#kyle garrick blurbs

[partiallysame]

Being Price’s lil wife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Price was right to keep you hidden from them

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

Price's lil wife Masterlist

[khioneee]

tap out. pt ii.

warnings. mentions of death, emotional distress, grief and loss, pregnancy.

a few years later, another tap-out ceremony arrives, but this time, the air feels different—heavier, somber. simon’s been gone for over a year, his deployment unexpectedly extended due to an incident overseas. you’d been told he couldn’t come home for a while, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.

today, you stand among families who aren’t just here to tap out their loved ones but to say goodbye to those who didn’t make it home. tears stream down faces as loved ones gather around caskets, grieving the soldiers they’d lost. the sight fills you with a mix of dread and relief, knowing simon is still out there, waiting.

simon stands in formation, rigid as always, but he has a sense for you. before you even appear in his line of sight, he knows you’re near. but imagine his surprise when he catches a glimpse of you in his peripheral vision, a small bundle wrapped securely in your arms.

his heart hammers in his chest, quickening as he realizes what this means. his breath catches, his eyes fixed on you as you approach. you look up at him, your eyes sparkling, a knowing smile on your face as you watch the subtle changes in his expression—the slight twitch of his eyebrows, the way his breathing picks up as it dawns on him.

both of you had been trying for a baby before he left, and now, standing before him, you hold that precious life in your arms. it had been a struggle going through pregnancy without him, feeling his absence during every kick and every sleepless night. but seeing him now, looking more than ready to meet your child, all the pain fades away, replaced by a joy so profound it fills every inch of you.

‘daddy’s home,’ you whisper softly, tilting the blanket so simon can see her tiny face, fast asleep, a perfect mirror of him in miniature. she’s got his nose, his quiet strength already etched into her tiny features.

with tears in your eyes, you reach up, your hand finding his cheek, tapping him out in the gentlest of touches.

the moment your hand connects, simon moves, breaking formation as he pulls both of you into his arms, holding you close as if he’ll never let go. his voice is thick with emotion, barely a whisper as he murmurs, ‘my loves.’

you knew your husband had a reputation in the military—a man as cold and unyielding as steel, a fortress no one could break. but as he held you and your newborn in his arms, that carefully built facade cracked, revealing a vulnerable side of him that only you ever saw. the tough soldier was gone, replaced by a man whose heart lay entirely with his family.

‘do you want to hold her?’ you ask softly, watching his eyes light up with a blend of surprise and joy.

‘her?’ he whispers, voice catching on the single word, as if it’s almost too much for him to believe.

you nod, smiling through a haze of happy tears. ‘her.’

with slow, reverent movements, you pass your daughter to him, watching as she looks impossibly tiny cradled in his strong arms. simon looks down at her with a mixture of wonder and fierce protectiveness, as though he’s already memorizing every detail of her face.

as if sensing her father’s gaze, the baby yawns, a soft little sound that makes simon’s eyes shine with awe. you catch the faintest smile pulling at his lips, a rare, tender expression that he reserves only for moments like this.

he leans down, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. ‘never gonna let anything happen to you,’ he murmurs, voice thick with love and quiet promise.

while simon was lost in his quiet moment with your daughter, a loud shout cut through the air, breaking the peaceful silence.

‘is that our baby i see?!’

simon’s head snapped up, his expression immediately shifting to something harder. he turned to see soap grinning widely, practically bouncing with excitement. with a sigh, simon reached over and smacked the back of soap’s head, though his movements were careful not to jostle the sleeping baby in his arms.

‘there’s people grieving, you idiot,’ simon muttered, but soap only snickered, completely unfazed.

