ache again. The way you looked at him with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes – was that sympathy? Like an unspoken agreement that this was a bad idea all along, like this was only dragging the pain on.

Still, to him, it was not one to regret.

But the doormat squelched when you stepped onto it.

“Erm- hen?” He pointed at the puddle seeping from under your door.

You gasped and promptly unlocked your door, only to discover your flat pooled in an inch of water.

He hurried to the bathroom, learning that a trickle of clear water poured from the ceiling. “Shit, I think yer neighbour’s got a burst pipe or somethin’.”

“Oh, no, no no…” You ran a hand over your face. “I can’t afford the repairs.”

He grabbed you by the shoulders, eyes trained on yours. “Hey, it’s not yer fault. Call the landlord.”

Meanwhile, Johnny got your belongings off the floor. Thankfully, the water hadn’t ruined anything apart from the carpeted floors.

Your landlord lived a few floors down and promptly inspected the flat above yours. Your neighbour wasn’t home, but his sink’s pipe had burst and flooded his place too. The landlord assured you that the building was insured and that you didn’t have to pay for damages. If any, you were covered for yours.

She moved you to another flat, a bigger one for the same price, for how bad she felt. However, it was freshly renovated so it needed a major clean and some furniture hadn’t been moved back in yet.

You figured you could spend another night in your soggy flat, but Johnny insisted it couldn’t have been good for you, especially not in the weather. He promised to help you move the day after.

He could tell you wanted to say no, but the exhaustion gripping your shoulders made you pack your necessities for the night without a fight. When you said you’d take the couch, he firmly told you to take the bed. How could he let you have anything less than the best? It was the least he could do in such a misfortune.

While you cleaned yourself up, he hurried to tidy his room and change his sheets. Later when he emerged with a bundle of dirty sheets and shirts he’d picked up off the floor, you were at the kitchen counter, your back to him.

“Sorry fer the mess, but the room is good t’go now.”

You turned with a smile. “Thanks, Johnny, really. Here, I made you tea.” When you placed his mug on the table, you paused, gaze fixed on it.

When he realised what you’d seen, he sprinted to the dining table where he’d been sketching that afternoon. He didn’t plan on meeting you today, let alone have you in his flat.

“Aw, no, no- fuck.” He scurried to shut his sketchbook, clutching it to his chest with hot cheeks. He looked up at you, a stunned or perhaps even pained expression across your face. “I- I swear it’s nothin’ weird! I can throw em’ out-”

“Who’s that?”

“What?” he said incredulously.

“Who’s that, that you drew? Is she…” Your eyes darted to the ground before you continued in a small voice, “Are you seeing her?”

He blinked. Did you think it was someone else?

“I fockin’ wish I was!” He tilted the sketch he was working on towards you, the one where he was supposedly cupping your smiling face, mindless doodles of hearts piled in the corner of the page. “It’s you!”

“No, I don’t look like that… It’s not me.”

“Did ye just insult my drawing prowess?”

He flipped back to a page of smaller sketches from your last dinner. It was the night his lovelorn mind kept drifting off too, the only time you dressed up for him, the closest he had been to having you.

He did a full body sketch of your outfit. Next to it, you at the table across him with the prettiest smile. He drew each dish, even the one you didn’t like, as he didn’t want to forget a thing from that perfect moment.

“She’s beautiful,” you muttered, eyes softening as you took in the illustration.

“Because you are. I love looking at you. I love drawing you,” he confessed. “But I guess yer too busy avoiding me to care.”

Your eyes met his blue ones as your shoulders sagged. “Johnny…”

“M’ sorry. I wasn’t trying to make ye feel bad.” He closed his book again with a sigh. “But if I’m honest, it hurts. A lot. But at least yer not leading me on, so I’m just… trying to forget.” He chuckled humourlessly as he shook his head. “It’s stupid how I can’t stop liking ye.”

“You like me?” you repeated.

His brows furrowed. “Isn’t that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“No! Oh God-“ You held your hand over your mouth. “I was… I started liking you too much and I had to stop before it was too late, because you don’t like me like that.”

“Me? I don’t like ye!?” He pointed at himself. “Who the fuck said that?”

“Well, no one, but-“

“I can say with certainty ah’ve never not liked ye.”

You paused before your gaze shifted to the mug in your hand. “I didn’t think it would matter to you.“

“Of course it matters, hen.” He rounded the table and placed his hand over yours, lowering the mug onto the table. “It hurts, losing ye like tha’.”

“I’m sorry, Johnny. I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled.

“So do ye still like me or not? Because I like you a lot.”

You couldn’t meet his baby blues, but you gave a small nod as you supressed a smile.

He set the sketchbook down, a grin forming on his lips. “Will you finally let me hug you now?”

You reached out for his hand, your touch feather-light as you stepped in. He wrapped his arms around you with a content sigh. You felt better than what he’d always imagined – softer, warmer. He didn’t let go for a few moments as he smiled to himself, still not believing his mind-boggling luck that you liked him.

With his lungs full of your scent, he pulled away to cup your smiling face, just like in his last sketch. It was perfect in his rough hand. Was he allowed to touch something so beautiful with it?

He didn’t expect you to lean in as your eyes locked with his, but it was second nature to pull you closer. Your lips against his made his knees tremble. When your hot tongue swiped across his lower lip, goosebumps broke out on his arms. You lit him up with a zap up his spine.

His lips parted as he let out a noise, something between a gasp and a moan. Another pathetic whimper escaped him when his tongue swirled with yours. He could only hold onto you tighter as he melted against you.

This was how it was supposed to be like all along.

When he pulled away, he couldn’t help but bring his fingertips to his wet lips. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Was tha’ real or am I dreamin’?”

“Kiss me again, Johnny,” you said breathlessly, cupping his bearded jaw.

“You never have to ask again.”

Johnny didn’t think it would ever come to this, but you and him became the gym couple.

“Can I get a kiss for every sit-up, hen?”

“Bon, let’s make out between sets.”

“Do ye want to see how many times I can hip-thrust yer weight, love?”

You’d giggle, swatting his arm as he gave you a smug grin. But you were the one he pressed up against the far wall of the deserted gym, your hips squirming against his.

“So glad there’s no cameras here,” he muttered between kisses.

“I still would prefer no possibility of someone walking in.”

“Everyone knows not to walk in when we’re here.”

