#141 reader

[froggyfantasy]

Okay, But imagine making bracelets for the 141! And showing them the bracelets, the guys don’t seem excited until you show how you’ve made each bracelet with their callsign and in different colors

It’s only when ghost tries to fit one over his hand that you realize that you’ve made them according to your own wrist, and that of course big army men can’t fit small beaded bracelets like this.

They try to reassure you they’ll find a way to fit the bracelets when you your expression drop, and they end up putting the bracelets on their vest to keep close on them.

They will 100% ask for a new one if they somehow manage to break the old one while out on a mission.

Soaps the one who encourages you to make as many bracelets as possible for him so his arm can be filled with different pastels colors😍

[rawme-price]

Uhmmm reader whos ALSO a demolitions expert joining the 141 bc of reasons they need two for the next op, right?

And johnny who is absolutely smitten when he jogs past u in the morning and hears u reciting bomb refusal methods while you run ur lap. Ofc he insists on talking your ear off about new tech and how its changing the field and pros and cons. Just- rambling on while u meet him at every word with a comment of ur own.

Everyone else can tell hes fallen hard too, right? You were made for eachother, hyper and violent and smart in the best ways. There's no discussion to be had when he slowly starts falling asleep in ur room more often, or when ur clothes get mixed in the same basket. No need to ask if youll be eating together for lunch because of course you will.

It's perfect.

Which makes it all the worse when there's a sudden shout from your line, the speaker blowing out, then nothing. No matter how much johnny tries your line is dead, disconnected. And the warehouse you were working through all the way across the bay? Nothing but rubble.

[floffytofu]

Price : What do you do when someone offers you drugs?

Gaz : Arrest them!

Ghost : Punch them in the neck.

Soap : Say thank you!

Reader : Offer them more drugs to assert dominance!

Price : …

Price : No.

[fanficsforheartandsoul]

141!Reader: Interrogation

Soap: Shepherd won't talk. Should we... you know? Price: Use torture? No. Y/N will handle it. Ghost: Y/N? You mean 5'2 Y/N? Soap: Yeah, how the hell would Y/N be intimidating? Price: Just watch. [In the interrogation room] Reader: Let's play a little game I made. All you have to do is pick a candy bar, one has a blade. If you eat the wrong one, I swear to God, boy, that's on you. All I know is if you spit that shit out, boy, I bet I'd shoot. Shepherd: Also Shepherd: What the fuck-

[tobeholyistobeempty]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

find part two here.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

[rottingpink]

cod men with fussy wives

cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT

synopsis. price, simon and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before

masterlist

john price

john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.

he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"

he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."

your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"

his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.

"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."

you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"

he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."

your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."

you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.

he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."

his health's never been better.

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "

you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.

slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.

no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."

"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.

he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."

he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.

he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.

" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.

you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."

you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.

"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.

"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "

you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."

johnny "soap" mactavish

johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.

you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."

"...whatever tha' means."

you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."

he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"

"johnny!"

you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."

"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.

"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.

you kiss his forehead. "only a little."

he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."

"johnny."

"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"

"are you?"

"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."

you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."

johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.

you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.

but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...

"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"

he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."

you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.

weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"

you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.

he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.

you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."

you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.

you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.

that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."

you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.

"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."

while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."

your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."

"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"

you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.

his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.

he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.

his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."

you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.

he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.

he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."

simon "ghost" riley

simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.

"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"

he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.

you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?

you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.

your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.

you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.

he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.

he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.

he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.

"love. this shit's greasy."

"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."

"don't wan' hydrating."

you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.

simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.

you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.

simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.

"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."

you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."

you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.

" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.

"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.

"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on an empty stomach is the best idea."

normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.

"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.

you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.

he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."

you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.

"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"

you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."

he winces.

"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."

"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.

he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.

he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"

he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.

"apologizin' to m'wife."

he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.

he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.

he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"

he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."

