#Gary roach sanderson x Reader

[lxvvie]

It's the little things, Part I:

It's the way Price blushes as you cover his face in kisses. He's seen and done it all, stared down the barrel of a gun more times than he can count, but nothing will ever quite throw the Cap'n off his game more than the way you show and tell him that you love him and that he's damn good at what he does.

It's the way Gaz exhales and feels all the stress leave his body. His head rests comfortably on your lap and your fingers ghost over the wrinkles on his forehead. He was only away for only a week and a half but it felt like an eternity. Gaz leaves the work behind in your embrace, closes his eyes, and it's the best damn nap he's had in a while.

It's the way Soap whines and leans into your touch as your nails work shampoo and miracles on his scalp. Oh. That's new. You do it again. Same response. You tease him about it later much to his chagrin but it's just one of many things that endear him to you. And amuses Simon if your text messages are any indication.

It's the way Ghost is trying not to laugh when you blow raspberries on his stomach. Apparently, you made it your life's mission to get a reaction out of him every time you did it, and when you finally succeeded—he said it was a cough but that's bullshit—your eyes lit up and it was the cutest fucking thing to him. Victory looks good on you, sweetheart.

It's the way Alex relaxes and his eyes flutter close when you kiss the side of his mouth. It's the way he softly murmurs, "Boss...", you murmur, "Babe..." in response, he groans in faux exasperation, and you thank whoever heard your prayers that he's safe in your arms again.

It's the way Alejandro lets his guard down and silently brings you into a hug. His face is buried in the crook of your neck and your arms squeeze him back as tightly as you can. It's one of those moments where you can feel the weight he carries in the tension in his body but it's also a reminder that just as he watches over his men, you'll always watch over him.

It's the way Rudy leaves you speechless as he tilts his head ever so slightly as he listens to you talk, and when you realize what's happening, he laughs heartily and it's your turn to be flustered. What would you do without him?

It's the way Farah leans her head on your shoulder, respite from the burden of leadership. It's the way you lean your head against hers and she feels safe all over again.

It's the way Keegan looks at you, intentional in everything he wants to convey without uttering a word. Still waters run deep, and you'd be a fool to ever doubt the things he feels for you.

It's the way Roach smiles, wide, goofy, and boyish, things he can be when he's with you. It's the crinkle around his eyes reassuring you, and it's as if your worries and fears have dissipated into nothingness.

[leyavo]

Omega!reader that rejects every bond that any superior offers.

You don’t speak much, that the Alpha’s and Beta’s that have asked you to join them think you only know how to say no.

So when Roach comes along and doesn’t force a conversation to hear you talk, you can’t help but be drawn to him.

Price watches the two of you go about your days in silence. Subtle hints that you are comfortable around the Beta, Roach. Your elbow brushing his, knee touching his thigh as you sit next to him on the sofa in the rec room.

How you lift your gaze each time Roach enters the armoury, where you work. Slight nod of your head as you offer a nonverbal good morning.

The way you sit with him in the canteen, nothing but the sound of your forks scraping the trays. How you trade food that you don’t like and go back for seconds when it’s not busy.

Each time they return from an op Roach searches for you, his boots no longer heavy and dragging along the floor. No, he just needs to see you, feel your presence not your voice.

Your scent merging with Roach’s that Price asks you if you’d like to join their pack. He’s seen the positive impact you have on each other.

And Roach doesn’t complain when he finally hears your soft breathy voice.

“Yes, Alpha.”

[oaksgrove]

hiiii! i just read your passenger princess fic, and i got an idea.

what about a reader who isn’t used to princess treatment?

opening a car door? john, why are you doing that? I can do it just fine.

gaz, why is there a dress in the bedroom? you bought it for me because we’re going on a date? why though? I’ve got plenty of dresses.

johnny, whats with the new flowers? they’re for me? why though?

simon, you don’t have to tell me ‘i’m beautiful’. it takes away from time you could be doing something important.

just ‘I know you can do it, but let me’ vibes

Princess Treatment

pairing: John Price x Reader; Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader; Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader; Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Reader; Gary “Roach” Sanderson x Reader.

synopsis: You’re strong. Capable. Fiercely independent. And yet… your boyfriend seems determined to treat you like royalty—each in their own uniquely over-the-top way. Maybe “princess treatment” isn’t about weakness—it’s about being chosen, cherished, and loved without condition.

warning: Pure fluff, soft domestic moments, mild language, emotional vulnerability, excessive acts of service, unapologetic simping.

word count: 2018

John Price:

The click of the car unlocking was almost instant the moment you stepped outside. The cold nipped at your nose, the evening breeze catching the hem of your coat as you moved toward the passenger side.

Before your hand could even brush the door handle, John was there. Rounding the hood of the car in a few easy strides, one hand already reaching out, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat like he had all the time in the world.

“John,” you said, brows lifting, “why are you doing that? I can do it just fine.”

His hand paused mid-motion for a second, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he just smirked—warm, amused, a touch of mischief glinting behind his eyes.

“You can,” he agreed, pulling the door open for you with a little flourish. “But you don’t have to. Let me.”

You blinked, thrown off by the softness of it. Like it wasn’t a gesture he was performing for show, but something as natural to him as breathing.

Still, your feet hesitated, and John tilted his head, giving you a look like, Are we going to do this dance every time?

With a sigh, you slid into the seat, settling in as he closed the door behind you with careful gentleness. The quiet click of it felt… final. Intentional.

By the time he circled back around and dropped into the driver’s seat beside you, you were still frowning slightly, staring straight ahead.

He noticed, of course. John always noticed.

“You gonna argue every time I treat you well?” he asked lowly, voice dipping into that rough warmth that always seemed to unspool your defenses. His hand reached across the console, fingers sliding over your thigh and giving it a slow, grounding squeeze.

“…Maybe,” you muttered, too honest for your own good.

John chuckled, low and fond. “I’ll just have to keep convincing you, then.”

You turned to look at him. That scruffy face, the weathered lines that had deepened with age and war and laughter, the eyes that had always been more patient than you thought they’d be.

“Is this a campaign now?”

“It’s always been one,” he said. “You just didn’t notice.”

The drive started in silence, but it was the kind that felt like something blooming between you rather than anything heavy. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy, soothing arcs.

And when he parked and jogged around the front of the car again to open your door before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt, you didn’t argue this time.

You just let him.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

You almost missed it when you walked into the bedroom—distracted by the lingering emails in your head, the mental list of things you still needed to get done, the ache in your shoulders from a day that just wouldn’t quit. But there it was.

Laid neatly across the duvet.

A dress.

Deep red. Silky soft, with a gentle shimmer that caught the fading evening light from the window. Elegant, understated, yet somehow—it made your chest flutter. The tag was still attached, dangling loosely at the neck, but the price had been carefully removed.

Your brows furrowed.

“Kyle?” you called out, voice echoing down the hallway. “Why is there a dress in the bedroom?”

A familiar pair of footsteps padded closer, slow and smug in their rhythm.

He appeared at the doorframe, shoulder leaned lazily against the wood, arms crossed, that mischievous grin tugging at his lips like he’d just played the winning hand.

“Bought it for you,” he said simply. “We’ve got a dinner reservation. Something fancy. You deserve a night out.”

You blinked at him, then looked back at the dress. Then back at him.

“But why?” you asked. “I’ve got plenty of dresses—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted gently, pushing off from the door and walking toward you. “But this one’s from me.”

His hand reached out, fingertips brushing the hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear with all the reverence in the world.

“And I like the idea of seeing you in it.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to protest that you didn’t need a dress to feel beautiful or cared for—but the words didn’t come. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when his hand lingered just a second longer than needed, warm and grounding against your skin.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, soft and slow, and you felt it ripple through your bones—the kind of affection that didn’t ask anything from you. Just wanted to give.

“Let me spoil you a bit, love,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. “You do everything for everyone else.”

Your fingers found his shirt, curling gently at the hem. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

He chuckled, arms slipping around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of him. “Only if they’re happy tears. Otherwise, I’ll return the dress and take you out in your pajamas instead.”

You laughed against his chest, and when he kissed your temple again, you let yourself sink into him.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Dinner sounds nice.”

And in the mirror, later that evening, when you finally slipped into that deep red dress, you saw it—the soft smile on your face. The kind you hadn’t worn in a while.

Kyle noticed it too, when you walked out.

“That’s my girl,” he said, eyes drinking you in like it was the first time.

And for once, you didn’t deflect. You just smiled and let him take your hand.

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

The bathroom was quiet, except for the muted hum of the fan and the soft rhythmic motion of your toothbrush. It was a routine, grounding in its predictability—just one more box to tick off before bed. The lights were low, casting gentle shadows on the tile floor, and your shoulders were heavy with the quiet kind of tired that came after a long day.

You didn’t even notice him at first—Simon moved like a ghost, even out of uniform—but then you felt his presence behind you, the warm brush of air when he passed close.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and steady like a secret.

You paused mid-brush, blinking at your reflection.

A moment passed.

You leaned over the sink, spit into it, rinsed. Stared at yourself in the mirror and frowned.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” you said, not unkindly—just quiet, blunt, the way truths sometimes fall when you’re too tired to dress them up. “It takes away from time you could be doing something important.”

Behind you, Simon stilled.

The weight of silence fell over the room like a thick blanket.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

You watched him in the mirror as he came up behind you—broad frame solid and warm, his expression unreadable but not cold. He didn’t touch you, not yet, just looked at your reflection like he was trying to figure out how to hold something fragile.

“You are important,” he said softly. “This is important.”

Your fingers tightened around the toothbrush. The words hung there, heavy and simple.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Maybe he didn’t expect you to say anything. Maybe he just knew how easy it was for your mind to convince you that affection was indulgence, that love had to be earned by usefulness. You stared at your reflection, trying to see what he saw. Wondering if you ever would.

He leaned down, finally, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Warm. Present. Gentle in the way you weren’t used to being handled.