It was true. People didn’t take long to learn to give you space, lest the muscular Scot stared them down. That, and he imagined it was rather awkward to witness him smack your butt not-so discreetly.

You laughed against his lips, pinching his ass lightly.

“Ye know I like it when ye do that harder, bon.”

He should start wearing oversized shirts that hung past his groin again. He didn’t need a compression shirt anymore when he could rip his shirt off anytime to tempt you now that you were his - in the privacy of his or your flat of course.

Before his next deployment, Johnny gave you his key and let you drive his car in case you needed it. When he came back two weeks later, you greeted him with a new papercraft kit. He didn’t have enough time to thank you because he dove right into your lips. Did you have any idea how much he missed you?

Spending time at his sketching or crafting became a nightly routine as you joked and chatted about the day.

Across him, you hunched, laser-focused on attaching the conical roof to one of the castle towers with a pair of tweezers. The way you furrowed your brows in concentration always made him smile.

“Hen,” he said again, finally gaining your attention as you looked up at him. “I said I can take a leave next month.”

“Oh, how long? Have you got anything planned?”

“I wantae take ye t’see the real thing.” He nodded at the half-built Glamis castle in the middle of the table.

The smile bloomed on your lips. “Are you serious?”

“Aye, of course.”

“That would be wonderful.”

He shifted his attention to the piece of paper in his hand. “Ye know, I could- if you want to see my home, meet the rest of my family… Maybe have my maw’s stew.” When you didn’t respond, his eyes flicked up to your warm ones.

“I’d love to, Johnny,” you muttered.

He gave you a relieved smile and you continued the activity until you called it a day. You washed the tea set as he put away the papercraft.

He watched you for a moment, your back to him at the sink wearing one of his shirts. It was a familiar sight, you in his flat. It was silly, but even after hours of being with you, he grew clingy when it inched closer to bedtime on weekdays as it meant you had to go back to yours.

While he was grateful for each night spent in each other’s arms, it was never enough. These walls had never been this much like home before you. It was your home too, wasn’t it?

He shouldn’t have asked. He didn’t want to scare you or make you uncomfortable, but his heart belonged to you. How could he not be honest?

“Love,” he placed a gentle hand on your hip. “Would you consider moving in with me? It doesn’t have to be anytime soon, but later on. In the future, whenever you want to.”

You turned to him with a teasing smile. “You sure you won’t get sick of me?”

“Never, bon,” he said under his breath. “I’ll take care of rent, and you can use the savings to take that course you always wanted.”

You held his gaze for another beat. “I’ll only consider if we split rent.”

“In that case, I’ll just have to find more ways to spoil you.”

He planted a kiss on your forehead, making you smile. He’d make sure you’d never think of him as anything less than the best boyfriend.

Johnny couldn’t stop bouncing as you boarded the train to Scotland. He hadn’t been able to wipe that grin off his face either.

“I’m so excited, bon.” He gripped your hand with two of his, holding it against his chest as his eyes sparkled. “My maw’s going to love ye.”

Under the clear blue skies, the city tapered into a line as the train bolted through vast grasslands.

You turned to him with a small laugh. “Why are you saying that as if I don’t know her, like she hasn’t been giving us cooking lessons on video call?”

“Ah, well, that’s true.” He shrugged. “But she’s gonnae love ye even more. And my niece and nephews.”

“I can’t wait to meet them.”

“They grow so fast, some could only sit on my lap last year. Don’t know if they still can this time.”

“What if I also want to sit on your lap?”

He grinned. “There’s always space for ye between my legs.”

Johnny took you to his nan’s to meet his extended family, which included his niece and nephews who were devastated that their favourite uncle didn’t have a mohawk anymore. Looking at the dejection in their little cute faces, of course he promised he would return with it next time.

His mum and aunts gushed over how sweet you were together. His cousins included you in the conversation, asking about your itinerary in Scotland and recommending spots to check out. Of course they’d also asked how you two met. They weren’t surprised you found the rat in the gym.

After lunch, the energised kids took Johnny and you by the hand to the backyard to play. Because he’d been bench pressing you, he could swing the kids around as they latched onto his arms and legs, shrieking in glee. The others formed a line for their turn with a giggle while you gave his niece a piggyback ride.

Before heading back home, Johnny gave you a tour of the town. It was quiet, but he showed you his schools, the hip places he and his friends frequented as teens and the football field he used to play on. Lastly, he drove past his first ever gym - the one that started it all.

“Tha’ fine summer day when I was 15th, I decided I needed t’carry all my maw’s shoppin’ in a go,” he lamented in front of the small building. “Mr. Russel’s the owner. He was always so nice, gave me free protein shake every Saturday. He was so proud when SAS accepted me.”

You unbuckled your seatbelt. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Wha’?”

“I know you’ve been itching to lift. Come on.” You climbed out of the car.

He followed with a grin. Perpetually dressed in athleisure clothing had its perks. “This is why I love ye, hen.”

Mr. Russell was scribbling behind the desk when the door swung open.

“Hiya, welcome-“ His face lit up when he saw the sergeant. “Johnny!”

“Good t’see ya, Mr. Russell.”

The middle-aged man patted his shoulder firmly, looking him over with pride. “Looking huge, pal. Are you following a new split?”

“Ta, mate, but it’s the same as always.” He grinned. “Giza day pass, would ye?”

“Don’t be daft, Mactavish! Yer free t’walk in whenever.” He swatted his hand and turned to you. “An’ who’s the lady?”

“Och, sorry, this is m’friend.“ He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and shot you a teasing smile.

You frowned, but immediately recovered with a smile. “We’re super best friends actually, and flatmates. Nice to meet you.”

He laughed, his thumb rubbing your shoulder. “No, she’s ma pretty burd. We’re staying fer the weekend.”

“Hope ye enjoy yer stay, miss.” Mr. Russell chuckled along. “Go ahead then. Have a good session ye two!”

Past the turnstile gate, your hand slipped down to pinch his butt making him jump.

Yeah, he should stop teasing you in public, or at least wear baggy shirts when he did it.

Masterlist

Thank you so much for sticking around until the end :D I'm grateful for the support this fic has got, always enjoy writing for you guys. Hope to see you around again. Take care!

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@lovebookbunny @sil-ver-shadow @illegirljoonie @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen

[incorrectcodquotes]

Price: If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous.

