He comes into your life like nothing less than divine intervention.
A fender bender, of all things. It’s a bad day and you’re distracted, too busy thinking about your dad calling to tell you that he lost ten thousand from his retirement fund when the stock he’d invested in crashed and how you’re supposed to help him out of this mess, and the roads are slick with that last snowfall of early spring, still unsalted even hours after the snow started.
So when you slam on the brakes at the last second after noticing the car in front of you stopped at a red light, your car slips on the ice and slides forward, hitting the back of the stopped car and sending it forward a foot. It’s quick and sudden, and though you stepped on the brakes early enough to avoid a worse collision, your head snaps forward with the jolt and the seatbelt yanks you back violently, winding you.
Your hands go tight around the wheel, eyes so wide that they nearly pop out of your head as you stare at the car directly in front of you. All of the dread in the world pools in your mouth and then down your throat when you swallow, heart galloping in your chest. You almost can’t believe it for a second.
Then the car in front of you—a big, fuck-you SUV that only worsens your anxiety because of all cars to hit, it had to be someone with a fancy, brand new car that probably has a lawyer on speed dial—puts their hazards on and the driver’s side doors opens and reality snaps like a rubberband back into you. With shaky hands, you put your car into park and put your hazards on as well.
“Oh shit,” you whisper under your breath. An understatement.
A tall man in a brown parka steps out of the car and stares at you through the windshield, a stern expression on his face. He has a beanie pulled down over his head and a full beard, and for a second, the mental image of a bear emerging out of its den flickers in your imagination, all snow-dusted and irritable.
He’s grizzled and older than you. The only consolation is that he doesn’t match the image of the driver that you had in your head—no seven thousand dollar suit or bluetooth earpiece; instead, he seems like the kind of man who’d drive an old pickup or a schooner, wearing an Aran sweater and a skipper's cap, with a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. He seems out of place in the middle of the road in your small town.
But he is real, and even though you watch him march over to you, you flinch when he raps on the window with his knuckles.
“Roll the window down,” he instructs, voice muffled through the glass, and you do because the command cuts through the buzzing in your ear. When you do, he reaches into your car with one hand and pops the lock, then takes a step back to open the door. You’d freak out if the situation were different, but you must be in shock because all you can do is stare at him dumbly as he leans into the car and undoes your seatbelt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Out.”
It doesn’t take much coaxing to get you to step out of the car. All he has to do is step back and you get out, knees nearly buckling, like jelly under you. He holds your elbow to steady you. Your elbow feels delicate and tiny in the width of his palm.
“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, looking all over your face.
You want to answer him, but all you can do is whimper, “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, none of that. It was an accident. You alright though? Anything hurt?”
“Uh…I don’t…I don’t know.” It hasn’t really sunk in yet, you think. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be sore all over, but right now you feel fine. On the verge of shaking out of your skin, teeth nearly clattering together, but more or less okay.
“Nothing too bad then. Wanna give me your insurance so we can deal with this, sweetheart?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Let me just—” You move to reach back into your car to fetch your purse, but he stops you, insisting on getting it for you.
And you let him, docile like a doll, watching as he leans into your car and across the seats to grab your purse, big frame looking comically large in your little car. Looking like he’d barely fit in the front seat if he tried to get in.
He comes back out with your little purse in hand and opens it, handing you your wallet and purse by its strap. Your fingers are still shaking when you pull out your insurance information and hand it to him. Everything feels surreal and muted, and the tears are going to flow at any minute now if you don’t get a handle on it.
He must notice because a knuckle fits under your chin and lifts your head up. “Hey, what’s wrong?
“No, no,” you say, reaching up to swipe your fingers over your eyes. “I’m just—I’m really embarrassed. I’ve never been in an accident before.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” His voice is much softer now, pitched low in the way handlers talk to spooked animals. He puts his thumb to your chin, holding you in place. “No one got hurt. Could’ve been worse than it was, and we’ve both got insurance, so what’s done is done. I don’t look mad, do I?”
Trapped between his thumb and knuckle, you can only give a slight shake of your head. “No.”
“Then let’s just take it one step at a time and no tears. Okay?”
You sniff. “Okay.”
“Okay. I’m going to call the insurance, so you get back in the car and sit tight, alright?”
You nod.
“Good girl,” he says, a hint of praise in his voice. “Put the heat on too. It’s too cold for that jacket.”
That makes you go warm all over, flustered and tongue-tied. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to expect a response out of you. The only thing he expects you to do is get back in the car and turn the heat back on, the warm air billowing into your face when he leans in to crank it up all the way.
Though most of the sound is muffled from inside the car, you turn down the heat and crack the window open slightly to hear him give his name to his insurance company. John Price. Even his name evokes the image of him somewhere else in the world, settled into the nooks and crannies of history.
John handles everything for you while you sit in the car like he told you to, settling everything with the insurance companies and calling for a tow truck right after that. You don’t realize that, of course, until the tow truck pulls up in front of his car and he comes back to usher you out of your car.
“How am I supposed to get home?” you croak. The tow truck driver hitches your car to the bed of the lift and pulls it up, your little car looking pathetic all alone up there.
