The 141 in regards to cheesy early 2000's romcoms? I'm thinking about it.
Price:
He's slouching against the back of the couch, arm around your shoulder, of course. But he's watching. Critiquing. And it's all about the male lead.
"Well, he's just bein' daft."
"What was he thinking, leaving her to walk alone? A right bloody fool."
"If he let's a door close in her face one more time, we're turning off this hellish thing and putting on something else."
He's always utterly offended by the lack of care and manners, and you're left laughing and grinning, kissing his cheek.
You'd never once walked through a door he hadn't been holding open for you.
Gaz:
He's got opinions. Doesn't interrupt the movie persay, but mumbles them with furrowed brows.
"Mate, you make it look like you've never dated anyone. And with that misplaced confidence and the washboard abs, I know you have, so what in the bloody hell are you doing?"
"Girl, call him. Right now. Make him beg."
My guy, where are the flowers? The excitement? The ambience??"
"Oh, hell naw. Dump. His. Ass."
"Probably only said yes because he's got a 401K."
He's utterly baffled how the two got together in the end, but he has taken a few notes, seeing a couple interesting ideas he's deemed decent for dates. And some more hell no's that he'll avoid at all costs. Not that he'll mention them out loud.
Simon:
He's questioning what he did to be subjected to this. He rumbles quiet complaints for the first 15 minutes.
And then that man is invested.
He's watching. Observing. Calculating.
Is this what you want? Are you trying to silently suggest things to him? Do you want him to chase you down on the way to work and profess his love for you in the middle of the street?
He's still not sure, but he finds himself stuck on what will happen next, pulling you against his front as he tries to piece together how your mind works.
Soap:
This man is down for a romcom. He's seen quite a few growing up thanks to his sisters. He knows all the tropes.
So he always ends up guessing what's going to happen.
"He's gonnae pretend he's a music producer."
"They're gonnae tell him to try and seduce that one, but she's goin' tae use him for her article, but catch feelin's."
"They get fake engaged, but end up hitched in the end."
You've ended up banning him from talking during romcom nights.
Thinking about the 141 ring shopping. Getting you the perfect ring..
Price would get something with diamond. That's non-negotiable in my opinion. If you want something else as the centerpiece, that's fine. Your gem of choice in the center, with smaller diamond accents maybe? Either way, I feel like Price would want to get something with diamond. Expect matching earrings if you wear them. I can see him getting something custom, and Laswell would help him. If you want something more feminine, he might struggle to get the vision. If you don't like what he got, he'll sulk for a day, but still buy you something else.
Simon, I think, would just ask what you want. He'd do it months before he proposes, and take you to ring stores to see what you like. Depending on how much you go jewelry shopping, you'd probably know he's thinking of proposing. If you like looking at jewelry a lot, it might not be obvious. He proposes very casually by the way, asks one day when you're both in the house. "Would you wanna get married?" In a tone that could almost be taken as hypothetical. If you say yes, you'd find a ring in your hand a second later; if you say no, he wouldn't say anything. He doesn't expect you to like what he gets, and despite his nonchalance he was internally freaking out when he asked.
Kyle actually would be the most romantic. John is very traditional in the "old fashioned" way, but Kyle is sort of the modern version of that. If you like masculine things, great! He's a masculine dude, he knows what's up. But it's not fragile masculinity, and he'd also be very comfortable getting familiar with feminine things. He'd learn about different cuts, talk in-depth to the people at the service counters, finding something perfect for you. I think overall, he'd have the most success in ring shopping alone and being creative about it- he can anticipate your taste. Talks to you about marriage before he proposes. He proposes in a way that aligns with your expectations.
You already have a ring from Johnny. He impulse bought you one early into the relationship. It's something between a promise ring, and his own special little gift. He knows he can be really unserious at times, or come off as a bit mindless. But once he realizes you might be the one, he gets you a ring. It's something vaguely you- your favorite gem stone in a simple cut, presented the second he gets it in a very unceremonious fashion (he doesn't want you to think it's an engagement ring). This also means that when he does buy your engagement ring, he'll be so ridiculously romantic and ceremonious about it. You can tell when he's planning on proposing, he's NOT subtle. He already knows your interests, and your ring will probably be like a more elegant version of the promise ring he got. You get proposed to in some stupidly scenic place- Johnny almost sticks out in it. The thought of rejection doesn't even cross his mind tbh.