Gaz: What if it bites me and it dies!?

Ghost: Then you’re poisonous. Jesus Christ, Gaz, learn to listen.

Soap : What if it bites itself and I die?

Price: That’s voodoo.

Soap: What if it bites me and someone else dies?

Ghost: That’s correlation, not causation.

Gaz : What if we bite each other, and neither of us die?

Ghost: That’s kinky.

Price: Oh my God.

[brattypagansub]

Things John Price has said as a screen writing professor (both with and without context)

If you want to abide by Hemingway’s write drunk edit sober.. you have to do the second part..

Oh I’m sure you do Si.. and no.. don’t put your dick or hands anywhere near the kid. Because I’m the one who’ll end up hearing about it from the gaggle of ladies protecting him. (To Simon who’d said and I quote ‘I see myself in him.’)

I’d ask you what your process was here Soapy boy.. but we both know there was none. And entertaining as it was last time we don’t have twenty minutes. For you to stumble your way to a believable excuse.

Kyle.. for the love of god stop trying to rework Romeo and Juliet with Gen Z Twitter slang.

(Had walked in on Valeria threatening Ghost with bodily harm and the consequences of loose lips. And unsheathed swords.) I told you… but does anyone listen to Professor Price? Ladies don’t get Simon’s blood on the floor the custodians don’t need to deal with that.

Why didn’t I just join the army?!

Alejandro.. did you really just yell objection? In a discussion about the ethics of ghost on human fucking? Fucking hell the shit you gremlins make me say.

Rudy.. I don’t care that he acted out the Elizabethan tragedy that was last Thursday on your date night. You can not slap Alejandro with a pad box and say it’s to soak up his tears.

Soap put the voodoo doll down or I will call Valeria again

Makarov.. for the last time.. you can’t act out kidnapping Soap and say it’s for artistic expression

Alejandro I’m not saving you and no you can’t be dramatic and break out in spontaneous monologue in the middle of class

I’m gonna just ignore the fact Soap that you listed off the exact process of napalm.

You all need psyche therapy.. then again so do I.. continue

[avaleigh16]

Y/n: Ghost is too tall for me to kiss them on the lips. What should I do?

Gaz: Punch them in the stomach.Then, when they double over in pain, kiss them.

Alejandro: Tackle them!

Soap: Dump them.

Rudy: Kick them in the shin!

Ghost: No to all of those! Just ask me to lean down!!

❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇

Ghost: If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous.

Soap: What if it bites me and it dies!?

Y/n: Then you’re poisonous. Jesus Christ, Soap, learn to listen.

Gaz: What if it bites itself and I die?

Alejandro: That’s voodoo.

Rudy: What if it bites me and someone else dies?

Soap: That’s correlation, not causation.

Gaz: What if we bite each other, and neither of us die?

Alejandro: That’s kinky.

Ghost: Oh my God.

❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇❇

Ghost: Y/n kissed me!

Soap: Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!

Ghost: It was unbelievable!

Soap: Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!

Gaz: Okay, we wanna hear everything.Soap, get the wine and unplug the phone. Ghost, does this end well or do we need tissues?

Ghost: Oh, it ended very well.

Soap: Do not start without me! Do not start without me!

Gaz: Okay, alright, let's hear about the kiss.Was it a soft brush against your lips or was it like a, you know, “I gotta have you now” kind of thing?

Ghost: Well, at first it was really intense, you know? And then, oh God, and then we just sort of sunk into it.

Gaz: Ohh...So, okay, were they holding you? Or were their hands on your back?

Ghost: First they started out on my waist and then they slid up and then they were in my hair.

Soap and Gaz: Ohhh.

*meanwhile*

Y/n eating pizza in their house: And, uh, and then I kissed them.

Rudy: Tongue ?

Y/n: Yeah.

Alejandro: Cool.

[gazstations]

Come Home, My Darling

CHAPTER FOUR

ᯓᡣ𐭩 CHAPTER SUMMARY

Kate Laswell tells 141 the full truth of what she knows behind the reason she pushed for John's family to go into protective custody.

♡ Chapter Warnings: None.

◇ Notes: Happy April Fools! This chapter is not a joke

○●○ SERIES MASTERLIST ♡ PREV ♡ NEXT

NAVIGATION MASTERLIST

♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

IT WAS THE DAY YOU LEFT THAT JOHN PRICE FOUND OUT THE TRUTH.

The anger gnawed at the edges of his brain like maggots. Slithering around with tiny legs that prickled the ridged flesh just right. It was disappointment in oneself that melded into a chaotic mess. A demon that clawed up from the pits of hell and sunk fire into his stomach. Anger was an old comrade, patting his back and telling him he would never be able to carry on without. 

John Price was angry far more than he was civil. 

Anger got shit done. You can only take action when your blood is boiling over. Calm cannot take down malice. You have to play the players' game. See the deceit because you are also rigging the system. 

Anger was muscle memory. The twitch was a familiar comfort. Told him that some of his humanity was still intact if he still got revolted by what he witnessed. 

The captain was a pillar of leadership. He commanded. He was the man who made the tough calls. He had to live with his actions, even when sometimes people ended up caught in the crossfire. No one got through this life without hurting someone. Even good people left someone with scars. 

The captain had made far more enemies than he ever had friends. The difference was less than ten to an upwards of fifty. He was the face people plastered on the wall and threw darts at. The one that made their voodoo dolls of him and bent the arms to see if his would break as well. 

John Price was a name infamous for getting cursed, damned, and everything in between.

He put away the big dogs. Left them deteriorating behind bars or six feet underground. He was swift. Had a record to prove he was exceptional. That's why he was always on rotation. Hitting the ground running with his trusted men by his side. 

But this one bastard was the top of the food chain as well. Put most other terrorists to shame. He made a fool out of John, broke that clean record of getting shit done, and shoved the ripped contents into his mouth. Humiliation was not an emotion John dealt with accordingly. He was so resistant to being wrong that the flames spread with might throughout his body. 

Kate had just finished telling the team all that she had in her pocket. She had lied in your presence. John found himself grateful. Detail was still classified, and you were still a civilian. It's just the way things were. 

The boys were silent. Gaz eyed John closely, watching the way the stoic captain went rigid. John could feel the weight of his stare, burning his flesh with cautious and questioning intent. He ignored it. Tried to. Even if a bit of him was unraveling inside. 

