A strange genie appears and has an offer for you. You’ll be cured of all, you’ll have a stable job you’re happy with, and you’ll basically just live the best life you can imagine. However, there’s a catch—you’ll have to relive one specific grade level from middle or high school (the genie is American).
⤷ pre-relationship, "first" meeting, tf 141 x gn!reader, age gap, tw. for stalking (not the 141), Price saves the day! - 3.5k words - find here on ao3
The only reason you notice the man following you is because you were clumsy enough to stumble over a loose brick in the sidewalk. Your phone slips out of your hand and as you frantically try to catch it, you somehow manage to smash your knuckles against one of the corners. With a loud clatter it smashes against the ground, bounces back up into the air and falls onto the rough bricks of the sidewalk. Your music cuts off abruptly.
A string of curses erupts from you as you rush forward and see the damage. Dead. Busted. A passerby winces in sympathy. Somewhere further down the road you can hear a group of teens laughing, though you are not sure if it's because of your misery or something else. Cradling the remains of your phone in both hands you let out a whiny groan and allow your head to fall down in despair.
That's when you see him.
You only catch a glimpse of the man before he ducks away behind the corner of a building, but you recognize him instantly. He's a regular at your work. Always appearing when you're out front, always seeking your attention, smiling just a bit too brightly, talking to you with just a bit too much familiarity in his tone. One of your older coworkers finds him charming and regularly tries to convince you to give the man a chance, but despite how much you attempt to reason with your gut feelings – repeatedly telling yourself that you are overreacting – you simply cannot warm up to him. Something about that man just rubs you the wrong way. And now-
You weren't imagining things.
He was following you.
He had been following you for over 20 minutes as you idly strolled through the city, enjoying the ambiance of the high street by night.
A cold shudder runs through your body as you realize that you can't possibly go home now or else you'll lead him straight to your flat. The grip around your busted phone tightens. You can't stay here either. It's late enough that the streets are pretty much empty, and staying here will do you now favors. You have to keep moving.
You continue forward on shaky legs, eyes flickering across the space in front of you as you simultaneously try to listen for footsteps behind you. On the other side of the street two men are drunkenly stumbling towards the park. A small voice in the back of your head tells you not to judge them too quickly, but your already high-strung nerves scream at you to keep going.
The teenagers you heard laughing earlier come into view and you silently prepare to ask them for help, but your heart stops the moment you realize that it's a group of three girls, barely fifteen years old if you had to guess. You can't get them involved in this. You simply can't. The mere idea of something happening to them because of you, scares you so much more than the thought of having to face your stalker alone.
Salvation comes around the next corner in form of a small privately owned corner shop that's still open despite the late hour. You don't hesitate.
The woman behind the counter gives you a tired, mostly uninterested look as you dart between the shelves and angle your body in a way that allows you to glance through the window front and into the street.
Holding your breath, you pretend to shuffle through the items on the shelf. Biscuits. Yes, you tell yourself, you have suddenly developed a newfound interest for the ingredients listed on the back of biscuit boxes.
And then-
He's there. Standing outside the shop, pretending to look at a flyer that's plastered against the dirty glass. Quickly, you avert your eyes, put one of the boxes back into the shelf and pick up another one.
Your mind is racing.
You're a good fifteen minutes away from home but you really, really don't want the man to know where you live. Calling the police wouldn't do any good either. As far as you know, this is the first time he's been following you. And technically... Technically he hasn't even done anything wrong so far. You have no proof, no grounds to stand on other than your gut feeling. The police's appearance would scare him away, sure, but it would also tell him that you're now aware that he followed you.
And that- That simply cannot end well for you.
The spider web of broken glass that sits on top of your useless phone stares up at you. If only you hadn't dropped it. You could have called one of your friends to pick you up and stay the night at their place. It wouldn't necessarily solve your stalker problem, but at least you would have been safe for the night.
Wracking our brain, you try to remember any of their numbers but the only ones you come up with are your own and the long-since disconnected landline of your childhood home. Those and....
Oh.
Your eyes dart to the women behind the counter. Out of your peripheral you see the man outside turning away from you, concealing his face as he pretends to tie his shoes. Clearly, he has no intention of leaving.