It was supposed to be an all day trip. Price and his uncles (Simon, John, and Kyle), had gotten back from a two week deployment and decided on a much needed vacation that involved beer, fishing, and a couple nights under the stars. JJ, of course, tagged along, eighteen and ready to show his family he could definitely handle trekking more than a few miles.
Until he’d taken an interest in a very interesting looking bug, because he was absolutely still a little boy who wanted to show his dad the coolest beetle ever, and somehow gotten too far away from the group.
JJ lifted his gaze from the bright colored shell of the beetle to the surrounding trees, cupping his mouth as he called, “Dad!” it echoed along ash and birch trees, startling a few crows from their nests. He waited a moment to hear his name before calling again, only to hear silence as his echo.
Suddenly, he felt eighteen and all of eight, standing in his dad’s Journeyman flannel and boots a size too big.
“Okay,” he exhaled, puffing his chest. “This is okay. I’m fine. It’s daylight, I’m fine, this is fine.”
It was not fine.
He looked around, thinking on what his dad would say if he were here. Probably, wanker, but that was besides the point.
It hit him. S.T.O.P. Stop. Think. Observe. Plan.
Step one was already complete. He dug his boots in and thought.
I’m in Wye Valley, I’m on my own, I have a rucksack. What do I have in said rucksack?
JJ pulled it from his back and dug around. Dad’s knife, a roadside flare, first aid kit, water bottle, two protein bars, large safety pins, and a wind of paracord.
Not totally unprepared. He thought.
Observe.
The sun was high in the sky, his watch read mid-afternoon, his phone said “Good luck finding service.”
Plan.
JJ scratched his chin. He could go back the way he came, try to find the trail and his dad and uncles, or he could walk until he found water, follow it down, and hopefully find a camp.
The day was supposed to be an adventure.
JJ hauled the rucksack back around his shoulders and squared his shoulders, walking forward through brush and fallen leaves.
He walked for what seemed like hours until he came to a wide oak and sat down on a stump next to it, trying to remind himself not to chug the water in his bottle. His watch said thirteen hundred, and he breathed deeply, in and out by fours like his dad said to when he was eight and having a panic attack.
It was disrupted by a shuffle in the bushes next to him and JJ froze, eyes darting to his left where he waited for what he prayed was a small animal coming out that was going to be more afraid of him than what he was praying it wasn’t.
A square, brindle colored head poked out from the bush and JJ blinked as a gangly set of legs followed. An English mastiff puppy, less than two years old by the looks of it, definitely underfed and on its own. The puppy tipped his head, curious dark eyes meeting JJ’s.
“Hey bud,” he murmured softly, gently lifting his hand, wrist out, palm open. “What’re you doing out here by yourself?”
Wetness nosed the inside of his palm, a deep inhale and exhale brushing the hair on the skin of his wrist. JJ smiled despite the situation.
“You’re lost?” he asked, reaching slowly to scratch the pup’s ears. The dog leaned into it with a puppy-like whine, dropping his bum to the forest floor, gangly legs splaying out from under him, and JJ snorted. “Yeah, I’m lost too.”
The puppy panted, a wide smile on his face, and JJ unlooped the webbing belt from around his waist and carefully threaded it around the pup’s neck; the pup went willingly, as if waiting for it.
“Stick together, yeah?” JJ murmured. “Can’t go wrong if we stay side by side.” He ran a hand down the pup’s back, picking burrs where they’d stuck into his backside.
JJ stood, took a deep breath, and looked down. “Keep walking? We’re bound to find someone eventually.”
The pup seemed to accept it, standing up and shaking himself out.
“Need a name though,” JJ said, examining him. “Maximus?”
The puppy stared.
“Brutus?” another stare and JJ thought hard for a moment before offering, “Bear?”
Bear huffed and JJ grinned.
“Bear it is.”
The two of them set out again, and JJ talked to fill silence because silence meant the eight year old was going to start crying and he’d be damned if his dad and uncles found him crying next to a gangly puppy in the middle of Wye Valley.
They walked until the sun began to dip towards the horizon and they came across a small clearing next to a pool of water that could barely even count as a pool. JJ scowled as Bear bent down to lap at it.
“C’mon, Bear, I’ve got cleaner water,” he grumbled, pulling on the makeshift leash a few times to draw the big square head away from the obviously bacteria infested pool.
Another tug and suddenly Bear went still, hackles raising, and the skin of his mouth curled back to reveal two rows of white teeth, tongue flicking between them as a deep snarl reverberated in his chest.