“Vladimir Makarov is after my family?” he questioned with a low timbre, words teetering on collapse.

The name rattled in his head like a loose coin in a bottle, the syllables alone striking the utmost fury without ever physically touching his skin. John’s skin burned, and the hair rose along his arms in anticipation. Back to square one, straight into the lion’s den like a damn puppet.

“Thought we sent his arse tae the Gulag,” Soap remarked. the Sergeant's lips were pouted, disdain on his face. 

John knew there was a mutual, burning hatred for the mentioned terrorist. He wanted to wring the bastard's neck. If he had it his way, he’d have Makarov hanging from a flag pole in a town square. Picked apart by vultures and a visual reminder to his supporters that evil had no shelter. 

But General Shepard was monitoring them at the time. Got the brass up his ass about military etiquette. John pulled a lot of shit. Dragged his boys through the fire with him. He listened to orders only when he believed they were worthwhile. 

Killing Makarov against regulation would've been a swift reason to get 141 disbanded. John was a lot of things, but he wasn’t willing to risk losing his team. 

So, he followed rules for once and regretted it a second later. 

He knew it was wrong to keep Makarov alive. He was a pure manipulator. His work never stopped when he got put behind bars. No, John knew the gears would keep turning. You had to shoot those bastards in the head twice. Just to ensure the finality of death. Otherwise, they always found a way back. 

“You did. There was a full prison break. He was the main retrieval, but hundreds of prisoners also escaped in the process,” Kate informed.

She dropped a small file on the table, the contents inside relayed information about said prison break. A break out of the Gulag was impressive, John had to admit. But he didn't want to give the bastard too much credit.

John gritted his teeth as he glanced at the file. He wouldn't fully read it right now, not while his head was full of cotton. 

Makarov was playing games. Going after his family was a sick joke. Helping you and the kids evade the Russian would be like treading through a minefield. While John wouldn't have wished for any of his adversaries to be pursuing you, the last one he wanted was Makarov. 

if you were caught, the flesh would be pried off your bone slowly. You were never meant to be a part of that. You were always meant to be separate from the darkness of his job. He got dirty so he could clean his hands at the door and be a simple husband and father. The lines were muddled now. Danger was in your periphery, and John couldn’t be there to block it with his own hand. 

No, he had to sit back and let some bodyguard take the reins. Fucking bullshit. 

Kate eyed John, and he met her gaze with a steely edge. Her eyes were calculating, thoughtful and he hated when she started analyzing him. She read him almost as well as you did sometimes. He felt stripped down and vulnerable. He loved holding his emotions close to his chest, hiding from anyone else. 

Eventually, Kate looked away.

“This is going to get personal,” she didn't outright say it, but John knew well she was mainly addressing him. His jaw clenched.

“Makarov is always going to be personal,” John responded. He crossed his arms against his chest and leaned back against the wall behind him. 

Gaz spoke next, “We put Makarov in. We have to take him out.”

Kate sighed, “Maybe. But we all still have jobs. What's happening with John's family is horrible, but we can't let that distract us from everything Makarov can do. He's looking for weak points, and we all know messing with our team won't be the end.”

“My family is my priority, Kate,” John declared. 

“And if you were anyone else, I would pull you off the mission,” Kate countered. “I know I can't stop you. But I urge you to at least consider other ways Makarov might try to shake the system.” 

John was listening only halfway. Deep down, he knew Kate was right. But his tunnel vision was thick, the walls clearly bordering his family. They were all he saw. He would demolish that cottage he built if he could not return to your soft embrace at the end of the day. He was not losing you. 

“We got it, Laswell,” Gaz spoke for John. 

“Any pings on Makarov?” Ghost now took the chair. 

“No. As of right now, he's in hiding,” Kate said. “We have to wait for a sign. In the meantime, we carry on as normal.”

“Nothin’ normal ‘bout our jobs,” Soap hummed. 

That was an obvious fact. Even when John was curled up on the couch with you and the kids, he was still a killer. You and him had created life, and he snuffed other life out the very next day. Normality was a concept they did not know. He could play pretend, but nothing changed the scars he had. 

“Is my family settled somewhere?” John asked finally.

“They're still on their flight,” Kate said. 

Flight. John's blood ran cold at that. They really were going where he couldn't follow. He wanted to shut the whole thing down, but that would only endanger you. Maybe the universe was finally catching up for all the sins he's committed. 

“They'll be okay, Cap,” Gaz said. 

“Yeah,” John responded halfheartedly. 

Then a thought struck him. How in the bloody hell did Kate know Makarov was the one heading your capture? If he was going dark after a prison break, he wouldn't lay out his cards so fast. That wasn't his style. 

“How'd you find out it was Makarov?” John asked. He wasn't accusing. He trusted Kate wholeheartedly, but he was still curious. 

Kate didn't waver as she answered. She was clear and poised. “An old friend. Owed me a favor.” 

“Old friend,” John repeated with a scoff. “One that knows Makarov's activity?” 

“There's a lot you don't know, John,” Kate said.

He nodded, “Sure.” 

It was an odd situation. Kate, even as much as John knew about her, was still a mystery. She talked about her wife sometimes, but nothing else about her home or hobbies when she wasn't providing intel to 141. Even then, John considered her his closest ally.

However, he wasn't sure how well he favored this mystery man. He was well acquainted with wolves in sheep's clothing.

“We can trust this friend?” Gaz asked. 

“Trust is a tricky word for this situation, Garrick,” Kate remarked. 

John almost pulled the plug right then. Yet, even he knew the intricacies of military relationships. They were complicated and had a tendency to be messy. 

Hell, John thought of his old friend, Nikolai. The Russian was a loose cannon, but he had been by John's side more than anyone. If there was chaos, there was Nikolai. John trusted him, they were close. But John even wondered if Nikolai was even the man's given name. Though, he still trusted the man enough to also be around his family once or twice. Whenever he came around.

He knew he had to give Kate grace, but it was tough when he never vetted her man himself. John liked control. Which is why he often turned his nose up at official military orders. Got himself in more than enough trouble that way. 

“And his intel is viable?” John asked. Enough overthinking, get back on the track. 

“Usually is,” Kate offered. “Helped us with the Zakhaev Airport situation.” 