Collecting every bit of bravery you can muster in a situation like this, you walk up to the register and give the woman your best apologetic smile. "Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you mind lending me your phone for just a minute?" She frowns at you but before she can say anything you show off your broken screen and quickly continue. "I just completely busted mine and I really need to make a call. I'll be very quick and standing right over there," you point to the magazine rack that's easily visible from the counter, "so you can see me. Promise, it'll just be a minute or two."
You'll never know whether it's your trustworthy face or your desperate rambles that convince the woman to give her phone to you but soon you stumble over your 'thank you's as your fingers type in a number you haven't called in years.
Walking over to the magazine rack you face the shop's big window and cross your fingers, silently begging to whoever might be listening that your call will go through.
It rings once. Twice.
The man is now standing on the other side of the street, head bowed, pretending to be busy on his phone. It isn't a coincidence. It's not your mind playing tricks on you after watching one too many true crime videos. He's waiting for you to leave the shop. You don't want to think about what will happen if you do.
Moments after the third ring, someone picks up on the other end of the line.
"Who is this?"
You let out a shaky breath and squeeze your eyes together. "John? John, it's me. Can you please come and pick me up? I need your help."
If John Price is surprised to hear your voice, he doesn't show it. Overall, he seems rather calm and collected as you quietly explain your situation – apologizing multiple times for bothering him so late in the evening – and where exactly you're hiding from your stalker. You can hear rustling and quiet voices in the background and honestly feel horrible for bothering a man you haven't talked to in years, especially since you're somewhat aware of the fact that John holds a pretty important position in the military.
He and your father used to be tight friends, and were often shipped out together until their career paths lead them into separate directions. You have vague childhood memories of him and your father sitting side by side in the living room, telling what must have been heavily watered-down, kid-friendly versions of their 'adventures'.
When you were young, you had never really bothered to ask why John's visits slowly became a rarity. There never seemed to be any animosity between them, so you just assumed that they drifted apart over the years. And yet your father had always insisted that should you ever need it, John would be there to help.
He used to say, "Johnny's a good boy, that one. Loyal to a fault, you'll see," and then make you remember John's phone number whenever it changed. (Which happened quite often for a couple of years, much to your annoyance.)
You have never been more grateful for your father's paranoia than you are in this very moment.
"Take a breather, love," Price interrupts your anxious thoughts and the old nickname makes your eyes burn. "You did good, calling me. Sit tight and I'll be there in 20 minutes, can you do that for me?"
"Yeah," you breathe out with relief, pressing your free hand against your rapidly beating heart. "I'll have to return the phone I borrowed, but I can stay here I think."
"Good. Stay inside and stay within the shop assistant's line of sight at all times. I'll be there before you know it."
"I- Yes. Thank you, John."
"It's no trouble, love." He hangs up, leaving you once again alone with your thoughts.
The man is still outside. Still waiting.
As you return the borrowed phone to the woman with a fake smile, you silently wonder what on earth must be going on inside his head. Surely, any sane person would have gotten bored by now and left? But then again, his motives have obviously been questionable from the very beginning.
You busy yourself with browsing the shelves, making sure to follow Price's instructions and never stray too far from the women behind the counter even though she gives you a weird look every now and then.
You're honestly surprised at Price's willingness to come and get you. Sure, your father had always sworn on his loyalty, but how many men would actually go out of their way to pick up their former best friend's kid whom they haven't talked to in forever?
You stare at the colorful row of energy drinks in front of you as if they hold the answers to all your questions. Three different shades of neon pink stare back at you and you're almost tempted to buy one just to feel the artificial sweetness trying to cover up the underlying acidity. Radiating Raspberry Rush. Blossoming Berry Bomb. Cheerful Cherry Cherish? Clearly, someone in marketing had lost themselves in the joy of alliterations. Your fingers tap against the can absentmindedly.
"Hey!"
Startled, your head snaps towards the woman behind the counter. She's frowning at you with suspicion. "Stop faffing about. If you're not going to buy anything you have to get out."
"I'm sorry," you rush to explain, not quite sure where her sudden irritation is coming from, "I'm actually waiting for someone to come and pick me up, it shouldn't be much-"
"Does this look like a bus stop to you?" Your heart sinks as she raises her voice at you. Does she think you're trying to steal something? You haven't been acting that strangely, have you?