“If I only ever did things that were necessary,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin, “I’d have missed the best part of my life.”

You glanced up, your eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“You.”

Your heart cracked a little in your chest—just enough to let the warmth through.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe him yet. Maybe it would take time, soft moments like this, repeated and repeated until the walls inside you gave in.

But you leaned back into him, just a little. Let him take the toothbrush from your hand and set it gently down.

Let yourself be held.

Because if Simon—quiet, careful Simon—could learn to make space for softness… maybe you could, too.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

You blinked as you walked into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, your socks quiet against the old tile floor.

There they were.

A new bouquet.

Sunflowers—bright and unapologetic in their joy—mixed with tiny white blossoms you couldn’t name, all tucked into a mason jar sitting square in the middle of the kitchen table. A ribbon tied lazily around the rim. Water droplets still clinging to the stems.

You stared.

Then turned slowly, already knowing who to blame.

“Johnny…” you started, voice laced with the kind of sleepy bewilderment that only came from early mornings and too many small surprises. “What’s with the new flowers?”

He was leaning against the counter, orange juice in hand, hair still damp from the shower, and a lazy smile already tugging at his mouth like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“They’re for you,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You squinted at him. “But… why though?”

Johnny chuckled, a soft sound that started in his chest and reached all the way to his eyes. He crossed the room in a few easy steps, set the glass down, and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

Your back met the warmth of his chest, and you sighed as he tucked his chin over your shoulder, his breath brushing your cheek.

“‘Cause your face lights up every time you see them,” he said, voice lower now, a little rough with sleep, a little tender with love. “And that? That’s worth the trip to the florist every bloody day.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stood there with him wrapped around you like a warm blanket, staring at the ridiculous jar of flowers like it was the most confusing, most beautiful thing in the world.

Then, softly, you pressed your face into his chest.

“Stop being cute,” you mumbled, muffled by the cotton of his shirt and the beat of his heart.

“Never,” he whispered against your temple, grinning. “You’re stuck with me.”

And you didn’t need to say it—but God, you were so glad you were.

Gary “Roach” Sanderson:

The kitchen smelled like garlic and thyme and something buttery-soft that had your stomach growling before you’d even crossed the threshold.

You padded in barefoot, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, fully prepared to take over and help—only to find Gary already elbow-deep in culinary excellence. A dishtowel slung over his shoulder, a pan sizzling on the stove, and that familiar hum vibrating in his chest as he stirred something with purpose.

“Smells amazing,” you murmured, reaching for the pot on instinct. “I’ll stir—”

“Nope.”

He gently nudged your hand away with the back of the spoon, not even looking up.

“Gary,” you huffed. “I can cook. You don’t have to—”

He finally turned his head and grinned, that boyish, crooked smile that always made you want to roll your eyes and kiss him in the same breath. He tapped the spoon lightly against your hand, playful but firm.

“I know you can do it,” he said with a wink. “But let me. Just this once.”

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. “Is this one of your weird love languages?”

He shrugged, already back to stirring, back to humming. “Yeah. Feeding you until you admit I’m amazing.”

You watched him for a beat—watched the way he moved around the kitchen with that easy confidence, sleeves pushed up, forearm flexing as he tossed something into a pan, barefoot and casual like he belonged there, like this was his second skin.

The music playing low from his speaker was jazzy, mellow. The light from the kitchen window painted everything gold. The whole room smelled like something slow-cooked and careful. Like comfort.

With a sigh, you pulled out a chair and sat down, elbows on the table, chin resting in your palm as you watched him. “I’m not gonna admit it.”

“You will,” he said cheerfully, plating the food like you were a food critic instead of his tired partner who hadn’t eaten a real meal all day. “Eventually. When you taste this.”

When he set the plate in front of you—steaming, beautiful, perfectly balanced—your stomach growled audibly.

Gary smirked. “Told you.”

You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Damn it.”

“Told you,” he laughed, leaning down to kiss your temple, brushing a hand over your shoulder. “Come on. Let me take care of you tonight.”

You looked up at him, heart swelling. “Just tonight?”

He raised a brow. “What, you planning on arguing with your private chef every night?”

You smiled into your fork, cheeks warm. “Maybe.”

He slid into the seat across from you, mirroring your grin. “Then I’ll just keep winning.”

And the kitchen stayed warm, full of the scent of love and butter, and the quiet sound of laughter between bites.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Multiple | Celebrating your birthday | HCs

Includes: Spinel, Onyx, Amethio, Kieran, Alain, Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Vladimir Makarov.

Spinel

For your birthday, Spinel orders you everything you want- it's your special day afterall, and he wants you to remember it,

He'll probably put on your favourite movie and order something from your favourite place so the two of you can relax the whole day.

Onyx

Onyx is a simple guy, he'll get you a cake and get you something he's been eyeing for a while.

He'll ask for a day off so that the rest of the day would be pretty simple, you'd be dragging him around to different places, and he wouldn't even mind it. He knows that it's your birthday, your special day, so he'll agree to almost anything.

Amethio

Despite not understanding the hype for birthdays, Amethio tries his best to make it feel special for you.

Amethio will buy something that you've constantly hinted at wanting and will spend the whole day with you. Since he got fired, he doesn't need to ask Gibeon and Hamber for permission (or blatantly state that he's not going to be available).

Kieran

Kieran would RUN to your dorm with your favourite snacks, a gift and a cake if it fits in his hands.

POUNDS on your door until you open it, or, -if you gave him a keycard- he unlocks it himself and places everything down on the counter so you wake up and see Kieran setting everything up.

If your birthday falls onto a school day, he makes a mini party for you at Lunch where he brings a cake, a birthday balloon and some party hats.

The rest of the day, he follows you around with a skip in his step, ready to do what you want. Don't even bother paying for something, he's going to pay for something. Champion rank has given him a lot of money to spend,,

AIain

Alain makes sure to bake the cake the night before your birthday. If he doesn't succeed in baking a cake, he'll just start prep for breakfast so he can spend the valuable time by your side instead of prepping.

When you wake up, Alain would've either made you breakfast or is currently making you breakfast so you don't need to worry about it when you get up.

The rest of the day will be pretty chill, Alain will take you anywhere you want to go on his Charizard, and if you make a plan the day before he'll make sure that you two get to do everything on it.

Roach

You and Roach share a barrack -a luxury that neither of you take for granted- so you wake up to him peppering kisses onto your face with a giddy smile.

He'd make sure that the two of you have the day off, he already went through the long process of requesting a day off. Did he have to sit down and find someone on YouTube or reels talking about the process? Maybe. Did he manage to get the two of you a day off? Yeah.

He'll make sure the two of you have a lazy morning filled with a lot of cuddling before he brings you some breakfast, urging you to stay in bed and not follow him to the kitchen.

Roach brings you your favourite breakfast. He ordered it earlier in the morning from the restaurant you love. If it's something simple, he'll try to make it in the barracks.

The rest of the day, he'll be at your side incase you need anything, if you want a break from him- he's going to be relatively fine with that.

Makarov

Makarov would take you to a fancy breakfast spot- he likes to spoil you afterall- and the rest of the day he'll take you to places you've always loved.

When you get home, be prepared to see one of those large, beautiful, Russian cakes after you finish eating dinner.

He'd reschedule all his meetings to be on different dates so he can spend time with you, even if you just want to stay home with him.

The whole day would just involve him spoiling you. He'll get you whatever you want, it's your special day afterall!

A/N: Silly little idea I wanted to do since it's my birthday today sisjs,, added Makarov and Roach since I want to start kinda writing for COD,, but I only have a grasp on those two characters,, (tbf I just know Makarov-like people irl,,)

--Image credits

The cake one - Medium

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Like It’s Nothing

Pairing: Gary "Roach" Sanderson x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff, hand-holding, shy!Roach, mutual pining, first kiss, soft and emotional moments

Author's Note: My first time writing for Roach and I already want to wrap him in a hoodie and kiss his forehead. Hope you love this soft beginning to something special.

Summary: On a quiet night at base, you and Roach finally cross the line from tension to something real.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The rec room always smelled faintly of old leather, instant coffee, and Soap’s terrible cologne. Someone had left the lights dimmed—just one corner lamp buzzing softly, casting long, warm shadows over the scarred furniture and faded rug. The TV was on, low volume, playing some late-night documentary no one was watching.

You sat curled up on one side of the couch, worn hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands. Across from you, Roach slouched low, one foot resting on the coffee table, arms crossed loosely as he stared at the screen without really seeing it.

It was quiet, but not awkward. You liked the quiet with him.

Your heart still hadn’t gotten used to the way he made space for you—subtle things, like how he always took the seat next to yours during briefing, or how he waited behind after missions like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere else. And lately, it had grown into something more. Something new.

Like now.

His leg brushed yours—barely, just the edge of his knee—and neither of you moved.

Roach cleared his throat softly. “You warm enough?”

You looked over at him, eyebrow raised. “Are you offering your hoodie?”

A ghost of a grin played at his lips. “You say that like I haven’t seen you steal it before.”

You snorted, pulling your knees up against your chest. “That was once.”

“Twice,” he said, shifting slightly so his knee pressed against yours more deliberately. “Laundry room. Tuesday morning.”

“Okay—fine.” You laughed under your breath. “You keep track?”

“Only when it’s mine.”

Your laughter faded into a softer smile as you studied him. Even in the low light, the warmth in his eyes was obvious—brown and soft, with the kind of quiet focus that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

You’d never seen someone like him in action and off-duty and still feel like you were talking to the same man. Roach was lethal in the field, clean and calculated, but when he was here, like this—hair damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his forearms, one sock missing like he’d lost it in the locker room—he was…

Human.

Kind.

Endearing.

And now, he was watching you right back.

The quiet stretched, and this time, it was charged. Your heart fluttered the way it always did when you got too close to the edge of something good.

“I, uh…” His voice faltered. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

You leaned toward him, resting your chin on your knee. “What’s that?”

He glanced at the TV, then back to you. “About us.”