[cinnamongrl2006]

Simon Riley is a loverboy warnings: established relationship, mentions of pornography, very fluffy Simon Riley blurb

He loved you, that much was obvious. Your initials were carved onto the handles of his guns— messy handwriting, all passion and longing— and a wrinkled polaroid of you accompanied him everywhere he went. He'd stick it to the wall beside wherever he slept, stick it to the ceiling if he got to sleep in a bunk bed (one of those with the loose springs that shriek at every movement, that poked into his back and made him miss your touch more than ever).

Johnny had asked him about it one day, half mocking Simon, he was just in disbelief that their closed off lieutenant had found someone, and reasonably so. It was late at night, they'd been sitting still for hours, the target had yet to exit the building they were watching— Price had told them to wait.

So, he tried to make small talk, gossip a little. He said he'd seen that old polaroid in his quarters, seen it get tucked away in his pocket, tacked to walls and ceilings. He'd seen Simon hold it in his hands when he sat in bed— his breathing leveled, face hidden by his mask, mumbling something under his breath before he laid down to sleep. He'd made some stupid comment like what porno she sneak out of?, a comment that would usually earn him a chuckle and a tap on the arm, but that this time earned him a slap to the back of his head and a grumble.

"Respect my bird, Soap." He'd said, deep voice coated in annoyance, almost venomous.

It was obvious he loved you when, you came to pick him up after he got back from being deployed. Obvious in the way his gloved hands immediately found yours, in the way a weight seemed to lift off your shoulders; in the way his gaze, concealed with a balaclava, was so soft, so loving.

They all heard it in his voice, sweet, almost saccharine; saw it in the way you'd touch him, and he'd let you. You could poke his side after making a joke, and he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't bend your arm back or slap it away; he'd laugh, he'd hold your wrist in his big, calloused hand and laugh lightheartedly.

Soap and Gaz watched, enthralled, as you completely took over Simon's personal space, your hands moving up and under his t-shirt, your face settling in the crook of his neck as you held him close, squeezing him tight "to make up for lost time". They watched as Simon grunted out complaining, but lifted up the lower section of his balaclava and kissed your forehead, then your lips.

Ghost was their closed off lieutenant, but Simon Riley was completely wrapped around your little finger, and he loved every second of it.

────୨ৎ────

tags:@laceyfaeryy @cherrycolaheartss

[connorsui]

He stood outside the courthouse, using the building’s reflective glass as a makeshift mirror. He adjusted the tie she’d picked out for him that morning, tugging it loose and then tightening it again until it sat just right. His free hand ran through his hair, smoothing the strands she’d ruffled when she kissed him goodbye with a sly smirk. The faint scent of her perfume clung to his shirt, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Man, your wife is insane,” an officer muttered as he walked past, throwing him a glance.

Without missing a beat, he chuckled, straightening his collar. “Yeah, no shit. Why do you think I married her?” He shot the officer a grin through the reflection, adjusting his cufflinks like this was just another day in his life. “I’m literally on my way to her trial right now, carrying her favorite cookies and wearing the shirt she insisted on. Hell, I’ve even got her eyeliner in this bag because, and I quote, she wants to look stunning for the pictures.”

He gave himself one last look in the glass, smoothing the fabric of his shirt, before turning to the officer. “And when this is all over, I’ll be paying her bail. Not because I have to—because I want to. She’ll come out, probably ask for a shopping spree or some fancy dinner, and you know what? I’ll give it to her. Every last bit.”

His voice softened as he glanced down at the cookies in his hand, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Because she’s my wife. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[anythingneverythingnstuffs]

Imagine accidentally walking into a military dive bar by yourself, not knowing that the customer base was mainly military folk, and just kind of rolling with it

Imagine you dressed cute, your hair was done, and it had been a long week- you deserved a good ol' night on the town, damnit, and you didn't want to pay another Uber to go to another bar

Imagine you making your way up to the bar to order your first drink of the night and when you order a simple cocktail, the bar goes quiet for a split second because who orders a cocktail in this place?