“I’ll drive you home then bring mine in later.”
“Why can’t I drive my car to the garage too?” You’re petulant now that you’ve learned that he won’t bite, and you know it’s petulance because you don’t actually put up much of a fight to get your car taken off the tow truck.
That petulance trembles when his expression grows stern again. “You’re getting it checked by a mechanic before you get behind the wheel again,” he tells you in no uncertain terms, eyes daring you to contradict him.
You don’t. It’s hard to argue with someone so adamant on your wellbeing. A mechanic in later days will tell John, with you by his side, that your car was mostly fine apart from some slight damage to the bumper, but that you made the right call to bring it in just in case the frame cracked during the accident.
John’s arm will be around your waist at the time and he’ll pull you tighter into his side when the mechanic says that. And what do you do but go with it, curling into his side like it’s natural. You’ll have already fucked him by then anyway. It’ll be no less forward than letting him take you for coffee and then back home, following you up to your apartment and into your bed.
Now though, you let him usher you into the passenger seat of his car and shut the door behind you, the wind cutting off abruptly. It only comes back when the door opens on his side.
You rattle off your address and watch bemusedly as he programs it into his GPS and hits save. You don’t have the temerity to question him, to poke a hole in the bubble of familiarity ballooning around the two of you. The real world seems far away in his car, like you’re in limbo, the rules different here somehow.
“How about a coffee?” he asks at the next light, putting his hand on your thigh and shaking when you don’t respond right away. “Does a hot drink sound good right about now?”
“I guess?” you say. In truth, it sounds great, but you’re losing the thread of this conversation, your old preoccupations getting further and further away from you.
John gives your thigh a squeeze, lingering for a beat before pulling away. “Good. It’ll be a nice little pick me up before we go home. My treat.”
cw: intox, dubcon, gaslighting, unedited with an abrupt end
i can see soap giving a girl some secretly super couch-locky weed, turning up the thermostat, putting on a nature documentary, and having the time of his life. it's so, so easy to talk her into stripping down to her bra and panties when it's so damn hot out, bonnie, just swelterin', and she doesn't put up a fuss when he lays her down and climbs on top, telling her to just keep watchin' lass. dinnae mind me, just feel like indulgin' in nature m'self.
he loves the serene, dopey look on her face as she watches drone footage sweeping over thick jungles in the far other corner of the world. she's far, far too entranced by the close up images of colorful, exotic beetles to pay attention to the way he carefully slides his knife between the soft skin of her chest and the flimsy band of fabric holding the cups of her bra together, or even the way he deftly cuts it open, exposing her tits.
she's fully distracted, sluggish and dopey, just the way he wants her. it's easy enough to press his face to her tits, lavishing in how soft they are and the soft little noises she subconsciously makes as he plays with them a bit. it's not until he loses patience and sucks a nipple into his mouth that her attention is suddenly back on him, her reddened eyes wide with surprise.
"what- wait, what're you-"
"bonnie lass, not backin' out now, are ye? ye were so gung-ho about my cock nae even a moment ago. beggin' me for it, even! seein' some pretty birds change yer mind?" soap nods to the tv, where brightly colored parrots flutter and preen on heavy boughs. he can barely hide his sharp smile as he watches her glassy eyes slide from his face to the screen again. her attention sticks there, and he works his magic, whispering into her hazy mind about how good he'll make it, and doesn't it sound so nice, relaxin' on the couch without a care in the world and a fat cock stretchin' ye out?
"uh huh." she says absentmindedly, face still turned towards the tv, not even looking at him, and soap tells himself it's consent enough as he props a leg up against the back of the couch and slides the slickwet gusset of her knickers to the side.
I love you, fics that take months to update. I click on the newest chapter and have no memory of this place and get to go back some chapters and rediscover how much i love everything about this story.
I love you, fics that take years to update. I think of you fondly, and know your names, go search for you and see an update from this year and scream, diving in uncaring of any missed details (i will finish the update and read you in reverse because this is a treat you have bestowed)
I love you, fics that probably will never update again. Thank you for being a roman empire for my mind, thank you for teaching me about the ephemeral fandom experience, for inspiring a thousand million what if-s, for being a comfort read and a nostalgia read and a reread.
I love you fic writers, who jump into projects and stories with enthusiasm. I love you when you succeed in pumping out those chapters and that love doesn't go away when you stop.
I love you fic writers who post and then get in your own head and never feel confident enough to update, whether it's at all or whether it's just that one story.
I love you fic writers, who have a fandom or media hurt you to the point of abandoning or having a hard time with their WIPs.
I love you fic writers, who lose interest or have life changes or illness or bad memory. Thank you for being part of the fandom, a core part of the fandom. Thank you for the time spent in the fandom.
I love you, fic writers who try out something new and then stop. You're so valid.
I love you, WIP fics that may or may not ever get finished. Thank you for brightening my day in the way only you could have.