‘and what do you mean, ‘our’? she’s y/n’s and mine. you’re not part of this relationship, mate,’ simon added, his tone dripping with mock irritation.

but soap, undeterred, just ignored him and held out his hands, wiggling his fingers in a display of exaggerated excitement. ‘oh, come on! let me hold our child!’

simon groaned, looking down at you with a glance that seemed to ask, ‘do i really have to put up with this?’ but he couldn’t hide the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as soap’s enthusiasm filled the air around you.

reluctantly, and with another sigh, simon finally leaned over, carefully passing your daughter to soap, though not without a low, ‘if you don’t keep her calm, you’re not holding her again.’

soap just grinned, taking her into his arms as if he’d won the lottery, cradling her gently and cooing softly.

soon after, the rest of task force 141 gathered around, drawn by the excitement, each member eager to catch a glimpse of the new addition to the family.

you and simon stood to the side, watching with cautious eyes as they took turns holding her, each one adopting a careful gentleness you wouldn’t have expected from hardened soldiers.

price held her with a proud grin, murmuring something about ‘training her to be the next captain,’ while gaz made her giggle softly with his gentle cooing. even the usually reserved roach softened as he held her, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

you glanced up at simon, watching his face as he stood beside you, arms crossed in a show of casual indifference.

but you knew him too well. beneath the mask of stoicism, there was something warmer, a subtle softness in his gaze as he watched his team, his family, sharing this moment with him. this gruff, unbreakable soldier, who had once thought he’d lost everything, had found a new family among them, one that shared in his joys and sorrows alike.

reaching over, you took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. he didn’t say anything, just gave your hand a quick squeeze in return, a quiet acknowledgment. but you could see it in his eyes, that gratitude for a family he never expected to find—a family that had now become part of yours.

[writersdrug]

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish is the kind of dad who throws your kids around for fun, tossing them into the air and catching them just to hear their infectious laughter, ignoring the worrisome protests that you call out from the kitchen when they get a little too high.

Captain John Price is the kind of dad who convinces your children to ask you for pizza for dinner, acting all surprised when you tell him to call the local pizza place, eyebrows rising with "What's the occasion?" despite the obvious grin that his plan worked. You aren't fooled.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is the kind of dad who chases your kids around with a nerf gun, relentlessly pelting them with styrofoam bullets and ganging up on your oldest son with your youngest daughter. Waits behind the front door for your son to get home from school and immediately fires on him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley is the kind of dad who holds your toddlers like footballs, your daughter tucked sideways under his arm and dangling your son by his ankle. "Found these mice sniffin' 'round the cookie tin." He says with a deadpan expression, but you don't miss the way his mouth twitches when they giggle and shriek.

[lxvvie]

Simon and Kyle who worships your pretty pussy 'til you love them, makes you feel so fuckin' good, shares a three-way kiss with it, and makes you say their fuckin' names every time you cum and soak the sheets.

Simon and Kyle who makes you taste yourself on their tongues, makes you taste their cunt, and makes you tell them who you belong to.

"Say our fucking names, sweetheart."

[lay-z]

Since I’m currently melting at work, forced to endure this bloody heat wave for capitalism even though humans are supposed to be free and allowed to lay in the shade, eating juicy fruits and drinking cold coconut water—here have some blurbs that will hopefully lift all of our moods.   

cw: tf 141 x fem!reader; established romantic relationship; suggestive | 18+

Kyle positions all the fans tactically for maximum refreshment and coolness—rolling down the blinds and closing every curtain in your flat to get the temperature to a more humane one.  

Watch him build one of those bed sheet caves where he attaches one fan to it to have it inflate, so you and him can crawl inside with snacks and drinks, wearing nothing but underwear while watching a show on your trusted laptop, playing footsies for romantic and emotional support, because neither of you can bear any sticky skin on skin contact right now. 

He does lean in for the occasional smooch, though. Completely nonverbal, just expecting it, like a baby bird opening its mouth eagerly to receive a worm from mama.  

“Baby,” he chirps eventually between spoons of succulent pistachio ice cream and into the fifth episode of Game of Thrones (because you’re both trying to manipulate yourselves that it’s chilly outside whenever there are scenes in Winterfell). “Baby, can we take a cold shower together? I’m so sick of not touching you.”

The pout he shoots you next is so bloody adorable that you can’t help yourself but tackle him inside your little inflated cave, knocking over the fan as you play fight and laugh, getting tangled up in the thin sheets. 

John has the large pool in the backyard prepared for you, complete with deck chairs and an ice tub filled with drinks as soon as he’s checked the weather report for the whole week. 

There is no way he will let either you nor himself suffer in this heat—not with this backyard and not if he can prevent it. 