Your eyes nervously flicker towards the window. He's still there. Should you try to explain the situation to her? She doesn't really look like she'd hold a lot of sympathy for you.
"Hey," she impatiently snaps her fingers at you when you don't answer quickly enough. "I'm talking to you. I said buy something or get out of here. Are you deaf?"
You can feel your cheeks burning from embarrassment as she calls you out so openly. She's terribly rude about it, sure, but she kind of has a point. Any other day you would have said something rude yet dismissive and left the shop in a huff, but now your already frayed nerves are about to snap.
Before either of you get the chance to say anything, the door of the corner shop slams open with a bang. The sound is so loud and unexpected as it cuts through the tense silence, that it has you flinching back in surprise. You dart around, expecting to see your stalker in the doorframe, and you're ready to make a run for it when you hear the familiar sound of John Price's voice.
"That'll do."
Out of the corner of your eyes you can see how the shop assistant's back straightens instinctively. He's always carried that natural authority with him, no matter where he goes. Out on the battlefield during active fire or in a small corner shop in England; Price commands the room easily.
Your heart is thundering inside your chest and you openly stare as John approaches you.
He looks nothing like you imagined and yet it's so painfully him that I takes your breath away. The John you remember – the one that used to buy you ice cream on hot summer days and carried you on his back after you had scraped both of your knees on the playground – was a young soldier in his early twenties, with bright eyes and a cheerful grin on his face.
The man standing in front of you now is in his early forties. His eyes are tired and slightly red, like your own get after too many hours spent staring at a screen, but they haven't lost any of that gentle kindness you remember. They simply gained a set of crow's feet.
Most of his hair is hidden underneath a fisherman beanie but you can tell from the sides that it's probably kept in the familiar short style most military men prefer. What catches you off guard are the mutton chops that are clearly there by choice and not due to a shaving accident. Strangely enough, he makes it work. It actually looks quite charming on him.
He's in uniform. Long cargo pants made from that tough fabric that can handle the wear and tear of active duty. Reinforced knees, extra pockets and a belt wide enough to hold the weight of a holster. You blink twice, not fully realizing how open you are with your expressions. Unbeknown to you, the corners of John's mouth twitch upwards.
Your father hasn't owned a gun since he was discharged. Your mother had hated the idea of having weapons in the same house her children lived in and your father hadn't bothered to argue with her.
And even tough it makes sense that he is armed, seeing Price openly carry a gun in a public space still feels strange to you. Not scary... just strange. You can't quite place the feeling.
Your eyes wander up, take note of the windbreaker he's casually thrown over his combat shirt, and then your eyes finally meet. "Hi," you say a bit lamely, unsure how to start the conversation.
Given how long you've taken to familiarize yourself with this new version of John Price, you're sure he had more than enough time to do the same with you. The last time the two of you had been face to face you had been – quite literally – a child. Heat rises to your cheeks. For some reason that thought fills you with embarrassment.
"Evening, love," he grunts out not unkindly. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine, I guess?" Even to your own ears it sounds more like a question than an actual answer. "I'm not hurt or anything, just... a bit frazzled. I'm really sorry for bothering you this late, but he's still waiting outside and I didn't know who else to call." You know you're repeating yourself, but you also can't stand the idea of Price thinking you're taking his help for granted.
"White shirt, blue jeans, standing across the street. He's hard to overlook," John comments dryly and nudges you further into the shop. "Don't worry about it. We got it handled just fine."
You make a questioning noise as he picks up a bag of crisps and two energy drinks. (Lion's Roar and Bear's Strength. "The energy drink for working men," it says on the shiny black cans.) Feeling quite awkward in your own skin, you follow him back to the register where you can see the woman's narrowed eyes following your every step.
"The muppets insisted I don't leave empty handed," he tells you as if that explains anything at all. You look up at him, quietly wondering how a commanding officer like Price could possibly be connected to the Cookie Monster, as the woman scans in the items.
If he notices you staring – and you're sure he does – Price doesn't mention it. Instead, you find yourself once again caught completely off guard as the hulking figure of a man throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you in. "What-," you gasp bewildered as you stumble against Price's broad chest. If you thought your heart was beating quickly before, you're now sure it's about to jump out of your chest. You wouldn't exactly call yourself a small person, but next to Price you feel absolutely dwarfed. You can't help but notice how heavy the arm around your shoulders is. You might not have been able to see it because of to his jacket, but there's no doubt in your mind that Price has biceps like tree trunks. You're... not quite sure what to do with that information but your utter confusion must show on your face because you can feel Price chuckle.