The tension between the waitress Soap tipped 20$ to sing happy birthday to Ghost as a mean spirited prank (on you) and Ghost who's staring right at your tits, making you uncomfortable, thinking Johnny just got him the best gift a man could ask for (he's gonna kidnap you after your shift) 🧍♀️
Thinking about John Price’s wife still being shy about asking for sex even though John has literally never once turned her down ever. Luckily she’s very bad at hiding what she wants, so he’s always able to tell when she’s wanting him. He may be a little mean about it, may tease her and insist he’ll only touch her when she looks him in the eye and tells him what she wants out loud, but in the end, he could never leave his missus wanting
BTW i see these posts all the time like "ohhh i dont know what to comment on fics.." and every response is "keysmashes! or hearts!! anything works :3" and thats GREAT!! thats helpful!!
but: consider. if u genuinely like analyzing writing.. do u know ur just allowed to go through and quote your favorite parts and ramble abt what they mean to u and the author will LOSE IT WITH HYPE?
genuinely. i felt SO WEIRD the first time i did it.. but like. holy shit authors love it. its crack for authors. the first time i did it, it was on a fic that hadnt updated in half a year, give or take, and the author made 3 updates that month BECAUSE OF MY COMMENT.
LIKE. as an author every comment is INCREDIBLE!!! but also, dont feel like your comment has to be short or otherwise ur invasive or smth!! authors ADORE long comments more than ANYTHING.
My first Ghoap drabble!
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x reader.
tw. talks of fantasy, sharing, threesome. HEA. MDNI!
"You want me to do what?" You exclaim, your voice high enough to startle the person in front of you. Standing in the queue for your morning coffee on the phone to your husband, Simon.
"Its just a fantasy i had, love. It's not important." You hear him reply, his deep voice smooth down the line.
"No- No i mean I'm open to it, but dropping it on me while I'm in the queue, Simon?" You ask, eyes flicking up to the board, as if you didn't already know what you wanted.
"I've just been thinking about it, and i know we talked about expanding things in the bedroom, didn't we?"
Your gaze landed on the cake pops as you nod, forgetting he cant see you.
"You there, love?" He chuckles, his voice light, as if he hadn't just dropped a bombshell on you in public.
"I'm here, just processing." You reply, your face pink at the thought of the suggestion.
Drink and cake pop in hand, you find a quiet corner of the café.
"Is it a one time thing, or do you want more?" You ask softly, your thoughts running wild.
"Up to you, whatever is comfortable for you." Simon replies.
"And you want him to watch, or-?" Your face aflame, you hope no one is close enough to hear your conversation, your gaze flittering around the room.
Seemingly safe, you take a sip from your drink, cherishing the insane amount of sugar and cream in it.
"I want a night with you both, i see the way you look at him too, dove."
You almost choke on your drink, although you were happily married to Simon, and had been for years, there was something charming about the cheeky Scot who ate all your cookies and pressed a friendly kiss into your hair in thanks.
"Si- i don't-" You stutter, your voice cracking.
"Don't need to hide it, i understand." He says softly, his voice almost wistful.
"What if he says no, I'd be so embarrassed." You admit, gripping your phone a little tighter to your ear.
"Who do you think suggested it, love?" He replies.
You feel your pulse race in your throat as you clear it, your mouth unable to form words.
Johnny wanted this too?
"Uh, yeah, okay babe. If its what you want?" Your throat dry, you take another sip from your cup.
"Can't think of a better way to spend the night with my two favourite people." Simon chuckles down the phone.
A cough from behind you interrupts your phone call, turning round, you look into a familiar set of eyes.
"Why are you blushing so hard, Bon?" a deep, Scottish brogue asks.
"Ah, he's there." You hear your husband say through the phone.
"Meet you both at home." He says before hanging up.
Your eyes connect with Johnny's, and you were shocked to see the dark lust behind his eyes.
Holding out a hand, he looks down at you, taking in your flushed face, and the way your thighs are squeezed tightly together, a flicker of a satisfied grin on his face as his eyes travel from your face to your shoes and back again.
"Ready to go home?" he smiles again, the innocence of the question perfect for public, with the promise of more underneath.
You are unable to speak, so give a shaky nod before placing your hand in his, unable to ignore the electricity between you.
He urges you forward, collecting your cup and bag, before settling his hand on your lower back, the heat of his hand branding you forever.
He leans past you to get the door, his body brushing past you as you blush harder.
"Can't wait to see where else you blush, Bonnie." He whispers into the shell of your ear.
"I have a feeling you are going to be a very good girl for us."
your friends thinking your boyfriend, König, is actually your pet. you haven’t introduced him to them yet, just offhand comments about, “Oh— it’s getting a little late, I should go home. König probably misses me.”, or, “Oh, König would love this! [pet bowl for his cat]”. they hear you talk about how you have to be back home early, “He gets stressed out if I’m gone too long.”. maybe he’s a big dog breed? a poor thing with separation anxiety. “König fell asleep on my lap last night and I couldn’t get up for, like, two hours.”, your friends nodding along, they know the rules - you don’t get up if your pet falls asleep on you. “He got into my snacks last night. I couldn’t really be mad, his eyes got all wet and sad.”, awe, your pet has killer puppy dog eyes. with a little training your pet shouldn’t get into your food
color them shocked when they ask to see a photo and it’s a behemoth of a man, “Isn’t he cute? We’re going on a walk later.”