He takes you grocery shopping before it gets too hot, buys all the fancy stuff you’ll need for some fruity cocktails and some nice meat and vegetables to put on that expensive grill he rarely gets to use, along with the silly chef's apron you’ve gifted him some time ago. He wears it with pride, rocking it with some swim trunks, shirtless, his aviator shades and Boonie hat on.

The sun is burning, there are no clouds in sight, no breeze sweeping across the grass, but you and your husband are enjoying yourselves like you’re on a second honeymoon. 

And while he’s standing by the grill, giving the BBQ tongs two experimental clicks (as you do), he looks over at you with a fond smile and the look of growing desire behind his dark shades while you’re lounging in the sun, dewy skin glistening like diamonds with sweat and sunscreen. 

Perhaps this time you’ll allow him to get freaky with you in the pool later.  

Simon loves that you despise heat as much as he does—extremes in general. All his scars inflame and itch in hot weather, and they tighten and itch when it’s too cold. It doesn’t help that he’s sweaty as bloody hell, too. 

Spring and autumn, that’s when he doesn’t have too many problems with them—and those seasons happen to be your favorites, too. 

When the excruciating heat wave hits, your shared flat turns into a bat cave. The AC runs on its highest setting, everything is dark, and you both keep physical strain and activity as well as fabrics worn on your bodies to an absolute minimum. 

You’re lounging on the floor in the living room, fanning yourself with a colorful and handmade fan that Simon had picked up for you as a gift from an op back in Mexico, when he sneaks into the room, nudging your calf with his toes before grunting: “C’mon. Made somethin’ f’us, luv.”

Oh, you’d been wondering where he’s been for the past hour. 

He helps and lifts you up with ease when you reach out a hand to him with a soft groan, because everything is too much in this weather. 

And when he pulls you into the bathroom, you nearly cry in relief when you see the large tub filled with ice water, drinks on the side table that he’d carried in there, a laptop perched on the laundry basket within reach. 

“Date night.” He announces dryly, though you can hear the hint of a smile in his gruff voice as he tugs his boxer briefs down unceremoniously.  

Johnny doesn’t mind the heat much. In fact, he thoroughly enjoys walking around your shared flat shirtless—until his pants come off too, and suddenly he’s walking around butt naked, parading around the rooms wherever you happen to be like a proud cock with a matching (and very fluffy) coxcomb. 

“Really?!” you ask incredulously, spoon half-way at your mouth and dripping with cold milk when he strolls into the kitchen, soft and uncircumcised dick swinging between his meaty thighs. “In front of my cereal?”  

He barks out a laugh and opens the fridge to grab a water bottle while you can’t help but admire the curve of his muscular back and his unfairly plump ass.  

“Don’t act like ye dinnae like what ye’r seein’, baby.” He shoots you a wink and you huff with hot cheeks, stuffing a big spoonful of cereal into your mouth, mumbling: “Showoff.” 

You don’t know how exactly it happens, but Johnny coaxes you to join him in his nudist cult—ending up in bed together, no pillows or blankets on the mattress, just two sweaty lovers laying there like a couple of starfish as his hands begin to wander eventually, because they always do. Calloused fingers tracing the curve of your hip while sweat beads on your upper lip. 

“Johnny,” you growl, though it comes out more like a whine. “Stop. I feel disgusting.” Though that only elicits a wolfish grin from him. “Aye,” he snickers. “Lemme make an even bigger mess of us.” 

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ something something...

you know mama’s tired after like five pregnancies. she loves her wee bairns to death, but really, sometimes you just need a break, right?

in come simon and kyle, offering to babysit johnny’s babies for the weekend so you guys can have a small moment of peace. in reality, kyle volunteered and roped simon into it, knowing he couldn’t handle five babes on his own.

the entire weekend is hell. your kids are absolutely not used to being away from their parents. wet, fat, heavy tears keep streaming down their cheeks because they miss you, breaking kyle’s heart a little more each time. they refused to sleep without their dad’s silly made up stories and their mom’s goodnight sleep. making them eat is also a nightmare.

however, kyle is full of resources though. he makes up stories and brings a couple of fun activities the kids love. takes them out to the park, the pool, anywhere they can forget about their parents, and also where they can get tired out. drawing, pottery, singing, dancing, running, kyle does it all.