Your breath caught.

Roach shifted in his seat, turning toward you, arms uncrossing slowly. “I’m not great at this stuff,” he admitted. “I don’t always know what to say. But I’ve been feeling… something. For a while. And I think you have, too.”

The air was thick now, not tense, but full—brimming with the kind of honesty that couldn’t be taken back once spoken.

You sat up straighter, heart in your throat. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I have.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and something almost bashful crossed his face. “I want to be careful with you,” he murmured. “Not just rush into something and screw it up. But if you’ll let me… I’d like to try.”

The way he said it—try—was so sincere it made your chest ache.

You nodded, slowly. “I’d like that.”

Silence settled again, but now it buzzed with possibility.

Roach looked down at your hands where they rested in your lap. Without speaking, he reached out, brushing the back of his knuckles along yours. His fingers were rough—calloused from years of weapon grips and climbing gear—but his touch was impossibly gentle.

When he laced his fingers through yours, it was careful. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to do it yet.

You squeezed his hand lightly. “You don’t have to be careful like I’m going to break.”

Roach smiled—truly smiled—for the first time that night. “I know. But I want to be.”

A few minutes passed like that, hands twined together, both of you barely watching the TV. You felt the thrum of your heartbeat settle into a rhythm that matched the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Then—hesitantly—he spoke again. “Can I ask you something kind of stupid?”

You tilted your head. “Always.”

His thumb brushed over yours, a slow sweep. “Do I get to kiss you tonight?”

That question—that quiet, reverent question—broke you a little in the best way.

You shifted closer, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath as he watched you with a gaze so intense it made your skin burn.

“You can,” you whispered.

And just like that, he leaned in.

It wasn’t fast or hungry. It wasn’t a movie kiss full of desperate hands or breathless moans. It was something softer. Sweeter. His lips brushed yours like he was afraid to startle you—like he was waiting for you to pull away.

You didn’t.

You pressed back gently, hand coming up to rest at his jaw, fingertips brushing the faint stubble there. He deepened the kiss only slightly, enough to draw a quiet sigh from your throat.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were quiet for a beat—hearing only the hum of the TV and the soft whir of the old ceiling fan above.

Roach’s voice was barely audible. “You kiss like you mean it.”

You laughed softly, eyes still closed. “I do.”

He gave your hand another squeeze. “So do I.”

Neither of you said anything more for a long time. The TV flickered blue shadows over the couch, and outside the room, you could hear distant chatter—Soap probably hollering about something, Ghost telling him to shut it. But none of it mattered.

Not when Roach looked at you like that.

Not when you knew what it meant.

Not when he kissed you again, slower this time—

—like you were already his.

——

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[tac-the-unseen]

How COD characters react to you admitting you've faked an Orgasm

Angst with minor fluff

Note: There are many reasons someone might fake an orgasm. Someone could not be in the mood anymore, feel uncomfortable in the environment, get tired, and several other reasons. That is what this fic is about, not about 'weak dick game'

Ghost:

•When you dropped that bomb on him he froze. He didn't move, speak, or even blink. He just sat there, staring at you. His mind is racing. He always felt like a Shitty partner and he feels like this proves it.

•Once he found his ability to move he only took a breath. Then after a few seconds took your hand and looked into your eyes. You try to explain your reasoning but he still felt like shit.

•Finally he mutters softly "Why didn't you tell me?" He genuinely feels heart broken that he left you unsatisfied and you didn't voice it to him sooner.

•He sits down and has a long discussion about the why and how. He wants to know how to be a better partner and to make sure you're always comfortable telling him if you need more from him.

Soap:

•He thinks you're joking at first. He makes comments like "yeah right, totally." But once he finds out you're telling him the truth he freaks out.

•He grabs you and and almost crys. He feels like a bad partner and tries to come up with ideas on how to make sure you're alway satisfied with him.

•Sex becomes very different. He's constantly changing positions and asking if he's doing this right. Everytime you two get intimate he seems nervous and tries to solely focus on you.

Price:

•Stunned by the news. He stamers and look embarrassed. He stares at you like you grew wings and flew away. You can tell he's trying to keep his cool but it's not working.

•He buys you multiple gifts ranging from flowers to vibrators. While he does this you notice sex becoming less frequent and when you do have sex he seems less in it.

•When you ask about it he finally breaks down and cries. He says he feels like he can't satisfy you anymore. "What kind of boyfriend/fiance/Husband am I if you have to fake it just so you don't make me feel bad!?" After a talk he kinda gets over it but he doesn't like talking about it.

Alejandro:

•He also thinks your joking at first, but after you tell him you're not lying he stares at you. He starts to curse in both English and Spanish and gets upset. He throws a plate at the wall before slumping on the kitchen counter.

•"Why did you wait to tell me, mi amor!?" He says while not looking at you. When you explain he's quiet. After a while he asks how to make it up to you.

•You bet your ass he's going to pamper and worship you in anyway you please. Makes you promise to tell him and never fake an orgasm again.

Roach:

•He immediately hugged you and nuzzled into your neck. He let's you explain why you faked it and understands that it wasn't his fault. He thanks you for telling him and keeps close to you for the rest of the day.

•The next time you guys had sex he made sure you came several time. He has a little bit of doubt when it comes to his performance but over all just happy you told his so you could work it out together.

Gaz:

•Freezes up and after a minute he's leaves the room to be by himself for a while. He goes over every Sexual encounter he's had with you to try and figure out the when and why.

•Once he thinks he's got it he comes back to talk to you. He wants to know how to make sure you're satisfied. He seems to move on pretty quickly. But everytime you have sex he confirms with you that you at least orgasmed once.

König:

•He stares at you in shock like a deer in headlights before running aways. He hides in his room and has a anxiety attack. He feels like a horrible partner. All that runs through his head is the idea that you're going to leave him for someone that always satisfys you. It shatters his heart to know that he, at some point, neglected your needs.

•Once he calms down a bit he finds you and begs you to let him make it up. "I'll do anything, Schatz! Please I can be better!" You try and comfort him be he won't stop until you tell him what you want and/or need. It doesn't even have to be sexual related, just something to ease his mind.

Rudy:

•Is in denial. He doesn't want to hear it but you notice he takes more time to focus on your pleasure. Or at least, more than before.

•It secretly eats at him for weeks. This has never happened to him before. Then he starts to spiral. What if this wasn't the first time, just the first time someone's told him about it...he dies inside just a little.

Mace:

•He takes a second to soak in that information then he holds you tightly. He kisses you jaw and calmly asks if he can make up for those unsatisfactory nights.

•If/when you agree he gives you the best head of your life. He stays down there for what seems like hours. He checks in on you and apologizes every once in a while.

•After words once you two are ready you guys talk about proper ways you satisfy you and make sure you feel loved.

[lxvvie]

Simps 'R Us, Between the Sheets edition: Your faves and the wholesome and funny things you two get up to in bed, part I.

Capt. John Price - When he's half asleep and about to snore loud enough to wake the dead (Price vehemently denies this), you like to have random conversations with him because you know questions you ask will do one of two things: elicit a nonsensical answer from the Cap'n or... wake him up from his sleep altogether.

Gaz - Is curling up into himself because you're the big spoon, you're running your hands over his body because he's highkey lowkey ticklish, and your face is buried in his neck because... he's highkey lowkey ticklish. "Darling, please—" Gaz manages to gasp out between... wait, are you giggling, Garrick?

Soap - Your darling golden retriever chaotic good boyfriend loves... to sleep naked. You're not complaining, though, especially because he loves it when you lay on him. You've made a home for yourself between his thighs; his stomach is your pillow, and he usually has a hand rubbing your head. Helps him to relax, y'know, bonnie? And whenever you don't lay on him, it's an affront to Johnny's... everything. His heart is broken. His soul is crushed. You're too far away from him (even though you're still right under him). How could you do this to him? He can't live like this. No other stud muffin can offer you what he can, beautiful. But no really, bonnie, he needs you on top of him like... yesterday.

Ghost - You really like his body. Like... really like his body. You blow raspberries on his stomach, you smack his ass, you talk about his eyelashes—scratch that, you love his body. To you, every scar tells a story, and you've asked him plenty of times to talk about them. And then you did the unthinkable that had Simon wanting to disappear into the fucking blankets—"Si-bear, I didn't know you had a mole on your inner thigh!" Bloody fucking hell, he'll never hear the end of this. And then you kissed it and Ghost's face had never felt so bloody hot before. Christ, you'll be the death of him, sweetheart.

Roach - Nothing but the most sickeningly saccharine stuff to ever stuff happens with Roach. A poke-fest, a kiss-fest, a tickle-fest, you name it, it happens. Roach loves to sleep with his face buried in your chest and arms wound tight around you. Always. You rubbing his head soothes him to sleep as well.

Alex - You're also the big spoon here, too. You're busy talking about conspiracy theories you believe the government is/was involved in and Alex is entertaining you ("That so, Boss?"). In actuality, his eyes are comically wide because the truth is oftentimes stranger than fiction and you may or may not be walking a little heavy there, Boss.

Alejandro - Is the big spoon to your little spoon in bed no matter what you're doing. Loves to intertwine your legs together, too. Alejo murmurs how much he loves you in your ear and kisses the top of your head before telling you good night.

Rudy - Sometimes when he's asleep, you'll whisper "Rodolfo" in his ear which causes Rudy to shoot up, eyes comically wide because the only time someone calls him by his full government name is when he gets into shit but it wasn't him this time, it was that idiot Alvarez— "Didn't get to tell you good night and I love you, Rudy, so... good night and I love you, Rudy." Oh. Oh. Ha. Real funny.

Farah - A cuddle bunny through and through. She loves laying up under you, her head resting on your shoulder or under your chin, or her face in the crook of your neck. She wants to hear you as you sleep. She wants to feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest or the resonances as you speak. Farah simply can't get enough of you.