Imagine not knowing that since the second you walked in that door, you've had eyes on you. Of course you've had eyes on you since you walked in, but one pair in particular stayed glued to your form as you walked through the bar

Imagine looking around after getting your drink from the bartender to see where you'd try to sit for a bit to sip on your drink

Imagine there being an empty table near the far end of the bar that you decide to claim as your own as you continued to scope out the bar patrons

Imagine finally locking eyes with the one man that has had his eye on you since the minute you walked in the door

Imagine freezing as you look into his eyes from across the bar, suddenly aware that this huge, masked military man had been looking right at you

Imagine deciding after a second fuck it and you just gave him a smile and a small wave before sipping your drink. After all, he had been looking at you first, right?

Imagine seeing him look away briefly after your wave and you finally turn to look around the bar again, idly sipping at your drink

Imagine not even a minute later, that very same man is now standing right next to you- how the hell did he get there so fast-? And so quietly-?

Imagine the silence that ensues, neither one of you wanting to say the first word (well, it was either not wanting or not knowing what to say)

Imagine the first thing you speak to Simon 'Ghost' Riley, unknowing who he is or what his reputation was, being, "So, uh... Come here often...?"

Imagine that really being your best line for this strange man

Imagine Ghost letting out a soft grunt as he nodded, "Often enough. Never seen you here before."

Imagine you giving him another smile, this one softer and more genuine as you reply, "I didn't realize this was so... Military oriented. Am I even allowed to be here?"

Imagine hearing a small huff from the man, his eyes indiscernible as he says, "Course you're allowed. I'd like to see them try to kick a bird like you out."

Imagine giggling softly, "A bird like me? What's that supposed to mean?"

Imagine all the while, Simon 'Ghost' Riley's teammates are still sitting at the bar, watching this all go down like it was a soap opera. It was, wasn't it? Their Lieutenant going out of his way to flirt with the little bird who accidentally wandered into a military-centric dive and still ordered the little cocktail you liked.

ugh just imagine

masterlist

[goatgoesmbe]

f!reader

Reader who always wear a mask, and was more secretive than Ghost who had no problem showing his face to the team once in a while.

And just like with Ghost, the others joked about you being ugly, which you similarly replied with confidence that's not the case.

When you were tired of keep getting questions about the mask, you'd respond with a joke.

Putting on your best act, you sighed with a solemn look, telling a story about how you used to be obsessed with Shrek and had him tattooed on your face, which you were ashamed of now.

"..Are you serious?" Kyle asked.

You simply shrugged "I guess you'll never know".

And they could never guess whether you were lying or not, being known as the master of psychological warfare and often sent for espionage because of your skill with people, manipulation.

And acting.

What they didn't know is that, you gained that skill from your previous job, when you were a big deal in the entertainment industry. A professional actress that started in many movies and got into a really big scandal that got you hiding.

And somehow ended up here.

That was the reason as to why you needed to hide your face, your identity. Not even your captain knows about it, only Laswell who knew a bit of your story.

Lounging around in the recroom, you silently observed the others arguing about a certain movie to watch before it somehow ended with them fanboying for a certain actress who played the main character.

You.

"Ah swear, Ah saw this porn where the lass looked just like her. Had folk arguin’ if it was really her or just a doppelganger… haud on, where is it—" You heard Johnny rambled as he fumbled with his phone.

You shifted in your seat and hid a smille.

Oh yeah, that side gig you took a long time ago.. almost forgot about that

Dropping this idea before class so i wont forget abt it UPDATE : yes, im def writing this

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Y/N: Fuck me if I'm wrong but- Ghost: Wrong. You are wrong Y/N: I haven't even said- Ghost, taking his shirt off: You are WRONG

[rawme-price]

Omegaverse with the 141 and captured!reader...HEAR ME OUT!!!

You get captured or whatever and through some means ur taken for interrogation (torture), right? Except ur damn strong and u would rather die than give anything that could hurt ur teammates. So they decide to get creative a take a knife to ur scent glands :]

Yes, its extensively painful and has u blacking out from the sheer agony, but even after ur rescued and healed everything is *wrong*. Ur scent is hardly there at all and when it is its bitter and fucked-up half the time. People dont know how to act around u bc scent is such an integral part of social situations and u just- dont have one anymore. Even a beta like price has a scent, but you dont.