for comfort, they cuddle up to simon because he feels just like their dad, soft and strong, while the man sits on the couch, stiff like they’re tiny bombs ready to explode. he feels just as warm as their daddy, the youngest even falls asleep on his lap during tv time.

it’s all very funny. it does make you laugh when kyle sends you pictures as updates while you both relax in bed.

by the end of the weekend, kyle and simon are tired like they’ve never been in their lives. not even the military drained them like five small mactavish children. yet, all the dumb drawings left behind at kyle’s flat and the ghost feeling of little hugs from chubby wee things fill their hearts with adoration.

big tears and tight hugs are what welcomed you when you picked up your kids. it was a very heartfelt and exhausting weekend for them. and they’d been so good to uncle kyle and simon, at least, that’s what kyle said.

to appease them, you promised they could all sleep in mommy and daddy’s bed tonight, something very rare, so they were the happiest again. gone were the fat, sad tears.

before leaving, johnny asks if they are up to do it again in a month. to that, simon just scoffs.

“never again, soap. keep your litter away from me.”

and yet, the way his tattoos are filled with silly coloring that the lieutenant didn’t bother cleaning. the way kyle’s eyes linger on his bairns as they left, a quiet longing shining in them.

all this tells johnny everything.

in a couple of years, his little ones will have friends to play with.

©sillyswriting 2025

read more

[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

[wahapele]

Gaz,Ghost and Price just chilling in the breakroom.

Reader:*walks into the breakroom

Reader: “Done”

Gaz: “Done with what?”

Reader: “Ghost told me to go fuck Johnny.”

Ghost: “I said to go fuck him up. Not fuck him.”

Reader:….

Ghost:…..

Gaz:….

Price:…..

Soap:*walks into the room with a giant grin on his face looking like he just ran a marathon

Price:*facepalms. Thinking how tf are these the same people he fights terrorist with.

[anonmousegosqueak]

Soap kissing Ghost's finger to make it better

Ghost begging Gaz to punch him in the face so Soap will kiss it better (rizzless idiot)

We've heard it, we love it.

BUT!

Gaz with anger issues who often struggles to get his feelings out, who will literally butcher an enemy to get rid of all that extra violence, who loves the torture and interrogation part of the job.

Yeah. Ghost ends up with a broken nose and a new fear of Gaz. Not from the punch, Ghost had been through worse, but instead it was the look in Gaz's eyes when he threw it... Yes he gets his smooches (he pretends to be all angry as if it wasn't the goal all along), but he also gets something else.

A lesson that Gaz might be a bit scarier than he thought.

[vampire-matcha]

Everyone always talks about John "share my wife" Price but what about Kyle "our girlfriend" Garrick???

18+

It starts with you and him on the couch together. You've got your hand in his pants and he's got his tongue down your throat. You're pumping his cock while he pants into your mouth when his phone rings- someone is video calling him. You glance at his phone sitting beside him, discarded on the couch cushion when you first crawled over to him to kiss his neck. The icon on the screen is a familiar one: a mischievous grin with a mohawk on top.

"Answer it," you say as you slide down the couch and onto your knees in front of him.

"What?" He asks, his eyes wide as saucers as you hand him the phone.

"Answer it," you say again with a devilish grin, still stroking him slowly. With a shaky breath to school his expression, he answers it.

Gaz tries his best to stay nonchalant, not even listening to Soap's chatter through the phone, but you have other plans. Gaz let's out a surprised grunt and jerks when you take his cockhead into your mouth.

"You alright mate?" Soap asks after a momentary pause.

"Yeah-yeah," Gaz answers too quickly. "Muscle spasm. Got a- ah- knot in my shoulder." You can't help but smile around his dick as you bob your head up and down his shaft. He glances down at you with a frustrated huff. Soap makes a noise on the phone.

"That's rough, mate. You should ask your girl to help you rub it out." You nearly choke at the unintended double entendre. "Where is she anyway? Wanna say hi."

"Uh... she's-" whatever half-baked excuse Gaz was about to spout off is cut off by the sudden sucking noise your lips made on "accident". Gaz freezes, looking past the phone at you, and Soap is silent on the other line. You continue to swirl your tongue around Gaz's tip.