John bit his tongue then. He had to accept the situation for right now. Kate wouldn't deliberately lead them astray, but he hoped she wasn't being fooled. They couldn't afford mistakes. Not when his own family was being closed in on. Hopefully, protective custody did its job. 

“One wrong move, and I'll put a bullet through your guy's head,” Price said with venom on his tongue.

“I'll give you the gun, sir,” Ghost responded, his eyes said a lot despite the rest of his face being obscured. His second-in-command did not enjoy this either. They both hated following information that they themselves did not partake in collecting.

Ghost and Soap exchanged a glance then while Gaz nodded along in agreement. His men always had his back, and that's why he chose them. They knew they had to get dirty as well. In fact, he was pretty sure they craved the blood. Violence became addicting in a lot of ways, even if it wasn't enjoyable all the time. 

They got the job done because one way or another they were fucked up in the head. 

“I'm not wrong about this,” Kate stated confidently. “Makarov has been planning this behind bars. Now he's able to act.”

Kate grabbed the file discarded on the table, signaling her part in the conversation was done. She obviously had said everything she wanted to. John just had more questions. He mainly wanted to know where you and the kids were flying. Yet, even if Kate knew, he had to accept she wouldn't tell him. For their safety. 

“Get some rest,” Kate suggested. “Shepard has a new mission for you. I'll send you the meeting time.”

With that, she marched out of the room with her shoulders straight and even strides. She was a determined woman on a mission. Admirable, really. Kate Laswell was a force to be reckoned with. She did not take people's shit and always proved why she was at the top with the rest of them. 

It was silent for a moment before John sighed and leaned over the table. It was a miracle he wasn't gray yet. The wear and tear just showed more with the lines on his face than anything else. 

“I need a bloody drink,” he muttered.

Soap just patted his back, a small hum of agreement.

°•○●○•°

TAGLIST

@callsignpxnguin @crystal-freak24 @haneybunny @tenshis-cake @aneternallyexhaustedpigeon @thriving-n-jiving @leon-thot-kennedy

If you would like to be added for future chapters, let me know!

[99flakeandsprinkles]

Puppe- Rammstein x reader oneshot

Inspired by @elstargreen. Y/N finds six creepy magic dolls in an old house!

You'd just moved into a new house on the outskirts of the black forest, and you were currently still unpacking. When you'd bought the place (for a very low price) the estate agent had looked sheepish, and shared a little secret with you.

"They say that the old owner of this place was a witch." He said, fiddling with his cuffs. "So, um, be careful?"

"I'll be fine! I don't believe in magic anyway." You'd said, and signed the paperwork. Now, you were up in the attic, storing your boxed Christmas decorations and winter duvet there. It was mostly empty, but your eyes were drawn to a little wooden chest in the corner.

"What's that?" You pondered, picking it up and taking it down to the kitchen table. You still had lots to unpack, but you'd gotten through all the essentials. You fiddled with the lock on the box and popped it open, to reveal... Six rag dolls? They were stitched together with black thread, made of white cloth, and had button eyes and stitched grins. A few had brushed yarn hair, and they all wore hand sewn clothes, most in red and black but one in grey and one in gold, with a little hat and glasses.

"What weird little dolls..." You muttered, picking up the one with spiky hair.

"We're actually poppets. We're like voodoo dolls." It said. You screamed and dropped him, and he landed with a thump and a puff of dust.

"Ouch!"

"You can TALK?!" You yelled.

"We can all talk! We're poppets, magical dolls who came to life when the old witch sewed our last stitches. We have the strength of humans, and we did her dirty work whilst she worked on magic." One with white sideswept hair said. "I'm Till, these are Richard, Paul, Doom, Flake and Ollie."

You'd overcome your shock by now, and carefully set Richard next to his friends.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" You asked.

"We don't feel any pain." Flake explained. "But we're absolutely filthy from being in that chest for so long!" Richard sniffed his cloth armpit and gagged, and your eyes slid to the large stone sink in the kitchen.

"How about I give you a wash?" You offered.

"I'm dying for a bath..." Doom replied, slipping out of his clothes. He had a red heart stitched on the left side of his chest, and no privates. The rest of the dolls undressed and you put their clothes into a bucket of warm water with baby soap to wash them. You lifted the six dolls into the sink, and started to run the warm water and add the soap. Till's back was made of a fabric printed with a pattern of eels, and he saw you staring.

"The witch ran out of white cloth for my skin." He said. "So now I have eels on my arse."

"I drew some tattoos on my arms with a pen once!" Paul mentioned, trying to get your attention.

"She used clear buttons for my eyes, so I can't see without my glasses." Flake added. Pretty soon, the six poppets were all telling you about their lives as magical dolls, as you gently washed the dust and dirt out of them. It took three rinses for the water to run clear, then you say Richard, Paul, Doom and Till on your lap and combed their hair with a little doll-size brush to get any lumps out. You then gently rolled the six dolls in hand flannels, like creepy cloth burritos, and put them in the airing cupboard to dry whilst you worked on their clothes.

A couple of days later, you tightened up their stitches as they were newly dry, restuffed them a bit, and handed their clean clothes back. The six poppets were done!

"I feel great!" Ollie grinned, his stitched mouth turning up.

"And you look great too." Doom added, hugging him with his cloth arms.

"Look, Tillchen, you've got your belly back." Teased Flake, poking Till in the tummy.

"Poke all you like, it's good to be restuffed." The white haired doll replied. Paul clambered up and sat on the arm of your chair, and looked at you with his button eyes.

"Since you've repaired us and freed us, I suppose we owe you a big one. How about you become our new Mistress?" He asked.

"Yeah, we'd rather work for you than have some gross kid drooling all over us." Richard added, drawing some eyeliner on his cloth with a fabric marker.

"Anyway, we're probably too scary!" Till smirked.

"Sure! I'd love to keep you!" You replied. "But how do I look after a poppet?" Flake scampered off, and came back dragging a big, dusty book.

"This was the old Mistress' spellbook. She said we should give it to our new owner if we ever had one." You picked up the old leather-bound tome, and ran your hands over the cover.

"Well, boys? It looks like there's a new witch in town." You said. "I'm glad I found you six!" You headed off to the garden to pick some sage and mugwort for future spells, and Richard turned to Till with a stitched grin.

"Hey Tillchen?"

"Yeah?"

"Looks like you're not the only one who has a thing for a big woman now!" And your six little dolls watched you gather the herbs, eagerly awaiting their next orders from their Mistress.