You dont miss the way johnnys nose scrunched the way it always does when he tries to pick up a scent, only for him to frown at whatever he finds with you. Gaz makes to scent u properly but you flinch away, phantom pains shooting along you. He hadn't stopped like he usually would bc he literally couldn't smell ur scent telling him to back off.

You cant even fucking scent ur pack anymore. Sure, they can scent u all they want, drench u in it, but its not the same. Without ur scent mixing in its like ur not even a person, just another item. And it fucks with u, yknow? Pheromones are such an important part of emotional regulation that without them properly being produced u feel distant and lethargic near-constantly.

Its agony, and ur pack is suffering bc of it but there's nothing you can do. No fix. Maybe you should just leave, it not like ur really a part of the pack anymore anyways, right?

[floffytofu]

Reader and Ghost are planning to break in with 0 ammo

Reader : We need to distract the guards.

Ghost : Right.

Reader : What are we gonna do?

Ghost : I'm gonna break their elbows while you poke their eyes with your knife.

Reader :

Ghost :

Reader : Deal.

[fanficsforheartandsoul]

141!Reader: Morse Code

Soap: *taps table* Reader: *taps table back* Gaz, who just entered the room: What are they doing? Price: Communicating in Morse code. Gaz: What? Hmmm, let me try to understand what they're saying. Price: No- Reader to Soap: Let me **** your ****, I'll **** you so hard you ****, you **** **** Soap, starry-eyed: Man, you're so romantic. I love you-

[tobeholyistobeempty]

hey so since i’m in the season of ovulation here is degrading simon riley feeding my size kink. i’m not ok send regrets. 18+

“beggin little whore f’me. not so smart now that i’ve got your brain leakin outta your cunt.”

——-

yeah. you’ve pushed it. simple as that.

and god, you knew better. you really did. but some might say you’re a sucker for punishment. others might say you’re a masochist.

you think it’s probably a bit of both, when it comes to simon.

maybe it’s because he’s a big mean brute. emotionless. big ol wall of mass and muscle. tough bloke like him don’t feel a thing, yeah? at least in your mind. makes it easy to needle - easy to poke and prod and toss little jabs about his eyes or mask or whatever slivered sign of life he might be displaying that day.

he’s contractually obligated not to kill you, might you add. that brings a level of safety you got comfortable with.

but what you didn’t get comfortable with — what you couldn’t possibly ever get comfortable with, is the size of him in your fucking guts. the growl of him in your ear. the clutch of him around your throat.

even big dead-eyed men like simon have a limit. and by the grace of god, you’d found it. the bottom of this particular mine shaft, if you will—

“y’alright down there?” his voice is slick. fuckin slick with glee. a first for him, you’re sure. “still with me, sweet’eart?”

you can practically feel the smirk barring those teeth to your neck. you try to toss something smart assed back, something to keep it goin, but he’s got your wrists pinned behind your back and his cock stretchin your walls in a way that screams he shouldn’t even be able to fit — yet you’re clenching around him like you’d die without it.

all that comes outta you is a moan.

and he laughs. bastard. fuckin filthy rasp right against your ear. “tha’s what i thought. mm. s’what i fucken wanted.”

your eyes roll. he’s so deep your hips hurt. he presses a palm between your shoulder blades to pin you harder to the floor of his barracks. all that pent up aggressions got you leakin down your thighs. pathetic. humiliating. delicious.

“tha’s it. fucken stunned now, yeah?” he thrusts deeper. free hand smacking your ass til it stings. “always mouthin off. startin shit—fuck—y’knew what this was. you’ve always known what’d it take t’shut you up.”

you hiccup when he hits your gspot. over and over. so goddamn good it hurts. “fuck—fuck you—“

“yeah. y’are.” his hips jerk, hissing against the back of your neck. “feelin every inch of me, aren’t you? go on. fuckin tell me how i feel. wanna hear y’say it.”

you bite your tongue. squeeze your eyes shut. he fucks deeper. harder.

“say it.” another smack to your ass.