Instead of explaining anything, the man only winks at you and leads you out of the shop where you are suddenly met with the cheerful sounds of catcalls.
You can feel the heat rushing into your head as your cheeks flush in a deep red.
Price, who doesn't look like he's keen to remove you from under his arm anytime soon, leads you to a group of four men. They're standing in front of a black vehicle. Some sort of military-grade SUV that probably costs more than you'd ever earn in a lifetime, and yet one of them is perched on top of the car's hood as if it was solely made for him to sit on. Price throws one of the energy drinks his way and the man catches it easily with one hand. "You boys better behave now," Price chides the soldiers in front of him and then proceeds to introduce you to them.
You give the four men a bit of an awkward wave, unsure how they'll react to the fact that you're practically cuddling with Price. John seems unperturbed as he continues with the introductions.
"These are my Sergeants; Sanderson," he points to the man on top of the car, who gives you a friendly mock-salute, "Garrick and MacTavish."
Sergeant Garrick is happy to shake your hand and reintroduce himself as "Gaz" and Sergeant Sanderson as "Roach". MacTavish follows suit as he takes the second energy drink and the crisps from Price's hand and tells you to call him "Soap" with a wink.
You repeat the names under your breath, doing your best to memorize them when the fourth man turns his head away from the group. His face is hidden under a black balaclava that has the white markings of a human skull printed on it, and he's standing far enough away that you cannot make out the color of his eyes.
Something about him makes you uneasy. It's not just his appearance, you think. It's that too quiet aura around him, the way he's standing just a little bit too still. Like a predator waiting to pounce. His gaze is clearly fixed on something you cannot make out.
After an agonizing long moment in which none of you seem to breathe, the man turns his back towards your little group. His eyes meet Price's and he nods. "Target is gone. Bastard has fucked off as soon as he saw you being all handsy with your darling snookums over here."
You-
You're pretty sure your face is about to burst into flames.
A round of choked out laughter and loud guffaws reaches your ears as you stare at the giant masked man with wide eyes.
At your side, Price coughs and removes his arm from your shoulder. "Right," he grunts as you silently beg the heavens to open a sinkhole under your feet and swallow you whole. "Well then, meet my Lieutenant. Ghost."
No first name. No last name. Just Ghost. The words 'redacted' and 'classified information' hang in the air between you. Your eyes flicker up to the skull balaclava, and you decide that it might be smarter to let sleeping dogs lie. At least the name fits him.
Soap sends you a warm grin and slaps your shoulder in what you assume was meant to be camaraderie. "Alright then, Snookums, let's get you home, aye?"
Your face falls. "No. Absolutely not. I will not be 'Snookums'."
Gaz sends you an apologetic look, "I'm afraid that's not up to you, Snookums, darling."
"No!"
I don't know at which point in time I decided it would be fun to draw those stupid energy drinks but I got far too invested in it.
the number 1 rule of fanfic is have fun and be yourself. the number 2 rule is the average healthy adult male can lose roughly 2 liters of blood before dying.
⤷ poly!141 x reader, first time seeing you in a dress/suit when you try it on before your friend’s wedding
⤷ reader in a dress
About an hour after lunch, you’re standing in your room on base, critically eyeing your reflection. The narrow, floor-length mirror sheet that has been half-heartedly glued to the front of your wardrobe is a luxury hardly any of the military dorms provide, forcing other soldiers to sneak in their own or make do with the mirrors in the communal bathrooms. Most days you and your roommate are grateful for the shabby thing, but in this very moment you quietly wish you had caved a long time ago and invested in a broader standing mirror.
Now you are forced to press yourself against your closed door to see your full reflection, leaving you with hardly any room to twist and turn as you stare at your newly bought bridesmaid dress. You can’t remember the last time you’ve worn something this elegant and truly feminine. Since you’ve joined the military years ago, you’re almost always in uniform or in the comfort of your gym clothes. It’s an odd sight. Good but odd.