[mariamakeslemons]

141 and Video games

A silly little thought, partially due to having picked back up my 3DS and playing some older DS games...

-Price, I feel, is about mid-to-late thirties by 2019. So, he was at least born around 1984-ish.

-His first game would have been Sonic the Hedgehog 2, played on a schoolmate's Genesis. He was shit.

-I feel like he was a playstation teen, having the one at home as a kid before getting the two as a Christmas gift from his mum. He played the shit out of Sons of Liberty.

-However, only a small handful of games really caught his interest. Price feels like he's too old for video games (he's not) and he's too mature for them too (he's really not).

-If someone gave him a strategy rpg, you wouldn't see him for a week. Then he'd show back up and explain how to play the game in the most ruthless manner.

-Ghost grew up poor, so he never really had video games. Didn't really have mates that were willing to let him play with theirs.

-Can't miss what you never had, right?

-He would have one "date" (whether he is actually dating them or not is up in the air) who collected older video games and encouraged him to play with them during an at home date night.

-Ghost would fall in love with Nintendo's more low stakes games. Animal Crossing and Pokemon both have no traumas that make him need to leave the room.

-Soap and Gaz were invited to Ghost's New Horizons island and they were shocked at how good the island looks.

-Pretty, popular Gaz grew up playing Yugioh and Pokemon TCGs. Everyone wanted to play against him, with the winner getting something from the loser (the other kids wanted a kiss to the cheek if only to brag)

-Too bad for them, Gaz has always had a strategic mind that makes him almost unbeatable in any pvp games.

-He talks about playing all the popular games, and he does, but he's super nostalgic about the older, more obscure platformers. Think Vince the VooDoo Doll and Jak and Daxter as a range of obscurity to popularity.

-Challenge him to a platformer race, because that's where Gaz's weakness in games is. The man is terrible at them, but he loves them all the same.

-Video games? With Soap? Lord...

-With his big family, video games weren't a fun pass time. It was war. His little sister wanted to play Animal Crossing, his little brother fought with his older brother to play a mature warshooter, his older sister wanted to veg out with Katamari Damacy.

-He fell in love with Mass Effect and Dragon Age, enjoying the stories and how the games changed based off choices. Also, he can explode things with fire. Always a good time.

-Soap only picks up Nintendo due to Ghost, and he ends up playing things like Fire Emblem and Splatoon.

-Don't invite him to your New Horizons island. He is a menace and will hide pitfalls all over the place and sneak inappropriate things into said island (fake nude statues, creatively dropped items, etc.) He's the worst. Ghost will tell you.

[zombeesknees]

What's this, Angie? Why, it seems that Blurb is doing ANOTHER THING. And this one is until June 5th!

Use NETWORK25. Pick up some indie books -- *YOU* get some fun reads and *I* can buy some cat food.

Historical fantasy, Western-style.

SO VERY QUEER.

Righteous Black Widows (because some men need to fall off ladders and be fed to pigs).

Colorful cast of characters.

What if small towns were NEAT and KIND and LOVED YOU unconditionally?

The world's saddest (and loveliest) werewolf (who finally gets everything he deserves).

Gremlins and witches and ghosts and dragons, OH YEAH!

(Take a look at how pretty this town is!)

Volumes One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven.

Historical fantasy, Golden Age of Piracy-style.

ALSO SO VERY QUEER.

The ship's called The Sappho, because I am THAT obvious.

Know what the world needs more of? SEXY MERMEN.

When piracy *is* the more ethical option.

Ladies that slay (sometimes literally).

Just a touch of monsterfucking...

(Take a look at how pretty this crew is!)

Interconnected short stories, perfect for when you've got just twenty minutes for a quick read.

The Search for Aveline | The Sanctuary of Nalani

Paranormal noir -- think Sam Spade, but with zombies!

Literal femme fatales/vamps.

Odd couple detective partners (Virgil is a goofy charmer of a werepanther; War is a sad vampire with a soft spot for damsels in distress).

Mads Mikkelsen as a mad werewolf! Rami Malek as a tragic mummy!

Angels and witches and voodoo cults and Mexican death gods, OH MY!

These totally unconnected cases couldn't POSSIBLY have anything in common... *nudge nudge, wink wink*

Each book is a fully standalone mystery!

(Take a look at the faces behind Gam & Meriweather & Yoo!)

Sorry, We're Dead | Sorry, We're Dead: Clover & Curses

Greek Gods in modern times.

A bit soap opera (but like a racy soap opera on HBO at midnight).

The Olympus Crew was like, "So, we kinda fucked up with WWII. Maybe we need to live amongst humans again and try to stop shit like that from happening again..."

Familiar names; new faces (aka: a diverse facecast worthy of divine characters).

Classic couples (Dionysus/Ariadne; Perseus/Andromeda) and brand new twists (Hephaestus/Hestia, OH YES; Bellerophon/Pandora; Hedone/Hercules; Narcissus/Adonis/Ganymede).

Interconnected short stories!

Volume One | Volume Two | Volume Three

One really weird road trip -- Supernatural meets The X-Files!

Only the best parts of Americana, like the world's largest paint ball, Meow Wolf, and The Winchester Mystery House.

Dark (sometimes literally) family secrets.

The best way to delay adulthood: drive cross-country with your twin and best friend, learning how to throw knives from carnies and talking to ghosts along the way!

Super NON-identical twins (she's the one with the tats and mouth of a sailor; he's the sweetheart who's always stuck inside his own head).

Asexual and bisexual rep in the primary cast!

Entire story is wrapped in two volumes.

You'll never guess what Robbie is short for...

...And YES, you can absolutely visit all of the places referenced in this! Have your very own Weird, USA road trip!

(Take a look at the gang!)

Volume One | Volume Two

[mayflora-18]

Incorrect CoD Quotes #3

Gaz: Are you okay?

Price: [hurriedly pushing his intestines back into his body]

Price: Yeah, why did you ask?

~~~>

Graves: Can I get a ride home?

Soap: [stepping into the driver’s seat of a car]

Soap: I don’t have a car.

~~~>

Police Officer: What are your names?

Nikolai: Don’t tell him, John.

Police Officer, writing: John.

Nikolai: Oh shit.

Price: Nice job, Nik.

Police Officer: John and Nik.