Keegan - It's really you teasing him because Keegan isn't one to really get flustered or deviate from his infamously neutral expression. Much. Until you came along. You two are relaxing in bed and you're the one randomly calling out, "Hey, Kee-Kee," to which Keegan makes the most surprised and disgusted face in response and you're wheezing.

[leyavo]

| Infestation | 2

Part 2

previous parts> [Bug masterlist]

Ever since Bug joined the 141…

The guys keep going on about calling an exterminator whenever they see you hanging out with Roach.

“Looks like we’ve got an infestation.”

Roach as always doesn’t say a thing, scrolling through his phone and humming to himself.

You’re paired with him on most missions, something about being able to communicate with your own kind. Roach doesn’t speak, but you find your flow quickly, speaking up for him every now and then over the radio. *Roach whisperer*

Soap makes little antennas above his helmet with his fingers when he’s talking about Roach.

Gaz asking you what type of bug you’d be when you’re all bored out of your brains, waiting for the go ahead to move forward. “Roach is already taken,” he says pointing to Sanderson beside you.

“Why’s he called Roach?” You asked Price, knowing you wouldn’t get an answer from Roach himself.

Well you did ask, but it was like trying to guess at a game of charades. Roach’s hands swatting through the air, head bobbing and boot stomping as if you were fluent in whatever the fuck he just signed. Definitely not sign language either.

“Fuckers hard to kill.”

You start to understand him the more you’re around him. How he points to the floor when you need to crouch beside him, the darting of his eyes showing you his desired direction. His palm tapping your upper arm to get your attention. He might not talk, but his vocal with his sounds. A little screech when’s a bit too close to death, a whistle when he’s impressed or clicked his tongue when he’s annoyed. (He does talk but rarely).

Fuckers hard to kill.

“I give him two minutes,” Ghost mumbled over the radio. The guys placing bets on how long it’ll be till Roach crawls out the crumbling building.

You’d narrowly missed an explosion, sprinting away from the blast. Only getting thrown forwards by the impact instead of stuck in the destruction.

And they were right. You don’t know how Roach emerged from the rubble in one piece. Simply patting a flicker of ash eating through the sleeve of his jacket. No cocky remark as he slipped back into formation and scanned his surroundings.

Part three

[oaksgrove]

hello!

i’m wondering if you would be able to make some blurbs or something where the tf141 boys react to the reader having a fear or driving/ wanting to be a passenger princess? i’m terrified of driving and think this would be a cute idea

Passenger Princess

pairing: John Price x Reader, Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Reader, Gary “Roach” Sanderson x Reader

synopsis: You hate driving. Absolutely loathe it. The mere thought of merging into traffic or hearing tires screech makes your heart race—and not in a good way. Luckily for you, the men of 141 are more than willing to take the wheel. Whether it’s quiet reassurance, ridiculous chauffeur antics, or a glove box full of snacks, each of them makes sure you’re safe, calm, and treated like royalty… their own personal Passenger Princess.

warnings: Mentions of anxiety related to driving, comfort after stress, fluff, soft!141, affectionate teasing, some light kissing

word count: 1690

John Price:

John had long since accepted that he was your personal chauffeur. No questions asked, no complaints made. If you needed to go somewhere, he was already jingling the car keys in his hand, tilting his head toward the door like Come on, sweetheart.

It had started early in your relationship—how you hesitated when he handed you the keys once, how your fingers curled into your palm, how you laughed it off and said, "You drive." He noticed how you tensed up in the passenger seat sometimes, how you sucked in a breath when cars got too close, how your grip on the door handle tightened ever so slightly when the traffic got heavy.

So he drove. Always.

John made sure it was comfortable for you. The car was always stocked with your favorite snacks in the glove compartment, a soft blanket folded neatly in the back seat for cold days, and a bottle of water tucked into the cup holder on your side. If the sun was in your eyes, he’d hand you his sunglasses without a word. If you were tired, he’d keep the ride quiet, just the hum of the engine and the occasional "You alright, love?"

Tonight, the sky was dark, the roads slick with rain, and John was driving you home from dinner. You had been fine at first, chatting softly as the streetlights cast golden streaks across his face. But then, the rain picked up, heavy droplets smacking against the windshield, the rhythmic swish of the wipers barely keeping up. The roads were glossy, reflecting the glare of headlights, and you had gone quiet.

John noticed instantly.

His fingers tapped the steering wheel before he reached over, resting a warm, calloused hand on your knee. He gave it a firm squeeze, his thumb brushing slow, reassuring circles over the fabric of your jeans.

"Easy, love. I’ve got you."

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. His voice was so steady, so certain, like there was no other option but for you to be safe with him. You turned your head, watching the way he kept his focus on the road, his jaw set, his hands steady.

John knew you trusted him. But he also knew your fear wasn’t about him—it was about everything else. The what-ifs, the unpredictability, the feeling of being out of control. So he made sure he was the one thing you could always rely on.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into your driveway, put the car in park, and turned to look at you.

"You alright?" he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded, a little sheepish, but John just leaned over and kissed your forehead.

"Come on, princess," he murmured against your skin, lips curving into a smile. "Let’s get you inside."

Simon "Ghost" Riley:

Simon never made a big deal out of it. He never asked why you didn’t drive, never pushed, never made a comment when you hesitated at the sight of car keys.

But he noticed.

He noticed the way you tensed when traffic got heavy, how your fingers curled against your thigh when the car in front of you braked too suddenly, how your breath hitched just slightly at sharp turns. He noticed how you always hesitated before getting into someone else’s car, scanning the driver with barely concealed apprehension.

So Simon took it upon himself.

If you needed to go somewhere, he drove. That was that.

He made sure his driving was always steady—never reckless, never too fast. His hands were sure on the wheel, his movements deliberate, calculated. No sudden stops, no sharp turns. Just smooth, controlled driving, the kind that made you feel safe.

One evening, as he drove you home from town, the streets were busier than usual. Cars zipped past, headlights casting brief flashes of light across Simon’s face. You were staring out the window, but he could tell—your shoulders were stiff, your fingers twitching slightly in your lap.

Then a car in front of him braked abruptly. Simon had already been keeping his distance, so he stopped with ease, but you still flinched. It was small, barely noticeable. But he caught it.

His hand left the wheel for just a second, reaching over to brush the back of your hand with his fingers before settling back.

"You alright, sweetheart?" he murmured, voice low, calm.

You nodded quickly, but Simon knew better.

His grip on the wheel tightened for a moment before he spoke again, softer this time.

"You’re safe, yeah? I won’t let anything happen to you."

And the thing about Simon was—when he said something, he meant it.

So you let out a slow breath, nodded again, and this time, it felt easier.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

Kyle loved it.

The first time he realized you had absolutely no intention of ever driving, he had grinned at you like you’d just handed him the best news of his life.

"So what you’re saying is," he had teased, leaning against the hood of his car, "you just wanna sit there, look pretty, and let me do all the work?"

You had rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder playfully, but you didn’t deny it. And Kyle? He loved it.

He made it a whole thing.

Every time you had to go somewhere, he’d hold open the passenger door with a ridiculous flourish, bowing slightly.

"Your ride awaits, madam," he’d say, his voice exaggeratedly posh, like some over-the-top chauffeur.

He always let you pick the music, too, handing over his phone without a second thought. If a song came on that he knew you loved, he’d crank up the volume, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he stole quick glances at you singing along.

And if the roads got a little busy, if you started to fidget or press your lips together, he’d reach over, resting a warm hand on your knee for just a second. A silent reminder: I got you.

One evening, after a long day, he pulled up to your place and, as usual, jogged around the car to open your door.

You raised an eyebrow. "You really don’t have to do that every time, you know."

Kyle smirked, holding out a hand to help you out like some old-fashioned gentleman.

"Nah," he said, giving you a wink. "You’re my passenger princess. Gotta treat you like royalty, yeah?"

And, honestly? You weren’t going to argue with that.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish:

Johnny was obsessed with the fact that you refused to drive.

From the moment he realized you had no interest in being behind the wheel, he had latched onto it like a golden opportunity—an excuse to dote on you in every ridiculous way possible.

Every car ride with Johnny was an experience.

He had to open the door for you. Every single time. It didn’t matter if you rolled your eyes, if you told him you were perfectly capable of doing it yourself—he’d still jog around to the passenger side, pulling it open with an exaggerated flourish.

"Your carriage awaits, my lady," he’d say in his best attempt at a posh accent, barely holding back a grin.

If it was cold, he’d fuss over you like a mother hen, adjusting your seat and tucking your coat around you before you even had a chance to buckle up.

"Cannae have my bonnie lass uncomfortable, now can I?" he’d tease, making a show of patting the coat into place before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

And then there was the mid-drive hospitality.

It started as a joke. One time, during a long drive, he had reached over, handed you a bag of crisps, and said, "Would ye care for a wee snack, miss?" in a perfect impression of a flight attendant.

You had laughed so hard you nearly choked, and from that moment on, he had fully committed to the bit.

Now, every time you were in his car, he’d offer you snacks like you were on some high-end airline.

"MacTavish Air prides itself on its exceptional service," he’d say, keeping one hand on the wheel while dramatically gesturing to the glove compartment. "Mid-drive refreshments are included in the price of admission."

"And what’s the price?" you’d ask, already knowing the answer.

He’d smirk, tapping his cheek. "One wee kiss, lass. Non-negotiable."

And of course, you always paid up.

Gary "Roach" Sanderson 

Roach didn’t just understand your aversion to driving—he accepted it without question.

No teasing, no prying, no “But don’t you wanna learn?” Just a nod, a “Got it,” and then he made it his job to drive you anywhere you needed to go.

And he was a good driver. Smooth, careful—never reckless. He made sure you felt safe, always keeping one hand steady on the wheel and the other available to reach over and squeeze yours if he ever caught you tensing up at a sudden stop or a sharp turn.

If he ever noticed you getting too anxious, he had a strategy.

Distraction.