JJ dropped the belt like it was molten; he’d played with enough neighborhood dogs in Herefordshire to know when a dog said, “Back off.”
But Bear didn’t turn on him, didn’t even look back at him, he kept looking at a set of bushes about ten feet away on the other side of the water.
The smell hit JJ first. Rank, sour, like someone had left meat to spoil. It made his stomach churn and the hair on the back of his own neck stand up straight.
The bushes split open, a boar lazied its way into what was obviously its turf, and JJ’s throat locked as his stomach dropped.
Boars are nasty bastards, son, if you ever see one, if you’re ever unlucky enough to come face to face with one, don’t run. Back away slowly, find a tree if you can. Keep as much distance between as you can. They run fast, and gore faster.
JJ’s inahle was as quiet as a mouse as he bent, slow and steady to curl around the belt. He rose, pulling ever so gently.
“Bear,” he whispered, eyes still locked on the boar. “Back. Easy, boy.”
But Bear didn’t move. His snarl lashed again, tongue flicking and the boar looked at them. A single hoof dug into the dirt, stomping as it squealed, defending its territory. Bear stood his ground between the beast and the eighteen-year-old he’d decided was his boy now, like his ancestors did before.
“Bear,” JJ insisted a little louder. “C’mon boy, back.”
It was an easy decision.
Don’t pick the fight with the bigger beast.
The boar decided for them with another squeal as it ducked its head and charged.
JJ recoiled, arms coming up naturally to defend himself, but Bear surged, meeting the charge head-on. They clashed in a fury of tusks and teeth, slashing and snapping at one another. Bear’s bark was savage, a vicious sound that shouldn’t have come out of his mouth at such a young age but was bred into his bones by the past of dogs who hunted bears and lions. The boar squealed again, screeching when Bear’s teeth clamped down on its ear, tearing it to ribbons, and then it tucked its head and hauled up, tusk sticking into the soft underside of Bear’s stomach and shearing down the side of him.
Bear yelped, flung a foot off into the grassy floor, blood bright and angry against the brindle of his coat.
The boar curled its head again, preparing a charge with those tusks that would surely gore the pup dead.
JJ’s brain caught up with his body after the fact as a hundred and thirty pounds of pure Price spine and dumb courage slammed into the boar’s side. He curled his arms around the boar’s thick neck, one forearm locked beneath its chin, the other hand secured on his wrist.
The boar screamed and thrashed, but JJ held on, anything to give Bear enough time to get his feet under him. Even as the bear’s tusk tore JJ’s forearm, crook to palm open to bone, he held on. Hooves stamped, legs bucked, feet powered by hatred and anger slammed into JJ’s abdomen, his hips, his legs. A sickening crack echoed in his ears, pain flaring in his ribs. The boar bucked again and JJ’s grip, slick from crimson, slipped, and he went crashing a foot away, breath knocked from his lungs.
He tried to sit up when teeth clamped on his shin, tearing fabric, and JJ howled a scream he didn’t recognize as his own as the flesh and meat of his shin and calf sheared like a hot knife through butter. He kicked with his free leg, heel of his boot slamming repeatedly to get the beast off him.
A snarl bellowed like thunder and Bear rammed into the boar’s side like a hammer to an anvil. The boar squealed as the two of them rolled, this time Bear didn’t yelp when the tusks clipped his shoulder. He went for whatever weak spot he could. Neck, leg, soft belly. His teeth snapped and tore, bristles mixing with saliva and blood.
JJ rolled onto his stomach, curling his arm to his chest as he dragged himself to his rucksack. Wetness coated every surface as he shoved his good arm down inside until his fingers curled around the hilt of his dad’s knife. JJ yanked it out, freed it from the scabbard and with numbly, slick fingers, hefted it by his ear, blade between the tips.
Uncle Simon’s words came back to him from the day on base at the training grounds, a steady hand on his shoulder, a touch to his elbow.
Wrist, not your elbow. See the line. Throw through it—not at it.
“HEY!”
The boar lifted his head.
JJ inhaled a breath he didn’t have and let it sail. It sang and sunk to the hilt just below the boar’s right eye.
It dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
JJ exhaled and collapsed on his back as silence peeled around them. He breathed deep, wounds throbbing with every pulse, heart hammering in his ears like a cymbal. He lie there for what felt like an hour until he heard whimpering and turned his head, watching as Bear drug himself with curled paws until his nose brushed JJ’s wrist.