"...Gaz?" Soap asks slowly. Gaz doesn't answer, his chest heaving in an effort to maintain his composure. "What's going on?" Gaz's eyes darted back and forth between you and the phone, silently willing you to stop so he wont get caught. Instead, you make yourself gag on his length, causing him to grunt involuntarily.

"Holy shite, Gaz... are you...?" Soap sounds suddenly breathless at the sounds he hears on his phone. They aren't unfamiliar to him, but usually they're accompanied by a little orange logo, not by his best mate on FaceTime. "Turn the camera around."

Gaz's jaw drops with a pant. Oh, he's so caught. He stares down at you, and you nod your head before sucking hard. With a shaky hand, he taps the screen, and you hear Soap groan over the speaker. You suck off Gaz's tip with a wet pop and smile.

"Hi Soap," you say conversationally, as if Gaz's cock wasn't there right in your face, as if you didn't have drool and precum dripping down your chin. You stare up into the camera phone as you stick your tongue out and lick up and down the shaft.

"Steamin' Jesus," Soap says, and there's a rustling over the speaker. "Garrick, you dog," he growls. You put on a show for him, pumping Gaz in your hand while you mouth at his balls, making him moan out loud. He's already been caught, no use hiding it anymore.

Soap gets himself off to it. You can hear his groans of pleasure over the phone mixing with Gaz's, can hear the wet sounds of him stroking himself. When you finally get Gaz to cum on your face, you smile at the pleasured moan Soap let's out. Gaz smears his cum over your lips with his thumb and with a smirk he says,

"What are you doing tonight, Tav?"

"I'll be over in an hour," Soap replies.

The three of you go at it for hours, round after round, multiple positions, every combination. And while you were the center of their attention for most of it, it was also incredible hot to watch them together, making out above you, jerking each other's cocks. By the end of the night, when everyone's needs had been met and you all were exhausted, you all agree it was the best sex of any of your lives. And you all three agree: there's no going back after this.

Soap comes over more and more often for threesomes, but a couple times it was just you and him, or him and Gaz. The three of you find a rhythm and balance together, happy and very well satisfied.

Gaz is out of the country when Ghost finds out. And. He. Is. Livid.

He'd borrowed Soap's phone for something, he doesn't remember what he needed, because once he saw the video of you and Soap on his phone he swears he saw red.

Soap had never seen his LT so angry, especially not toward him. Ghost has him backed into the wall, face in his face, barking at him like a mad dog.

"Have you gone fucking mad? You've got a lot of fucking nerve, Sergeant! Showin' your face to Gaz while you're giving him the runaround! Fucking his girl behind his back! You should be ashamed! He's our teammate, he's our BROTHER!" And in a blind panic, Soap shouts out:

"He knows!" It's enough to make Ghost pause his tirade for a moment, giving the shorter man an incredulous look.

"Bullshit."

"He does! He knows, I can prove it!" Soap pleads, and slowly holds out his hand. Ghost pins him with a glare but hands him the phone anyway.

Soap opens up the group chat the three of you share and turns the phone to show to Ghost. There's a variety of messages, some casual, some flirtatious, but what really catches Ghost's eye are the videos.

The first is the one that sent him into a fit in the first place: you're bent over in front of a mirror while Soap rams into you from behind. The video is sent with a message reading "taking care of our girl while you're gone x" The next video is sent from your POV as you bounce on Gaz’s cock. Then a video sent from Gaz's number that seems to be in the barracks shower of all places, the phone propped up somehow capturing the two Sergeants wet and naked. Gaz steps back from the camera and embraces Soap with a heated kiss. They each wrap a hand around both their cocks together and jerk themselves off to a simultaneous finish.

As Ghost scrolls through the chat, Soap, still pinned to the wall, takes notice of the way Ghost's breathing steadily gets heavier and heavier. And he DEFINITELY notices the growing weight pressed against his stomach. He gives an experimental grind of his hips. Ghost's eyes snap back up to him. They're still full of fire, but for a completely different reason.

"You got me stuck between a rock and a hard place, here, LT." He jokes with a gravelly voice. "But you know what they say... the more the merrier." In a matter of minutes, Ghost had Soap turned around, and both their pants are down by their ankles.