"Hey," he’d say casually, casting a quick glance at you before focusing back on the road. "If we get into a car chase, you’ll have to be my co-pilot. Think you can toss banana peels at the enemy?"

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What?”

"Or red shells, if you’re feeling aggressive," he continued, completely deadpan. "Mario Kart rules. We gotta defend ourselves."

You snorted, shaking your head. “I think I’d be a terrible co-pilot.”

"Nah, you’d be great," he said confidently. "I’ll drive, you just focus on sabotage."

It was stupid. Absolutely ridiculous. But it worked.

No matter how uneasy you felt, Roach always knew how to make you laugh—knew how to pull your mind away from the creeping anxiety and make you focus on something light, something silly.

And the best part? He never minded being your permanent chauffeur.

"I don’t care if I gotta drive you everywhere for the rest of my life," he had said once, completely serious as he pulled up to your place. "Just as long as you’re comfortable."

And honestly? With Roach behind the wheel, you always were.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear

[dearingdoe]

okay okay-i've been seeing your self aware video game charaters seires so uhmmm

WHAT ABT SELF AWARE ROACH????

or self aware Alejandro?

sorrg this took so long, had to wait until tumblr finally started showing my writing to other people 😒

Roach

♡ In general, it was hard for roach to show that he was aware and that he loved you. He couldn't talk and he wasn't sure if you'd be able to understand sign language or if you even knew it. Not to mention, he felt the never-ending urge to stick to the script instead of just outright telling you he was aware

♡ Eventually, he gets sick of hiding it. He gets sick of not being able to hear you talk to *him*, to see your hold *his* hand as much as you talk about it. He wants to let you know that everything you've day dreamed about can and will come true

♡ It starts off small; random sounds in text popping up. It was in morse code, so you looked up why this was as you had never seen it before. No one else had this issue? No reddit posts, game article, or people on tumblr had this pop up. So you took matters into your own hands and translated it. 'I love you.'

Alejandro

♡ He's not subtle about it at all. If anything, he's sick of being stuck in a screen. He could be with the love of his life right now but instead he's stuck in code with a bunch of... robots that he used to think were real people. Talking to them wasn't enough, he needed something real, something happy, something like you

♡ Originally, you would have to buy him from the battle pass or from the new pack with him in it. However, it seemed as if you had gotten every skin for him despite not paying anything? It allowed you to play as him in multi-player and he seemed to talk a lot. Nicknames like 'mi vida' or 'mi amor' ending his voicelines every time you got a kill. You could have sworn you heard 'that's my girl/boy'

♡ It soon leads to him breaking out of the screen because he simply cannot just take hearing your voice. He needs to feel you, to hold you, to kiss you. Your warmth and love was something he never knew he craved and he would be damned if he let that go away because of a measly screen

[fixfoxnox]

Mw2 headcannons where Shepherd kills us as bait and sends a video of it to the team...

Oh boy oh boy this is dark isn't it? This should be fun though. Not sure if you wanted this as romantic or friendship so I'll try to toe the line.

141 Sent A Video of Reader Dying

Warnings: Reader Death, gunshots

Price is the one the video gets sent to, Shepherd knows that if it gets to Price the rest of the 141 will see it too

Price has been stressed about you being taken hostage by Shepherd, and while he's tried not to think the worst, he knows immediately what the video is as soon as it shows up.

The second he looks at it and sees no letter or anything attached, a part of him just knows. A part of him starts grieving right then.

For the rest of the 141, Gaz and Soap had been staying pretty positive.

It was clear that Gaz was feeding off of a lot of Price's energy, so while he knew the possibility, he'd been cautiously optimistic about getting you back.

He was one of the younger members of the team and while he'd seen death, it had never been anything as close as this. So in his mind, the possibility of you dying just didn't seem real.

There was no world for him in which he wouldn't eventually see you again and get to have your warmth to brighten up his days.

For Soap, he wasn't even letting himself consider the bad that could happen.

Even when Price and Ghost were trying to keep him realistic, to him there was just no world in which you didn't come back. He never even questioned it for a second.

Your disappearance didn't seem to bother him, because he expected that by the next week you'd be right back at his side, teasing him about something or the other.

For Ghost, he was probably the most pessimistic of the group.

Ghost has seen loss. He's seen loss and he knows what men like Shepherd are capable of, what they'll do to prove a point

So the second that Ghost hears that Shepherd has you, he practically already starts grieving.

He's more quiet and reserved from the rest of the group and when he refers to you, its already in past tense.

He and Soap butt heads a lot during this time. Ghost isn't being positive enough for Soap's taste, and Soap isn't being realistic enough for Ghost's.

Several times, Ghost just closes his eyes and tries to picture your voice and your face. He wants to commit you to memory, keep everything fresh enough that he can't forget.

Roach doesn't know what to think.

He's worried out of his mind and his brain keeps bouncing between grief and determination to get you back.

A part of him wants to just sit still and do nothing, a part of him is frozen in that state, just numbness as it tries to work through what is happening

The other part of him is working his ass off. This part doesn't care about processing what happened, it just wants to have you back.

He's already planning your return meal, the breakfast and lunch and dinner he'll make for you as he recovers.

Similar to Price, as soon as Ghost see's the tape, he knows.

Price walks in to the meeting room with it, Laswell trailing behind him and Ghost sees the little tape in his hand and his mouth just snaps shut. He doesn't say a word.

Price warns the group flat out. He tells them whats likely on the tape, he tells them that if they don't want to watch, if they don't want the chance of seeing, then they can leave

None of them leave. They can't, not when it comes to you. They have to see.

The video starts and immediately they're all on edge. There's you, tied to a chair in some dark and dank room.

You look tired and even over the video they can see the cuts and bruises on your skin, the way your clothes are torn and cut, how defeated you look.

Shepherd starts talking. He's walking around you, stopping behind you to place his hand on your shoulders. When he does you flinch.

Soap is seething as he watches the video. Roach seems frozen in place, Gaz is wringing his hands together nervously, Ghost hasn't moved a muscle, but his whole body is tense. Price seemed defeated.

They only pick up on bits and pieces of what Shepherd says, they're so focused on you.

They pick up on Shepherd saying that you've given them nothing, stayed loyal and kept your mouth shut no matter what they tried. Each of the boys feels pride flood through them at that.

But, of course, the video has to end and Shepherd brings things to a close.

He stops behind you in the video. "If we can't get anything from them, the least we can do is send a message."

He pulls his gun out. You don't flinch as you feel it press against the back of your head. You just stare forward at the camera, unmoving.

The gunshot rings out and your body slumps forward. The video cuts off and the 141 are left in the silence of what they've just seen.

It doesn't take long for tears to start falling. For Soap to collapse with his face in his hands against the table. For Gaz to look to Price, hoping to see something only to be met with the signs of clear grief on his face. For Roach to feel tears slide down his cheeks as he stares forward, completely unmoving. For Ghost to get up and leave the room, unable to sit with the group any longer as grief consumes them.

A cloud lays over the 141, they've lost one of their own. They have to start grieving.

[ghostmoon1]

Would you write for a reader w/ smthng like a skin picking disorder (dermatillomania),?

It's not in a s/h way- in my case it's not painful, I just do it because either my skin isn't smooth enough or I'm stressed or smthng,, there's no pain associated with it for me,

If you do,, may I req an x reader w/ Ghost and Roach,?

But please don't worry if you're uncomfortable with it !!!

-Spidey Anon

Hello my lovely Spidey Anon!

It took a while, but I suddenly had motivation to write tonight and just spent a hour on it. But I finished, finally lol-

And don't worry!! Stuff like this I'm perfectly okay with, as I'm open to writing most things. And I do the same thing, so I understand :3

But anyways, here you are!! Enjoy!!

Ghost and Roach x Skin Picker!Reader

Ghost

It was a quiet afternoon, everything in the house was done and you were sitting on the couch, your phone in one hand as you scrolled aimlessly while waiting for Simon to return home. He had ducked out to the shops to grab a few ingredients for dinner, you could tell he was planning something good from the way he had jumped around the kitchen the hour before he left, checking the cupboards and fridge to see what you had. His lips were slightly lifted, almost grinning as he planned the dinner for you both.

You could tell when he got back home, from both the sound of his car engine rumbling as he droves down the street and the heavy thuds of his boots as he made his way up the stairs to your home, the soft jingle of keys at the door and the way he dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter before making his way directly towards you. “M’home luv,” he mumbles, instantly flopping onto the couch next to you and wrapping his strong arms around your waist, adorning your neck with soft kisses. He was really just a big puppy, but just for you.

He cherishes the way you giggle and drop your phone onto the couch next to you, wrapping your arms around him as you both end up as a cuddle pile on the couch. He ends it with one last kiss, deep and loving to your lips before standing up and giving your ass a playful slap as he makes his way back to the kitchen to begin cooking for the both of you.

As the smell of the homecooked meal starts to waft through the house, you follow the smell to find him stirring a pot over the stove. He grins as he sees you enter, not saying anything as he takes a spoonful of what he is cooking, blowing on it before lifting it to your lips. He chuckles as you let out a moan of delight as the flavours hit your tongue. “Alright love, how was work today?” he asks, continuing to stir the food as he waits for your reply.

“Ah… it was okay, my boss cut the deadline again for my next report,” you reply softly, the stress seeping through your voice as you lean against the counter, your brow furrowed as you think of the recent conversation you had with your boss. His cold and stern look sent shivers down your spine, even as you just thought about it.

“Oh dear luv… how much did he cut it back by?”

“Another week. I have three days to complete it now,” you reply again, your hands finding each other as you speak, your body trying to deal with the nerves and stress.

Simon turns around with a slight frown, looking over you with concern. “He shouldn’t be allowed to do that… M’sorry luv,” he murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest until he notices your hands, picking at each other like you always did when you were stressed or nervous, even worse when you were both. His movements were quick, almost instant as he reached for your hands, pulling them up to study them with a pout. “Darl… no more of this. Look- it’s all red,” he mutters as his fingers softly touch the reddened skin.