“Hey boy,” he breathed. “Bloody good boy.”
JJ looked down Bear’s body, eyes widening at the sight of organs peering through the gaping wound. He swallowed the fear and pushed himself up.
Fear did not live where training roosted.
He dug in the rucksack for the first aid kit, but first aid kits never came with needle and thread, and the gauze wouldn’t hold that much openness. JJ’s jaw clenched and he felt Bear’s nose bump his wrist again, brown eyes pained but trusting.
“Okay,” JJ whispered. “It’s gonna be okay.”
He gathered his water bottle and swallowed the bile in his throat as he pulled Bear’s intestines back, rinsing them as he pushed them back inside the pup’s body. Bear whimpered, but he didn’t move, even when JJ grabbed the handful of safety pins, swallowed again, and unpinned one, forcing his wounded arm to move, thumb and forefinger pinching the seam of Bear’s stomach, and pushing the pin through the skin. JJ felt tears swim in his vision every time Bear moaned, but that nose kept pushing into his wrist. He pinned until the wound was sealed and the organs weren’t threatening to spill.
JJ drew his good arm back and wiped his nose, blood, snot, and tears smearing on his face. “It’s gonna be okay, Bear,” he whispered, shedding his dad’s flannel.
He looped the back over Bear’s stomach, tied the arms with his teeth and good arm before he unwound the belt at the pup’s neck and cinched it around the flannel. Bear’s head dropped back onto the forest floor with a groan and JJ looked down at his own arm and leg.
White met his vision, an ugly shearing down on both limbs and this time, JJ didn’t fight it; he leaned over and threw up beside himself, then he wiped his mouth and got to work.
His bootlaces came undone, a sapling snapped in two to line either side of his leg. He peeled off his shirt and tore it in half, closing the flaps of muscle, tendon, and skin before he wrapped his leg, placed the sticks and tied around it until his vision went white and his molars creaked from how hard his jaw was clenched. Then his arm. He wound the other half of the shirt around his forearm and tied it with the wrap from the first aid kit.
JJ lie back on the forest floor and felt his stomach churn again. The sky was beginning to darken, the brightest of the early stars dotting above.
If we stay, we’ll die.
The thought pierced through his skull like a bullet, and he looked over at Bear. The pup’s eyes were watching him, slit but still there, still watching his boy.
“We gotta move, Bear,” JJ murmured. “We’ll die if we don’t.”
Bear’s groan rumbled deep in his chest but he lifted his head and tried to put a paw underneath himself. JJ swallowed, shut his eyes, and forced himself up. Fireworks scattered bright and blinding, vomit rose up his esophagus; his bad leg threatened to buckle but he locked his knee and bent down, hauling Bear up and over his shoulders. This time, his knees shook, his vision swam, but he clenched his jaw, drew on the spine of steel his father gave him, and put one foot in front of the other.
Bear’s pant echoed in his ear, warm breath and thumping against his neck kept him going. JJ didn’t think, he moved, because if he thought, he’d fall, and if he fell...
He forced himself to keep going until he met the trail and night fell on them. The moon rose, silver slivers between the trees shined the way with each step of his bloodied boots. His arm had gone completely numb, his leg stiff in a way that felt like stepping on needles, but he kept going.
His good hand left Bear’s legs for a second to put the whistle dangling from his neck into his mouth. It tasted cool against the blood that kept pooling.
Every exhale, he blew.
It split the trees and bounced back, but he kept doing it. Inhale, blow, inhale, blow, inhale, blow.
Time drew into something strange, folded and unfolding. He walked through the corridors of now, up and down slopes until the ground leveled. The brush began to thin until it met worn dirt paths.
JJ’s foot caught a root, and he stumbled like the sea rumbling the shore. He went to his knees without meaning to, catching Bear and easing the pup to the ground. The world spun like a coaster, and he let it. He rolled onto his side and faced Bear, putting a hand on the square head, thumb brushing the brows of the brindle fur. Bear’s eyes were glazed but he was present, and he licked JJ’s wrist, the most gallant thank you in the world.
JJ dragged air into his lungs that had forgotten how during the trek back and fumbled the whistle into his mouth again. This time he blew as hard as he could manage in each breath. His head rolled, eyes peering into an ink-black sky. Tears gathered and all he wished was that he was eight again and riding on dad’s shoulders down the trail, giggling as Price’s hands kept a hold on his shins.