Gaz gets a new message in the chat later that night. The video starts focused on your face, your mouth deepthroating Soap and your eyes rolled back in your head as your body gets jostled roughly by... someone else. The camera pans down your body, showing you on your hands and knees, and a thick, wide body fucking into you from behind. A familiar tattoo sleeve catches Gaz's eye, and finally the camera pans up to show that infamous skull mask that he knows so well. The video is captioned: "found a new playmate for us... don't tell the captain ;)"

The captain, of course, does find out sooner rather than later. The team is gathered at you and Gaz’s home to watch a football game. Most of the sports terminology goes over your head, but you're glad to have all your boys together... plus their captain.

You think you're being subtle about everything, but Price notices. His job is noticing things. Countless life-or-death situations have counted on Price noticing little things. So of course he notices your heated glances at Soap, the way you leave lingering touches on Ghost when you pass by him. You, nestled into your boyfriend's side with his arm around you while you make eyes at his teammates. It makes his blood boil.

He confronts you in the kitchen. You got up to fetch yourself a drink and he waits a moment before he follows you in. You turn around from the fridge to see him standing behind you. His face is impassive and unreadable. You linger there a moment in confusion. He's usually so friendly toward you. Finally he breaks the silence first.

"You know, Kyle really cares about you. Talks about you all the time, talks about how much he loves you. You've got that poor boy wrapped around your little finger, you know that?"

"Th-thank you...?" You stutter, completely caught off-guard. The cold tone of his voice doesn't match his kind words. There's an edge to it, a dangerous one. He shakes his head at you.

"He doesn't deserve this. He's a good man."

"Doesn't deserve what?" You ask, glancing down at the extra beer in your hand that you'd gotten for Gaz. He doesn't deserve beer?

"You think I don't know what's going on?" He accuses with a step forward. "You think I don't see it?"

"See what?" You ask, growing more and more worried with every passing second. Price scoffs.

"You know, I've seen this a lot. Men in the service go out and risk their lives, all the while back home their girl is running circles around them." He huffs, giving you a look you'd never seen before. It makes you feel... gross. "Thought you were different, though. Thought you could be trusted. And to do it with his teammates?" His eyes narrow and his nose wrinkles in disgust. You gasp in realization. He thinks you're cheating!

"John, you don't understand-"

"You think I'm stupid?"

"No!"

"What's going on?" Gaz asks from the doorway. He was wondering what was taking you both so long, but he didn't expect to find you close to tears cornered by his captain. Price turns his body toward him, but keeps his eyes on you.

"Do you want to tell him, or should I?" He asks. You open and close your mouth but nothing comes out. Your brain is overworking trying to figure out an answer. You can't tell him the truth, you'd get your boys in trouble! Should you just admit to it? Take the blame to protect them? Before you can come up with the words, Soap and Ghost enter the room behind Gaz. Price turns his attention to them, and you breathe out in relief to have his glare off you.

"Or maybe you two would like to tell him?" He proposes, voice slightly raised. The tension in the room is suffocating. Price stares the other two down as Gaz looks from one person to the other, putting the pieces together.

"Price it's not what you think," he says with his hands out in a placating gesture. Price tilts his head.

"Kyle, I'm sorry to have to tell you-"

"They're not going round my back, Price. I know." Price shuffles his feet a bit.

"You... know?"

"The four of us have... an arrangement." Gaz walks over to you and wraps an arm around you. "She's done nothing wrong, don't be cross with her. Neither have Ghost or Soap. She's not just my girlfriend, she's our girlfriend." Gaz holds Price's eyes.

"And the four of you are..."

"Together. Is that a problem, Captain?" Price quirks an eyebrow at his sergeant's challenge, but after a moment shakes his head.

"No. No, not a problem. Just keep it tactical on the field. Copy?"

"Yes sir." Price turns to Soap and Ghost.

"Copy?"

"Yes sir," they answer in unison. Price looks at you again and his expression softens, dropping his Captain persona for your sake.

"I owe you an apology," he starts.

"It's alright," you interrupt, giving him a shy smile. "You were just looking out for Kyle."

"You should've seen Ghost when he found out. Nearly bit my head off," Soap says, lightening the mood. But Price's eyes still linger.