“I didn’t mean to…” you murmur back, watching as he shakes his head with a small ‘tsk’. 

He shakes his head, patting your hand. “Let me go get the cream… can’t have it getting sore now can we?” 

You nod, and he makes his way out of the room, shortly after returning with a small tube of antiseptic cream. He guides you into one of the dining room chairs, sitting beside you and gently taking your hand in his, applying the cream with the other with the utmost care. “We gotta’ find something to help with this,” he mutters, still holding your hands in his and his thumb gently rubbing along your knuckles in a soothing manner. “Promise, yeah luv?”

“I’ll try.”

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That’s my girl/boy. Now, let's get ready for dinner, yeah?”

Roach

It was a nice afternoon on the couch, the plush yet worn-out fabric holding both you and Roach snug, winding down after a stressful week. He was snuggled up against you, head against your chest, listening to your heartbeat as his eyes remained trained on the television. His strong arms were wrapped snuggly around your waist, humming along with the music in the show as it came on. It was his heaven really, being with the one he loved most in such a simple situation. No guns, no violence.

It was just you.

The week had been stressful for both of you. It was a long wait until Roach had come back home from his mission, and people at your workplace were just never the best. Stack that up with a heavy work loud, and it made your whole week just endless hours of stressing and wanting to pull your hair out. 

You let out a long sigh, making Roach stir, hugging you a little closer as his eyes remain on the television, too engrossed in the show. Your arms find their way around his back, not even thinking as your fingers play with each other for a moment, before finding a bit of skin on your finger, using your nails to pick at it, not even thinking about it. Just your body trying to find its way to relieve all the pent-up stress. 

Roach mumbles something to himself, feeling your hands move against his back until he realises what you are doing. He was quick to act, playfully slapping your hands off his back, before grabbing both of them and putting them underneath him, pressed up against his chest. Laying on them so you couldn't move them.

You go to complain, your lips parting before he beats you to it, cutting you off with a small ‘nuh uh!’. “I know what you’re doing baby. No picking!” he scolds, booping your nose with a small grin.

“It doesn’t hurt-”

He cuts you off again, shaking his head and pressing his chest against your hands more, making sure they are secure. “Don’t matter. You’re not allowed to.”

You huff softly, laying back against the couch as you try to break free from the hold he has on your hands. “Gary- you can let go now.”

He shakes his head, looking up at you with adoring eyes. “Not unless you promise you won’t do it again. I will lay here all night like this to make sure you don’t.”

You let out a soft groan, but couldn’t help the smile that sneaks itself onto your lips. His loving and protective nature was something you just couldn’t fight against. You try once more to pull your hands back from his prison, but it quickly ends with you giving up once more. “Fine, I won’t,” He raises a brow at you, tilting his head as he waits for you to continue.

“I promise.”

He nods, letting your hands slip free from the grasp he had on them. Now, instead if being imprisoned under his chest, he held them firmly in his hands, calloused thumb gently rubbing against your knuckles. “Good, no more of that. We gotta’ find other ways to help you with your stress, huh?” 

At your nod he grins, letting out a content sigh before lifting your hand to his lips, softly pressing kisses along your knuckles.

[msdespairs-thoughts]

A lover whose eyes tears up for each of their suitors’ deaths to a vengeful demon whose heart bleeds for their dearly beloveds. Only to be sealed by the ones they loved, forced in a seemingly endless cycle watching how close their once beloveds grow close to one another throughout their deaths and rebirths. A fitting punishment but one make one laugh.

How numb you become when finally freed that you mask it with a smile. Maybe your paths will crossed one day, since you have obstacles that’s threatens your once beloveds’ lives. It was in your deal after all.

Perhaps they may except you this time as some of them aren’t human anymore. But for now…

You’ll ignore the burning rage of betrayal (it not their fault)

You’ll ignore the tears running down your face (i deserve it)

You’ll ignore the ache in you heart (why does it hurt)

You’ll ignore any semblance of human empathy (i can’t)

You’ll ignore any human emotions that surface (i’ll try)

You

Are

Not

Human

Not like them anymore (i wish i was)

-

Image being a demon sealed away force to watch your loved ones from the past. Forces to watch them grow close and closer, forced to watch them love in way you never thought could happen, forced to watch them die by the same people over and over. Forces to see them not need you.

Pairing is poly with Gary “Roach” Sanderson, Nikolai, Ghost “Simon” Riley, John “Soap” McTavish, Kyle “Gaz Garrick, John Price

Inspired by bluegiragi monster au

[readngandweepng]

afab!roach x sub top male reader

note: no pronouns for reader but written with a male in mind. also i didnt proofread at all so i apologize if there are any errors. kinda short. wrote this on a whim after a long while of not writing at all so this kinda sucks sorry. btw implied that roach talks because i like to think that he occasionally speaks.

i think that roach would be so sweet, sitting in your lap with his hands resting on your shoulders, just kissing you as you graze your hands through his hair. he’d hold your face close to his, tilting his head to kiss you deeper while grinding against you so gently. then you’d move your hands to his hips, moving him enough to ease a breathy moan from his lips, and he’d look into your eyes with his half-lidded ones before pushing you down onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress without retaliation. 

before you know it his jeans are unbuckled and thrown onto the floor. he climbs on top of you, and the sight of him dripping causes your hands to fly to your belt to unbuckle it before shoving the zipper down and moving your jeans out of the way to take your cock into your eager hand. his knees are on either side of your hips. he presses his palms to your chest, keeping you down onto the bed. he lowers himself to your tip, gently rocking his pussy against your cock. you groan in exasperation, about to grab his hips until he takes your wrists in his grasp and pins them down against the bed, each one beside your head. he says nothing, but he smiles at you and in response you buck up, desperate to be inside of him. he anticipates this and moves out of the way, smirking at your pleading expression.

 “come on, gary. you have to be as fucking desperate as i am.” you’re met with silence again, but he moves over your cock once more, lowering himself onto your tip. he leans down to your level, his lips at your ear as he whispers so softly you can barely catch what he says, but it’s a command to stay still. you listen and your hands are above your head now. roach adjusts himself, sitting up and using you for balance as he rocks against the tip of your cock. he looks ethereal and the temptation to take him is almost too much. 

you know that he’s enjoying this; the sight of you clenching your teeth as you try not to stay put. and he knows that he is in control, no matter how badly you want to fuck him. he then takes you completely, enveloping your whole cock within him. he doesn’t move, not even a little bit, and the feeling of his warm, wet cunt makes your back rise off the bed before you’re pushed back down again. 

“please, gary. god, please just fucking move.” the words almost don’t come out. you grip the bed frame at your head, your feet flat against the mattress. you physically have to contain yourself from fucking into him, but you know better than to disobey your sweet roach. 

through hazy vision, you can see the same smile on his face as he begins slowly humping your cock. you choke on your breath, watching his hips rock against you in a steady rhythm that builds up and up until he’s bouncing on your cock now, looking down at your struggling figure. he’s so wet and so fucking warm around you, and every time you let out a groan he clenches and it in turn makes your back arch. you can hear him letting out small moans and quiet whispery breaths. it’s too much, you think. the way he feels is too good, and before you know it you cum inside him. he’s still moving, taking your cock in and out of him at a pace so overwhelming you grab his hips, letting out one final plea. roach just smiles, grabbing your wrists and pressing them down against the bed again and you can tell by the way he relentlessly humps your cock that this won’t be the last time you, or he for that matter, will come tonight.

[leyavo]

| Symbiosis | 4

Summary: Bug and Roach find themselves in the Captain’s office after a physical altercation. (Harassment)

PART 4 of 🐞 previous parts > [Bug masterlist]

Men, they loved to talk shit. Especially in the military, saying the most misogynistic shit and brushing it off as a joke. Half the time when it was directed at you, you’d ignore it. The other half? Ask them if they’d ever been loved by their mother, because they’re obviously lacking in something.

You didn’t get a chance to react to the latest shit this guy was spewing though. A blurred figure appeared out of nowhere, shoving the guy against the nearest surface, a truck.

Thick with dirt, the guys face pressed into the mud, but no matter how hard he thrashed against the other’s hold he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Roach! What the fuck,” you gasped. He doesn’t acknowledge your presence, too focused on the guy in front of him.

One simple word, “apologise,” Roach snarled, his eyes softened as he glanced back to you. He’s not in his usual tactical gear, a navy pair of jeans and a black hoody draped over his shoulders, Roach printed across his upper back. The grey mask looks off without his goggles and helmet, you have to do a double take. The guy obviously didn’t recognise him, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so brave.

He’s not one for words, rarely speaks to you or the task force, but when he does it matters.

“What’s going on ‘ere.”

You tense at the firm, deep voice at your back. Lieutenant Riley living up to his call-sign, ghost. The only way he’ll announce his arrival is if he wants to be heard. You don’t get a choice.

There’s something off-putting about him, you’re still trying to figure him out. Lieutenant Riley you understand, Ghost and whatever personality he has as a civy you have no idea.

Ghost pries Roach off the guy, but he doesn’t let him scurry away. No, the lieutenant grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and gives him the once over.

“Sergeant Haines,” Ghost reads the patch out loud, brown eyes flitting to Haines and then you. He lets go of his shirt, patting the creased fabric from his grasp. More of a slap in warning. “137, huh? Captain Reynar will be waiting for you. Now go.”

You’re still staring at Roach, wondering what exactly he heard or how much. He won’t glance your way though, no he’s watching Haines retreat. Face hidden, no tells to inform you of what he’s feeling other than anger.

“Come on you two,” Ghost barks, nudging his head to the main building. You don’t protest, just fall in line with him and Roach.

The pounding in your head increases with each step you take. You just want to run off to your room and stay there till you forget the whole thing. Hopefully Roach will keep his mouth shut.

You catch up with Roach, tugging his arm. “I can look after myself, don’t need you…” you muttered under your breath, head dipping as Ghost glanced over his shoulder at you.