Seeing yourself like this, you realize that you kind of missed it. Maybe you'll buy yourself another dress the next time you’re in town. Or a skirt? Something with ruffles, you think as you walk back over to your wardrobe where a little box waits for you that holds a set of earrings and a matching necklace. A gift from your friend – the bride – to wear at the wedding.
As you fiddle with the studs of the earrings, trying to find the right angle after not wearing any for such a long time, there’s a knock at your door. Before you can answer, it’s already being pushed open and you roll your eyes. There’s only one person on base who thinks he can just enter your room whenever he wants. (Much to the dismay of your roommate.) “Johnny! How many times do I have to tell you to wait before entering?” You scold the man, not bothering to turn around as you finally manage to secure the second earring. You move your head from side to side to admire how they twinkle in the light.
Instead of the playful answer or dismissive scoff you expect to hear in return, only silence meets your ears. You frown and take a step back so you can properly turn towards the door where Johnny is standing like he’s been frozen to the spot. “Johnny?”
He doesn’t answer.
He stares at you wide-eyed and open mouthed and looks just stupid enough that it makes you laugh. “What? Johnny, what’s wrong?” Perplexed by his weird reaction – or rather lack thereof – you try your best to laugh it off only for Johnny to walk backwards out of your room, still staring. Your gaze follows him as he turns towards the hallway that leads to the rec room. “Guys,” he yells out, “come here, you have to see this!”
Oh, great.
Sure. Why not have the entire team stare at you, while Johnny’s at it?
Putting your hands on your hips, you sigh in annoyance and wait for the approaching footsteps. Gaz is the first to arrive. Just like Johnny, he stops dead in his tracks as soon as he realizes what’s going on. The dumbstruck “Whoa!” that leaves his lips isn’t a noise you’ve ever heard him make before, leaving you clueless whether it’s a positive thing or not.
Then Ghost arrives, lurking in the shadows behind Gaz and Johnny, and he makes this weird punched-out noise that almost sounds like a groan. You frown and turn back to your reflection, “Is it really that bad?” You sound disappointed even to your own ears. When you first tried the dress on in the store you had quite liked it. Sure, the muscles in your arms and back looked a bit pronounced in comparison to the elegant cut and fabric of the dress, but up until now that hadn’t really bothered you. “I thought I looked pretty,” you mumble under your breath as you reach for the necklace your friend had gifted you.
“You look absolutely lovely.”
Surprised by his sudden appearance, you gasp as Captain Price gently takes the necklace from you. How a man as big as him is able to easily sneak up on you, you’ll never know. You look up, meeting his eyes in the cheap mirror reflection. “I don’t look weird?”
You cannot pinpoint at which moment in your friendship you’ve started to crave Price’s approval so much, but you’re pretty sure he knows how much you value his opinion. He smiles back at you. Calm and reassuring. His hands slowly slide the necklace around your neck, fingers ghosting over the vulnerable skin, sending small shivers down your back.
“You are beautiful, love,” he answers as he closes the little clasp of your necklace, his hands naturally falling down to your waist, where their warmth burns right through the fabric of the dress. “Don’t let these muppets put doubts in your head. They’re simply too stunned to speak. You’re quite the sight.” With that Price lets go of you and lets the words sink in.
Oh. Oh god.
Heat rushes to your face so quickly you can feel it burn in your cheeks. When you find the courage to turn back towards the other three, you find them still glued to the spot, still staring, and you realize that maybe that’s a good thing.
⤷ reader in a suit
About an hour after lunch, you’re standing in front of the mirrors in the communal bathroom on base, critically eyeing your reflection. The dorms for lower ranked soldiers don’t provide the luxury of mirrors so unless you care enough to buy your own and bring it with you whenever you’re relocated, the bathroom mirrors or an occasional puddle are pretty much your only option. Most days you couldn’t care enough about any of this, but in this very moment you quietly wish you had caved a long time ago and invested in a small mirror of your own.
Now you are standing next to the showers, trying your best to ignore the very much tone-deaf man who thinks he’ll be the next Shakira, as you twist and turn in front of your own reflection. When your friend had asked you to be one of his groomsmen months ago, you had happily agreed. You’ve known your friend since childhood and were honestly quite excited for him, which made your current predicament quite the stupid little tragedy.
When you had ordered the groomsmen suit two months ago, you completely forgot about the special ops wilderness survival training and now your dress shirt didn’t fit anymore.