Price: FUCK!

~~~>

Sherlock: Am I going too far?

Laswell: No, no, no. You went too far about seven hours ago. Now you’re going to prison.

~~~>

Soap: *Can’t find Price* Guess this calls for desperate measures.

Soap: *Yells out* CAPTAIN PRICE SUCKS!!!

Nikolai: What the FUCK DID YOU SAY?!

Laswell: WHO SAID THAT?!

Gaz: FIGHT ME!

Alex and Farah: *looking to see who said that*

Ghost: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?!?! COME FIGHT ME! I FREAKING DARE YOU! WHO SAID THAT!

Soap: Damn…

Sherlock: *has been standing next to Soap the whole time and is mildly amused *

Sherlock: Can I try?

Soap: *throws his hands up in defeat* Be my guest.

Sherlock: *Yells out* GENERAL SHEPHERD IS A LITTLE BITCH!

Price: DAMN STRAIGHT HE IS!

Soap: What the shite?!

Sherlock: Found him!

~~~>

Sherlock: If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous.

Graves: What if it bites me and it dies?

Soap: That means you’re poisonous. Steaming Jesus, Graves, learn to listen.

Farah: What if it bites itself and I die?

Gaz: That’s voodoo.

Alejandro: What if it bites me and someone else dies?

Rudy: That’s correlation, not causation.

Alex: What if we bite each other and neither of us die?

Nikolai: That’s kinky.

Price: Oh my God.

~~~>

Price: I’ve only had Gaz for a day and a half. But if anything were to happen to him, I will kill everyone in this room and then myself.