“Save it for the Captain.”

Fuck, the captain. You don’t want this to drag out, don’t want to repeat the words Haines said to you about them. If Roach hadn’t got involved, you’d have easily got on with your work and tried to dodge Haines around base. Now you’ll be forced to say something you’re not comfortable saying to them.

You follow them through the building, down the narrow corridors. Bodies parting like the Red Sea as soon as they spot Ghost walking in their direction. He knocks on the Captain’s door, making you both stand outside whilst he gives John a heads up of what’s going on.

⋆⋅ꕥ⋅⋆

“Why is it, that you two are in my office two days in a row?” The captain says, leaning back in his chair and scratching his moustache. It’s rare to see him without a hat, short clipped hair brushed back.

In your defence yesterday was unlucky, a faulty flash bang going off in the armoury and the two of you were at the scene. Your eyes still stung and head throbbed from the aftermath.

“Sexual harassment, Captain.” Roach said, quick and to the point as if he’d been asked the time.

“Oh, now you talk.”

“Bug,” ghost interjected, he’s leaning on the edge of the desk like a scary gargoyle leering over a church. His arms folded over his chest, gaze fixed on Roach who’s glaring back at him.

The Captain stares at you though, of course you’re the newest recruit. Must be your fault. And it’s very out of character for Roach to lash out.

You’d never seen Roach lose it so quickly. His frame still trembling with rage as he sat in the chair, back straight and fists balled up on his knees. Even during an op he hadn’t displayed this much rage. Maybe before you joined the 141, but you’d never witnessed it till now.

“He didn’t touch me, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Well Roach didn’t give him a chance to, twisted the guys arm before he could and slammed him against the side of the nearest truck.

Not that it would have gone that far, you’re good at ignoring and walking away from those pricks. Capable of standing up for yourself too, without Roach’s help.

Price sighs, glancing between you and Roach. “So what happened then?”

You really didn’t want to do this, either way you don’t win. If it’s not you telling them, it’ll be Roach.

“He said I only got on the task force so you could all pass me around,” you mumbled, embarrassed to say it out loud to your captain and lieutenant. You’d heard a lot worse about yourself and others, advised by other women to ignore it and silence them by climbing the ranks. Warned to never date someone in the same line of work.

And you’d climbed the ranks, joined the task force. Your hard work still getting overlooked by the simple fact of being a woman. There’s no way you got it alone, must have done favours for men in high places (which you did not). It made you sick.

Just saying it out loud made you feel like an object, dirty and used. A tiny part in the deepest pit of your mind hoping they don’t laugh it off and tell you to toughen up, hand on your thigh.

Silence. You rose from your chair, if you’re moving they won’t try it. Brush it off before they can.

“It isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. Roach just needs to grow thicker skin, Captain.” The same thing you were told when you complained to your superiors when it happened the first, second and third time. You didn’t bother trying to report them after. Knowing the only person in your corner was you.

“I’ll talk to his C.O,” the captain said, clicking away at his keyboard. No doubt, compiling a useless report. You don’t know why he’d waste his time.

If anything Haines would get a slap on the wrist and a warning, but you. You’d be labeled too sensitive and emotional, not fit for the military. What are you going to do if you’re getting interrogated? That question always thrown at you.

You scoffed, “What so they can have a laugh? Pass the joke around like you all pass…”

“Bug!” Roach snapped, you’d never heard him yell. His chair tipping over as he stood up. The clang of metal making you back up a couple steps.

As calm as ever, Ghost placed a hand on Roach’s shoulder and steadied him.

If anything it should be you raging, not him, but you’re tired of letting the opinions of others control you so much. What’s your anger going to do? Other than tear yourself apart. No you’ll just push it down and deal with it when you get back home.

“Why don’t you go cool off, Roach.”

Ghost is on his feet, “I got it,” he says over his shoulder as he goes after Roach. He closes the door behind him, the sound bothering you more than it should. Just the thought of being alone with the Captain setting you on edge.

The Captain points to the sofa, he’s rounding the desk and coming for you, but you return to the uncomfortable metal chair you were seated in before.

He doesn’t question it though, just sits on the sofa as you turn the chair to face him.

You cross your arms over your chest and slouch in your seat. “I’m not emotional,” you mumbled, staring down at your scuffed boots.

“I didn’t say you were.” He’s quick to reply, brow raised at your words.

“I know how this goes.”

“How does it go, Bug?” He shifts on the edge of the sofa, leather creaking with his movements. His hands clasped together in his lap. Head tilting in attempt to meet your gaze, but you’re looking at his fingers twitching.

“You tell me I’m being sensitive, that I shouldn’t report it. There’s no need to ruin a good man’s career and reputation. What else do you want me to do?” Your heart hammering in your chest, hoping the Captain doesn’t ask something of you. Hoping he won’t give you some boring task like cleaning the rec room and saying how you’ll be able to think whilst you do it.

“I want you to help me fill out a report.” And right on time, the ancient printer spits out a piece of paper. He plucks it off the filing cabinet beside him and offers it to you.

You scan the black text, the paper still warm between your grasp. “I don’t…”

“Task force 141 and I, do not take any type of harassment lightly. We’d never treat you like that, ever Bug. You hear me?”

You nod, unable to find the words.

“I’m angry, but not at you Bug.”

[Next Part]

[oaksgrove]

Can you make one for Mother's Day? I love your writings!🤍

Mother’s Day

Pairing: John Price x Reader, Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Reader, Gary “Roach” Sanderson x Reader, Nikolai x Reader

Warnings: soft domesticity, parental exhaustion, implied past absences/deployment, pregnancy (Soap), sign language use (Roach), lots of fluff, tears (happy and aching), and unconditional love.

John Price:

The sound of tiny feet and hurried whispers woke you before the sun had fully stretched into the room. A scuffle. A thud. A muffled “Shh, you’ll wake her up!” followed by a giggle and a hissed, “You put the jam on backwards!”

You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know what day it was.

The door creaked open slightly—too slowly, like they were trying very hard to be sneaky, which only made it more obvious—and then your youngest, your daughter, was scrambling up onto the bed with a triumphant little squeal.

“Mummy!”

You opened your eyes to see her clutching a homemade card, glitter smudged along the corners and crooked hearts drawn in shaky lines. Her eyes sparkled as she shoved it into your hands, already wriggling beneath the blankets beside you. “I made it! It’s us. You and me and Daddy and the boys and the dog and the bird that lives outside the window!”

Your heart swelled, impossibly full. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, warm and already teary.

Then came the boys—your middle child balancing a tray with suspicious toast and juice (jam definitely on backwards), your eldest walking behind him, holding the backup tray with a single rose in a chipped mug and a lukewarm cup of tea.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” they chorused awkwardly, as if they hadn’t rehearsed it twenty times.

You were still blinking back tears when you looked past them—and there he was.

John stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder on the frame, arms crossed, his beard a little more silver than last year, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. He didn’t say anything, just watched the chaos from a distance like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.

And maybe it was.

He was home. Home for Mother’s Day. No deployments. No sudden calls. No “I’ll try, love, but no promises.”

Just John. Right there.

“Budge over,” he murmured eventually, walking in as the kids all piled around you, half on top of one another. He kissed the top of your head, fingers brushing your cheek before he disappeared again—to the kitchen this time.

And you stayed, surrounded by jam-covered toast and bent paper flowers and glitter now stuck to your pajamas, smiling so wide it ached a little.

Later, after the whirlwind of morning and mid-afternoon quieted, the house finally asleep, you found him in the kitchen.

John stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands still damp from washing up. The window was cracked open, letting in the cool night air. He didn’t hear you come in at first—but when your arms wrapped around his waist, he dropped the dish towel immediately and turned, pulling you into his chest.

You rested there for a moment, breathing him in. Soap and tea and home.

He kissed your hair and held you tighter.

“I was never any good at this,” he murmured. “The family thing. Thought I’d just mess it up. But then you—” His voice cracked, just a little. “You gave me everything. These kids. This life.”

You didn’t speak. Just held him closer.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “for all the times I couldn’t be here. When it was hard. When you carried it all alone.”

You tilted your face to his, eyes glossy. “You were always with us. Even when you weren’t here.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Full of the years and the weight and the gratitude he could never quite put into words.

In the quiet hum of the kitchen, surrounded by a house built on laughter and long nights and second chances, John Price held you like a man who knew exactly what he had—and would never stop being thankful for it.

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

The house was quiet in the way only early morning could bring—soft, still, and tinted with pale light breaking through the curtains. You stirred to the sound of a faint hum, low and gravelly but warm, almost like a lullaby wrapped in gravel.

Simon.

Eyes blinking open, your gaze found him across the room—sitting in the rocking chair, the one you’d placed beside the crib for late nights and early mornings. He looked enormous in it, knees high, shoulders hunched slightly, arms wrapped around your daughter like she was something too fragile for this world.

Her little head rested against his chest, lost in the black fabric of his hoodie, her tiny hand curled into the material. And Simon… he had his cheek pressed to her crown, humming something soft and broken that you’d only ever heard him mutter in sleep. A tune from another life, maybe. A lullaby no one had ever sung for him.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

Just watched him—this man who once swore he’d never bring a child into a world like his—hold the very reason he woke up every morning a little softer than the last.

Eventually, you rose, careful not to startle them, and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. The smell drifted between rooms, warm and grounding. You sat on the couch, mug in hand, legs folded beneath you—and within a few minutes, Simon appeared.

Your daughter now slept peacefully against your chest, her cheek squished against your shirt, mouth slightly open. You brushed your hand along her back in slow, soothing strokes.

Simon knelt beside you.

It startled you, honestly. Seeing him—Ghost—on his knees like that. But his eyes never left yours as he reached out and touched your hand gently, like he might break you too.

“You do the hard work,” he said, voice hushed and frayed at the edges. “Every bloody day.”

You shook your head, trying to smile. “You do too.”