Well, it did fit. Technically.
But the buttons were holding onto the shirt for dear life, struggling to keep the damn thing closed. And your arms looked like they were about to burst out of the dress shirt. It was honestly just ridiculous. “I look like a goddamn stripper,” you tell your reflection with a shake of your head. Picking up the thankfully fitting suit jacket you leave the bathroom and head towards your team’s rec room, quietly praying to whomever might be listening that one of the 141 might be able to help you out with this.
You get quite a few odd looks in the hallway but ignore them as best as you can. Since you’ve joined the military years ago, you’re almost always in uniform or in the comfort of your gym clothes. Everyone here is, so it feels strange enough to be in civvies on base, you don’t really need to think about just how form-fitting they currently are.
When you enter the rec room you’re surprised to find all members of the 141 currently present – even Price who’s usually holed up in his office at this hour. Everyone is busy with their own form of entertainment, so they don’t immediately pay attention to you. Someone else might have been bothered by the lack of acknowledgements, but you know better. Your teammates are aware of your presence in the room, you don’t doubt that for even a second, but they’re also comfortable enough to simply exist next to you. It took you months of building trust to get here. Still, you have to interrupt the relaxed atmosphere.
You’re a man on a mission, after all.
“Hey, what are the odds one of you has a dress shirt in this color?”
Slowly, almost lazily, they focus on you. It takes them a couple of seconds to realize what you are wearing and then suddenly Johnny is bursting into giggles. “What on earth happened to you?” The sight of you is apparently so hilarious that is send him straight off the couch and onto the floor, where he proceeds to laugh at you in a most unhelpful matter. Putting your hands on your hips, you roll your eyes at Johnny’s antics. “Yeah, yeah,” you groan, “I know I look ridiculous, thank you very much for noticing.”
“Dude!” Gaz exclaims, walking up to you and poking at your pecs. “You look like you’re about to film a booktok thirst trap. All you need is Ghost’s helmet and some red light effects.”
You slap his hand away, “I won’t call you out for knowing what a ‘booktook biker thirst trap’ is because we’re friends, but if you keep fondling my tits that might change.”
“Pot. Kettle,” Gaz retorts and proceeds to feel up your upper arms and shoulders. He’s always been a touchy guy – something you’re usually fond of – but even for him this is a bit much. “Seriously though, you look absolutely snatched. Didn’t you get this measured beforehand?” You sigh and quickly explain your predicament to your team. When you’re done, Price offers to look for a dress shirt and you thank the man profusely while simultaneously trying to fight off Gaz and Soap who keep groping you for some reason.
Surely that’s an HR violation, right?
“Can’t you just wear the dress shirt of the formal uniform?” Ghost chimes in, having been silently observing the situation from his corner of the room this entire time. “I wish. But it’s not even close to the right color. I don’t want to be the one idiot standing out in all the pictures because he forwent dress code.”
“Fair enough,” he says and for a moment you think that’ll be it but then Ghost adds, “If the Captain doesn’t have anything fitting you can have one of mine. Should fit you well enough.” Pleasantly surprised, you smile, earning yourself a rough but not unfriendly grunt.
When Price eventually returns, Soap and Gaz have stopped bothering you. Your Captain hands you a shirt that’s almost a perfect color match. Though as soon as you start taking off the one you’re currently wearing the two Sergeants are immediately at it again, whistling and catcalling you. Heat rushes to your cheeks and you quickly hide the vibrant blush behind your hands. “I hate you so guys so much.”
I really can't be bothered about Fußball these days (tbh I haven't since... 2010 "Mit dem Herz in der Hand und der Leidenschaft im Bein~") but I guess I could force myself to watch at least the first game of the season with my family
so I fully plan on sitting down and doodling random stuff 😂 so feel free to send me random pictures as inspo
Geralt's a fake ass homosexual if I had Joey Batey trailing after me for 20 years singing ballads about how amazing I was and tenderly stitching up my wounds after I got my ass kicked and gently washing my hair and was so devoted to me that everyone called him my bard I would've fucked him so hard that his vertebrae would be shooting out of his mouth like a pez dispenser but maybe that's just me.
turnnoffyourmind
jbbartram-illu
prguitarman
discoholicmusic
2087
snowghoul