“big—“ you gasp, choking on it. “fucking—huge—“

he growls like you’ve fed him. “tha’s right. eight inches buried so deep in your tight little cunt y’forgot how to lie.”

youve never heard him talk like this and all you can do is whimper - the airs gone thin. every inhale is like sandpaper scratching at your throat. every thrust is like being punched open. and when every sound you make comes out as something pathetic you know you’ve lost.

you twist your head to try and adjust for reprieve but he fists your hair to still you. “y’wanna tell me again you can’t take it? huh? wanna tell me m’too big?”

he is. he totally is. but it’s delicious pain. makes your eyes water and your walls flutter. something about you can’t help but egg him on.

“s-shut up—“

he slams forward. breath cuts sharp against your neck. “wrong answer.”

you jolt. cry out. the heat is a wildfire across your skin. “s-si-mon—“

“try again.” he breathes, curling his fingers from your hair to your jaw. “or i’ll just keep pushin till y’feel it in your fuckin spine.”

he makes good on the promise with a bruising thrust. you wail with it. vision blurring blue. “fuck! fuck i wanted this—but you’re so—you’re too—fuck please—“

and it’s that last little word. the syllables that slip past your teeth presenting pleas on a silver platter, that make him moan. fucking moan.

“oh yeah. shit. now we’re gettin somewhere.” he exhales with it, shifting just to drag at your walls and angle deeper. “beggin little whore f’me. not so smart now that i’ve got your brain leakin outta your cunt.”

you long to tell him to shut up, fuck off, goto hell — any other circumstances you might have. but the first fuck with simon riley after months of pushing and prodding ain’t one to be won. you’ll be lucky to walk tomorrow. the monster can only be poked so many times before it wakes with vengeance.

[partiallysame]

Being Price’s lil wife

-Task force 141 knew Price was married. Man wore his ring religiously, always putting it back on the second they were in the helicopter/plane/whatever after each mission

-He’d come to work with a lunch packed with a cute lil heart note

-To be honest they all assumed you were the same age as Price (old) He always said he’d been “married for years” (3)

-They never knew your name, Price only ever referred to you as The Missus

-Gaz swore Price had a photo of you in his wallet (he did) but they never knew what you looked like untilllllllll

-You called your husband simply to complain. The AC had gone out and the repair man wouldn't be able to get there for a couple days. No no this simply would not do, his perfect lil lady could not be uncomfortable in her own home he wouldn’t have it but fuck he’s out of the country for a few more days. His team however is not and while stupid, they do know how to do maintenance work (why? Just because.)

-He called his team for a very important mission. Gave them the address, accompanied with “I don’t want to hear a fucking thing about you causing any trouble or being disrespectful to the Missus you hear?” The boys were absolutely giddy to finally see the ever so important Missus.

-The second you opened the door Soap was apologizing for having the wrong house and oh so politely asked if you knew where the Price household was. This had to be the wrong one because there you stood, pretty young thing, big doe eyes. Standing in just a big shirt ending at the very tops of your thighs, lashes batting at the three soldiers standing at your door.

-“You’ve got the right place. John told me you were coming, please come in.” You had to hold in a giggle, watching all of their eyes go wide. Gaz immediately looking at the sky, the floor, anywhere but the wife of his captain that he was just undressing with his eyes.

-When you turned to guide them into the house they all saw PRICE printed on the back of the large tshirt just barely covering your ass (this is your own home pants are never required and its hot as hell without the ac). Now it was Ghost’s turn to look anywhere but at you.

-As they worked you’d bring them water or snacks. They now understood why Price kept you hidden from them. The perfect lil housewife. The woman of all of their dreams already taken.

-When they were finished they went to the kitchen to inform you they were done only to find a full meal set on the table waiting for them but worst of all? There you were reaching up to the top cabinet. On your tippy toes, your shirt (Price’s shirt) riding up enough to expose the bottom of your ass and lacey pink panties. Soap had to bite his knuckle to keep from groaning. Ghost grabbing the tops of his teammates heads, turning them away from the incredible sight in front of them.

-Price was right to keep you hidden from them

-They might just have to sneak in and break something every time Price was out of town if it meant this is what they got to see.

Price's lil wife Masterlist