Gaz: *is moved* 🥺

Ghost: Very violent, I like it.

~~~~~~~~>THANKS FOR READING!!!<~~~~~~~~

[the-most-humble-blog]

The Day I Learned Wrestling Wasn’t Fake: Papa Shango, the Ultimate Warrior, and a Horrified 8-Year-Old Me

When Your Parents Say Wrestling is Fake, but Papa Shango Starts Casting Spells on National TV

Let’s go back to a simpler time: the early 1990s. A time when wrestling wasn’t just a sport—it was a religion, a soap opera, and a live-action cartoon rolled into one. Back then, I thought wrestling was real, and I’d fistfight anyone who dared say otherwise. But even as my parents whispered the dreaded phrase, “You know wrestling is fake, right?” Papa Shango hit the screen, proving that nothing about wrestling was fake—especially not the dark magic.

And then came the night when the voodoo priest himself, Papa Shango, cast spells on The Ultimate Warrior. Spells. On live TV. And my 8-year-old self? Absolutely traumatized.

1. The Night Wrestling Became Real

I still remember it like it was yesterday. There was the Ultimate Warrior, the unstoppable, face-painted demigod who could shake the ropes with the energy of a caffeinated tiger. He wasn’t just a wrestler—he was a superhero. And then Papa Shango showed up.

This guy wasn’t just a bad guy; he was a whole villain genre. Voodoo beads, a skull staff, and face paint that screamed “your nightmares just got a new mascot.” He started mumbling incantations, and suddenly the Warrior—my Warrior—was doubled over, leaking black goo from his head like an exorcism gone wrong.

Kid Logic: “This can’t be fake. Black goo doesn’t lie.”

2. The Harlem Shake Heard Around the World

And then came the shake. Not the cool kind, like Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, but the kind you do when your body is 90% terrified and 10% possessed. The Ultimate Warrior started jerking around like he’d been cursed by a voodoo god, and I was losing it.

Kid Thought: “If Papa Shango can do this to the Warrior, what chance do I have?!”

That night, I slept with a light on—and my Ultimate Warrior action figure under my pillow, just in case Papa Shango decided to pay me a visit.

3. The Parents’ Betrayal

After the episode, my parents tried to comfort me. “It’s all fake,” they said, trying to sound calm.

Fake?! Did they see the goo? The convulsions? Fake was when the Road Runner dropped an anvil on Wile E. Coyote. This wasn’t fake. This was Papa Shango manifesting real voodoo chaos on national TV.

When you’re 8, logic is irrelevant. If you see it on TV, it’s real. End of discussion.

4. Wrestling’s Commitment to the Bit

Looking back, you have to respect the lengths the WWE (then WWF) went to make these storylines work. Papa Shango wasn’t just a wrestler; he was a whole mood.

The Props: The skull staff? Iconic. The fake black goo? Disturbingly convincing.

The Acting: The Ultimate Warrior deserved an Oscar for that performance. Seriously, someone put that man in a horror film.

The Audience Manipulation: They didn’t just want you to watch; they wanted you to believe. And believe I did.

5. The Day Wrestling Broke My Heart

Of course, as I got older, the illusion started to crack. The spellcasting? Special effects. The goo? Probably corn syrup mixed with food coloring. And Papa Shango? Just a guy named Charles Wright, who would later become The Godfather, trading voodoo for a pimp gimmick.

But here’s the thing: even when you know it’s scripted, it doesn’t matter. Wrestling isn’t about reality; it’s about the spectacle. It’s about suspending disbelief just long enough to let a voodoo priest scare the hell out of an 8-year-old and make millions of people talk about it decades later.

6. Why Wrestling Was—and Is—Magic

Even now, as a full-grown adult with bills, responsibilities, and a brain that knows better, wrestling still feels magical.

It’s absurd.

It’s theatrical.

And sometimes, it’s just real enough to make you question everything.

Lesson Learned: Sometimes, it’s okay to believe in the black goo, the spells, and the Harlem shake. Because life’s a lot more fun when you let yourself get lost in the ridiculousness.

Papa Shango Won That Night

So, yes—wrestling is “fake.” But that night, Papa Shango was real. And so was the fear, the awe, and the sheer ridiculous joy of watching The Ultimate Warrior shake like he’d been cursed by every voodoo priest in history.

Love reliving these absurd, magical moments from your childhood? Follow The Most Humble Blog for more hilarious, nostalgic deep dives and unapologetic truth bombs.

[paradoxoftrees]

RANDOM DREAM HEAD CANONS

RANDOM DREAM FACTS:

Featuring Cross

Drools in his sleep and squeaks/purrs like a cat when in a REAL good state of sleep.

Likes bananas (canon?)

Bathes in frilly apple scented soap.

Pours milk in first before cereal

Has a voodoo doll of his husband. The use of such is unknown

Eats beans straight out of the can. Only eats beans on Saturdays.

Likes to share one pillow with his husband.

Allergic to lettuce

Send Nightmare Christmas cards each year despite the goop master throwing them away and burning them.

Preschool mommy helper.

Wears slippers around the house.

Has a plush bunny on his bed from when he and Nightmare still lived at a TREE.

Digs holes in his yard looking for evidence of his childhood.

Swims doggy paddle style.

Rides on Cross’s back in DEEP water. Little limbs can’t take more than 5 minutes of swim time.

Has 20 candles burning SIMULTANEOUSLY in his house at all times.

Goes to bed at 8. On good days.

Peels oranges the wrong way.

Every eats every BIT and LICK of food left on his plate as to not disappoint hubby.

These were created at probably 11 PM and I am not ok at that time of night, and some strange things like this pop into my head.

[moth--blood]

Obey Me × MC with chronic migraines

[ ft. the 7 brothers (seperate), Diavolo, Barbatos ]

cws: fluff mostly, brief nsfw ref with Asmo

Lucifer

the most consistent of the brothers with getting your meds and not panicking, more importantly

he tends to get small headaches from overworking, so he offers his meatheads to make you feel better if you don't have any practical ones ("no, im not letting you chug a gallon of chocolate milk thats not going to help. ..what do you MEAN thats worked before???")

insists on you laying down and resting in his room until you feel better. doesn't matter how often it is, he always makes you stop whatever you're doing to go rest

will play his softer records while you sleep in hopes it'll help the migraine go away faster

Mammon

panics, first and foremost.

are you broken? dying? humans are fragile MC don't laugh at him he's WORRIED

especially worried if you describe the pain as stabbing. for a second he genuinely thinks you're being stabbed by some Witch's voodoo doll of you. that concern never fully leaves

his worry turns to pampering when he's realized you're not, in fact, being stabbed through a doll, and now he's full of questions

will suggest anything and everything he can think of to help you, from the lights to kisses. doesn't matter he WILL try it

Levi

in awe you came to him about being in pain before anything else

awkwardly offers to let you sleep in his tub, and to get you meds or something else you might ask for

if the lights in Henry's tank bother you he'll put blankets over the tub so you don't have to look at them so directly

if physical contact helps and you ask him to lay with you he will lose his fucking mind. he'll do it but he'll be stiff as shit for several minutes before finally relaxing

offers to read his/your favorite manga to you if the noise wont be a bother

surprisingly really fucking clingy when you're so reliant on him. it makes him feel special

will play the lofi or quiet anime music that helps him sleep if the noise won't bother you. he figures if it helps him sleep it might help you not be in pain :)

Satan

also in awe you chose to come to him with this, especially if it's NB!Satan. he takes less time to process than Levi though

makes a big show of tucking you into his bed to rest, offers to get you tea and to read to you if the noise isn't an issue

if lights are a trigger dont even worry about it his room is dark as fuck!

he pampers you a bit less than Mammon does, but he still insists on getting you things and doing stuff for you.

takes very quick notice of your triggers, and does his best to help you avoid them!

zero hesitation will yell at the others for possibly accidentally causing another attack he gets protective quick.

Asmo

immediate pampering he doesn't need to be told twice

"oh, you don't feel good? here let me take care of EVERYTHING today don't even worry about it"

if scents are a trigger and his soaps or perfumes/colognes get a migraine going he will not stop apologizing. he feels AWFUL

dims all his lights and does his best to neutralize all the smells in his room, insisting you stay and let him take care of you

will also try everything he can think of, or at least suggest it

he's not the biggest fan of the idea of doing stuff to you while you're in pain but if that helps you he'll try it. but you gotta tell him the second it starts getting worse because the pampering will continue exactly where it left off

Beel

he's so worried :(

also lowkey thinks you're dying so he's extra careful with you.

will do anything you ask bro is at your beck and call when you don't feel good

akin to everyone else he'll bring up anything he can think of that might help

more than willing to cuddle you into feeling better if you ask.

gets Lucifer to bring you meds because he doesn't wanna leave you alone, and if you're not the biggest fan of taking them he'll stare at you with the biggest puppy eyes until you do

Belphie

pulls you upstairs to the attic and insists on you sleeping it off, even if that doesn't always work

a big cuddler so he doesn't mind holding you if physical contact helps

goes and gets you medicine and a drink without even being asked, and if you question or tease him about it he'll just mutter something about wanting to sleep in peace without you complaining about your head

he's just worried don't let him fool you again

very observant with your triggers and when you're around bright lights or loud noises, for example, too long he'll pull you aside and quietly ask if you're still feeling okay. if it's a yes he'll pretend he never asked and if it's a no, he'll pull you back to the attic pft

Diavolo

also thinks you're dying at first. i mean, for all he knew you were! Solomon hardly counts as human so imagine his absolute panic when his first actual human starts complaining of excessive brain pain. several times.

after you've been around a while though, he's super calm about it

words cannot express how quickly he goes "oh okay! here, drugs"

does keep your medicine on him basically constantly, just in case!

takes you to his room or to an unused room in RAD so you can rest for a little bit, and if it's bad enough at RAD he'll just fucking leave to take you home lmao

doesn't fully understand still, but he's doing his best! it's the thought that counts even if he's unknowingly making it just a little worse </3

Barbatos

also keeps your medicine on his person after a while.

memorizes your list of triggers and things that help as soon as he realizes you get migraines at all. he uses his power to find when you mention said lists and if you ask, he'll just smile and tell you not to worry about it

also tends to pull you aside when you're around your triggers for a while to make sure you're alright. regardless of answer he reminds you he has your meds if you need them

if warm drinks or comfort foods help, he figures out how to make them and when pretty fast. he likes being efficient at getting your pain to go away as soon as possible

[the-unholy-sovereign]

[{]¤| Hail Satan |¤[}] 💀Shivah "Shiva"

A F R I C A: THE AFRICAN-JUNGLE "I.HOT-SPRING" THE-OX/Oxen; Carnation I.Bushel-Death. The Emergence: Resurrection II.Lotus "The-Owls" (Owl) I.Death Flower/Plant; Burial-Mixture I.Soap/Soap "Manure/Calf" (Oxen). The regrowth of the flower-Plant. . . (I.Flower)

♾NUBIAN CREED: SATANIST: THE DARK GOD OF VOODOO. . . .