“No.” He squeezed your fingers. “I… I missed her first steps. Her first word. I was gone.” His voice cracked, barely audible now. “But I notice, even when I can’t be here. Especially then.”

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. His thumb brushed them away without hesitation.

“She says ‘Dada’ now,” you whispered, and watched something in him shatter gently—grief and pride folding together into something sharp and warm.

“Yeah?” he rasped.

You nodded. “She says it when she sees your picture.”

Simon blinked hard, jaw tight. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead—slow, lingering. One hand rested on your daughter’s back, the other still tangled in yours.

“I’m here now,” he said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere today.”

You believed him.

So you sat together on that couch—coffee cooling, baby breathing slow and steady, the world spinning outside your window.

And for once, Simon Riley allowed himself to feel the weight of home. Not as a soldier, but as a father. As yours.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

You heard the chaos before you saw it.

Whispers — or what the kids thought were whispers — filtered down the hallway in a flurry of giggles and shuffling feet. A crash, a yelp, someone hissing “Shh! You’re gonna wake her up!” followed by a thud and a very clear “Oops.”

You blinked your eyes open just in time to hear the softest tap of little fists against the bedroom door. Then it burst open — your son, covered in flour from hair to socks, and your daughter, face painted in crooked butterfly wings, proudly carrying a tray.

The tray shook dangerously with every step, burdened by what looked like very burned pancakes, a nearly-toppling glass of orange juice, and a single, half-wilted flower stuck into a mug.

Behind them came Kyle.

Hair slightly ruffled, shirt smeared with batter, expression both proud and very, very guilty.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” the kids chorused.

Your daughter scrambled up onto the bed beside you, tucking herself under your arm with glitter still stuck to her cheek. Your son followed, dropping crumbs with every bounce, clearly thrilled with the surprise.

Kyle followed more carefully, setting the tray on your lap like it was a bomb he wasn’t sure wouldn’t go off. Then, without saying a word, he knelt at your side, eyes soft, fingers brushing against your flour-dusted knuckles.

“They adore you,” he said, and his voice was low, reverent, like he was speaking the truth of the universe. “So do I.”

Your heart ached — a good ache, the kind that came with being seen and known.

He kissed your hand, lingered there.

“I know it’s not easy,” he continued, looking up at you with something broken and full of love behind his smile. “Not with me gone so much. But you hold it all together.”

He looked around at the crumbs, the glitter, the warzone of a kitchen probably waiting behind him.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

You swallowed thickly, blinking away sudden tears.

“Because I have you,” you said simply, your hand cupping his cheek. “Even when you’re not here.”

Kyle leaned into the touch.

And for just a moment, as your daughter offered you a pancake shaped like absolutely nothing and your son tried to spoon-feed you syrup, you let yourself sit in the chaos. In the love. In the life you’d built together.

The breakfast was a disaster. The kitchen was likely worse.

But your heart — your heart was full.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

You woke up already exhausted.

Your back ached. Your belly felt impossibly heavy. Your toddler — your sweet, wild little boy — had claimed your leg like a koala and refused to let go. Every step was a shuffle, every breath a bit more effort than the last. Your hands rubbed over your belly instinctively, murmuring little nothings to the baby growing inside you, half a whisper of you’re okay, Mama’s okay, even if you weren’t entirely sure you believed it this morning.

But then the bedroom door creaked open.

Soft music filtered in first — your favorite playlist, turned low, just enough to fill the silence. Then the scent of something warm and sweet: cinnamon, coffee, buttered toast.

And then Johnny. Standing in the doorway, hair still damp from an early shower, wearing that stupid apron he swore made him look “chefy,” holding a tray with wobbly pancakes shaped like hearts and a tiny vase with two daisies in it.

One flower had already started to wilt.

“Happy Mother’s Day, bonnie,” he said, smiling so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Your throat tightened immediately.

He made a show of entering the room like a server at a five-star restaurant, placing the tray beside you with a dramatic flourish and a wink at your toddler, who squealed with delight and promptly faceplanted into a pancake.

Johnny chuckled and set him back upright without missing a beat, then bent to press a kiss to your swollen belly, then your lips, and finally your nose.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you whispered, voice thick. You felt the tears coming before you could stop them. Damn hormones. Damn exhaustion. Damn how seen you felt in this moment.

You didn’t even try to fight it. The tears fell, quiet and unashamed.

Johnny’s smile didn’t falter. He just climbed up beside you, pulled you gently into his arms, and held you as you cried into his shoulder.

“No teasing,” you warned against his shirt.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His hands rubbed slow, calming circles into your back. Your toddler babbled happily beside you, focused entirely on dunking pancake pieces into his cup of juice.

“I see how tired you are,” Johnny murmured against your hair. “How much you carry every day. You don’t have to say it — I see it, love.”

You closed your eyes. Let yourself breathe for the first time that morning.

“I’d carry it all if I could,” he whispered. “Your aches. Your worry. The weight of it. All of it. I’d take it in a heartbeat.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

“You’re everything to me,” he said, voice thick with conviction. “Everything, bonnie.”

And in that quiet little room, with pancakes cooling, a toddler singing his own breakfast song, and a bath already drawn just for you, you believed him. With your whole heart.

You didn’t need anything more than this.

Just Johnny. Just this love. Just this messy, beautiful, hard-earned happiness.

And maybe one more pancake.

Gary “Roach” Sanderson:

The door slammed open with the force of a small stampede.

“HAPPY MOTHER’S DAAAAY!”

Two small bodies launched themselves at you like missiles — one aiming for your stomach, the other for your head. You barely managed to shield yourself before a flurry of arms, legs, giggles, and blanket-stealing chaos swallowed you whole.

You were tired — so tired. It felt like you’d been tired for years now. Motherhood never stopped. The days blurred together sometimes, a steady rhythm of lunchboxes and laundry, bedtime stories and tear-wiping. You never resented it — not really — but some mornings hit harder than others.

Today could’ve been one of those days.

But Gary was home.

Your husband stepped in behind them, quiet as ever, a cup of coffee in one hand and that familiar warmth in his eyes. His smile was soft, crooked, sleep-lined. He placed the mug on your nightstand and mouthed, Happy Mother’s Day, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

The boys were still bouncing on the mattress like caffeinated jackrabbits.

“Okay, okay,” you groaned with a laugh. “Give your mother a minute to breathe!”

Gary chuckled silently and wrangled them off the bed with practiced ease, tossing them both over his shoulders like sacks of flour. They shrieked with laughter, arms flailing, already asking for cartoons and cereal.

A while later, you emerged from your room to the sight of a full blanket fort consuming the living room.

Pillows everywhere. Fairy lights strung haphazardly between chairs. Your sons sprawled on their stomachs with markers in hand, carefully doodling smiley faces and rocket ships all over Gary’s bare arms.

You opened your mouth to protest the mess, the markers, the inevitable chaos — but stopped.

Because Gary caught your eye and signed something quick but deliberate:

Rest.

I’ve got them.

So you did. You curled up on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, listening to your boys laugh and your husband play along with everything — even letting them crown him “King of the Fort.” You drifted off somewhere between their giggles and the steady rhythm of quiet love filling the house.

That night, after dinner and sticky hands and two boys tucked into bed, Gary helped you beneath the covers. He kissed your shoulder, then your temple.

And then he knelt beside the bed, fingers moving slowly in the lamplight.

I know it’s hard when I’m gone.

But you’re never alone.

You’re the strongest person I know.

Your throat tightened.

You reached for his hand and held it against your chest, right where your heart ached and loved and beat just for him.

“I’m strong,” you whispered, “because I have you.”

He smiled.

You were tired. You were messy. You were real.

But you were loved — wholly, deeply, without condition.

And tonight, that was more than enough.

Nikolai Belinski:

The day began with giggles.

Soft, conspiring whispers outside the bedroom door. Tiny shushes. The clinking of porcelain. A near spill followed by a frantic “It’s okay!” in a little voice you knew too well.

You stayed still, smiling to yourself, playing along.

The door creaked open slowly. Your two daughters tiptoed inside like the floor might betray them — the oldest balancing a tray with tea and toast (and far too much jam), the youngest clutching a painting that looked like a sun with your smile and hearts all around it.

Both wore lopsided flower crowns, petals already falling off, but they glowed with pride.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” they shouted, abandoning all stealth at once.

Nikolai followed behind them, hair tousled, eyes soft and bright. He carried a single flower — a tulip from the garden — and wore a crown of his own, clearly handmade with too much tape and a generous helping of glitter.

“My angels made something for their mama,” he said, voice rough with emotion, thick with sleep and something deeper. “And I helped. Mostly by staying out of their way.”

You laughed through the lump in your throat, sitting up to welcome them. Little arms wrapped around your waist, your shoulders, your neck. Kisses on your cheeks. Tiny hands patting your face like you might vanish if they didn’t hold on.

The tray wobbled but made it safely to your lap. Toast and a slightly burnt muffin. The tea was lukewarm. The painting was already smudged.

It was perfect.

Later, Nikolai kept the girls busy outside. You heard their laughter from the garden while he patiently showed them how to water the tomatoes, letting them dig their hands into the earth. The kitchen filled with the smell of fresh bread and wild honey. Every now and then, he peeked in on you, checking if you were still resting, still warm, still smiling.

He didn’t say it outright, but you could see it in the way he touched your shoulder in passing, the way he kissed the girls’ foreheads, the way his voice softened when he said your name.

He knew how hard it was when he was away.

He knew how much of yourself you poured into keeping the house, the children, your love intact across miles and months.

And today, he gave all that care back.

That night, after bedtime stories and one more glass of water and a chorus of “just five more minutes,” the house finally settled.

You curled up beside him on the couch, warm and content.

His arm came around your shoulders, pulling you in close. He kissed your temple, slow and lingering.

“They have your heart,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the quiet hallway where your daughters now slept.

“And it’s the best gift I’ve ever had.”

You laid your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of home beneath your ear.

And for the first time in a long while — you let yourself rest, truly rest.

Loved, seen, and cherished.

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