JJ choked on a breath that warbled in the whistle.
Bear suddenly looked over JJ’s shoulder, inhaling and sniffing the air. JJ blew again and Bear’s head lifted, and with all the strength the pup had—barked.
Something in the air changed.
A distant crackle a hundred yards away. Brush moving, twigs snapping, but not like animals, the way men moved—measured, urgent, and communicative. JJ could barely lift his head. He couldn’t hear voices yet, but he could hear the cadence, the crackle of radios, the calling of a name.
High beams cut through the woods, painting black trunks white, then another beam, three, four, five.
JJ strained as his name was bellowed every few seconds, measured in wait time.
He lifted the whistle again, tears glistening as he blew with everything he had left in him.
A beam cut in his direction, and his pupils retracted as blinding light cut across his face.
“JJ!”
“Dad?” he called weakly, because anything louder would shake the relief of the moment he was in.
The beams shifted rapidly, up and down, an image of a man silhouetted by other flashlights as he ran closer, followed by other jerking beams of light until it split the hollow around JJ open.
Price skidded to a stop, dropped to his knees. “Jesus Christ, JJ,” he breathed, grief and fear warring within him. His hands hovered for a split second before the captain’s visage came into place.
“Simon, triage,” he said, voice hard and Simon’s mask came into JJ’s view.
“Dad,” JJ started, tongue heavy in his mouth.
“Don’t talk, son,” Price murmured, brushing his hair back over a sweat-slicked brow.
JJ swallowed as Simon’s hands worked along his wounds. “Bear,” he breathed, good arm fumbling for the dog. “Someone get Bear.”
Soap bent down beside the pup, eyes widening and jaw dropping as he peeled away the belt and flannel to see what he was dealing with. “Christ Almighty, JJ,” Soap managed. “What happened to ye two?”
JJ’s eyes dragged back to Price’s as rangers’ voices echoed on radios, calling for a medevac. “Dad, I—”
Thinking about wolfpack!141 w/fem reader.. Obv Price is at the top of their little pyramid, then it's pretty much age order, even if the dynamics don't come into play much. It's a small pack sure, but it works. They're efficient, and focused, relationship a strong and intimate bond forged over years of shared trauma.
This, of course, changes when another pack member is added.
It doesn't matter to Hyena!Laswell that the newest 141 member is human. If theres at least a few pack-minded hybrids in a group, a pack will be formed despite species. And fem!reader actually spent some time with Laswell's pack in the US before transferring to the UK. This means Reader is familiar with hybrids, but Laswell's pack worked in a completely different structure than the 141.
After introductions, theres a few days of getting to bond, make sure the addition works. It's not until after two months and a few small missions that the 141 pack really starts to take in Reader. Letting them into the fold of the pack was an unspoken and unilateral decision by the boys. It starts simply, with an invite to the den.
"Oi." Simon's voice draws Reader's attention, causing them to look up from the sink. Simon's been standing quietly behind them for a second now, watching them rinse the glass they used to get some water before bed.
"Simon.." They say his name a bit surprised, normally the blond wolf is tucked in by now. "What's up? You need something?" Their voice is soft because of the later hour, the sun finished setting by now. Simon just stares for a moment, realizing he didn't think of what to say. He was just waiting mindlessly, waiting..
Finally, he speaks, face a blank mask despite how his ears go down a tad, betraying the bashful feeling that's slowly building up. "You're wanted in the den." He answers plainly, vague as always. "Others ar' probably there already."
Reader blinks in confusion, slowly putting the now-washed glass on the drying rack. "Uh.. okay.. thanks." They respond quietly, nodding, before shuffling past Simon. Said man makes no attempt to really move, instead just watching the human with that same blank and quiet stare.
Reader makes their way to the den, a room they haven't been in much. Filled with scented items, too many blankets to count, and a closet full of random things the pack may need while engaging in pack activities. Snacks, bandaids, extra clothes, lube.. Not that Reader knows all what's in there. When the confused human opens the door to the den, they expect to be met with some annoyed glare or something, assuming they were getting scolded. Instead they were met with instructions to remove their shoes, and Price's motion to come into the mess of blankets and pillows that Soap was tossing around in.
They settle into the comfortable nest, waiting for some kind of explanation that never comes. Instead the werewolves help them get comfortable, and before they knew it, all of the 141 was sprawled in the nest, dosing off for the night, a new addition kept safely in the middle.