"Game's still on," Ghost says, "if you all are done being dramatic." The five of you file back into the living room to finish out the game with you still nestled into Gaz's side, this time openly joined by Soap on your other side. Throughout the game, as the men banter about whose team is better, Price kept glancing over at you.

The game ends and as everybody winds down, Price watches the affection you gave the other three.

"I have to wonder, though," he starts, "what it is that's got all three of my men so wrapped up in you..." Your eyes dart from one man to the other as each of them catch onto Price's meaning.

"Well... it'd be a shame not to include that captain, right boys?" Gaz teases.

"The more the merrier-"

"Shut up MacTavish, fucks sake," Ghost huffs, still with a smirk.

"I still owe you a proper apology, sweetheart," Price says, beckoning you to sit on his lap.

And apologize, he does, in the form of his face between your thighs, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you. Eventually, the five of you wind up in the bedroom, tasting and teasing and fucking one another.

"We're going to need a bigger bed..."

[dckweed]

tiktok made me do it!gf vs tf141 bf (tiktok made them do it edition)

hello loves, how was everyone’s weekend? we were safe? did we have fun? what did we do? i say my big butt on my couch and snuggled w my baby + made some yummy food

The boys had seen it—the viral TikTok trend where men would stomp into the kitchen, hit their girlfriends with a “What’s for dinner, bitch?” and wait to see how they reacted.

Naturally, TF141 had to test it out.

Some of them loved what happened.

Others?

Yeah… they might’ve just traumatized themselves.

Captain Price – "Watch Your Fuckin’ Tone, Johnathan”

Price knew exactly what he was doing, he was nervous, yes, but he was curious more than anything. The boys had been showing him this video, a guy walks into the kitchen and talks to his girlfriend in a rude way..he’s upset when she just takes the way he was talking to her. John knew you were fiery, knew you weren’t a shit taker.

And he wanted to see what you’d do about it.

So, after a long day of working out in the summer sun with the boys, building you that back deck on the house that you asked him so prettily for, he strolls into the kitchen, leans against the doorframe, and—

"What’s for dinner, bitch?"

Instantly, the entire room drops ten degrees. He hears one of his men suck in a breath from the living room.

Your head slowly turns, spatula still in your hand.

Your eyes narrow.

"…The fuck did you just say?"

Price, smirking: "You heard me, love—"

SMACK.

The spatula whips through the air like Thor’s hammer and collides with his arm.

"OW—BABY—"

"WATCH YOUR FUCKING TONE, JOHNATHAN."

Another smack.

Soap and Gaz—who had been watching from the living room—IMMEDIATELY LOSE THEIR SHIT.

"OH, SHIT, SHE GOT HIM—"

"BLOODY HELL, PRICE, SHE’S BEATING YOUR ASS—"

Price is grinning like a madman, dodging another swing. "ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, LOVE, I YIELD!—"

You stop. Squint at him.

He’s smiling. Amused. Proud.

"You liked that, didn’t you?"

He chuckles, rubbing his arm. "Didn’t say I didn’t, sweetheart." He grins at Simon hovering in the doorway, watching on in case you went ballistic and his captain needed help. “Feisty lil bugger ain’t she?”

You open your mouth to start in on him again and he just laughs, large paw grabbing you by the back of the neck to bring you in for a slobbery, noisy kiss. He releases you with a dramatic “mwah!” and a fat smack to your ass, leaving you dazed and confused as to what just happened as you turned back to the stove, ass stinging.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – "Kyle, fix it."

Gaz had seen the videos. The lads has shown them to him, said that they were going to try it on their girls too, see how they reacted. He thought it was cruel in a way, especially if your girl was sensitive. You..you were usually a fiery blaze of rage and sarcasm and ‘i wish a bitch would’. The idea for the best is him.

He wanted to see what you’d do.

It was team dinner night, the mandatory one night a week that everyone sat down together and had dinner, like a family in a way. they weren’t allowed to talk about work, only their civilian lives. It was..normal..a way for them to be normal after everything they had to go through. It was Kyle’s night to host, and ever the doting girlfriend, you shoo him and his friends into the living room, a rugby match on and some beers on the table.

Soap had started talking about how he wanted to try this prank on his girlfriend, he showed his phone to the lot of them and at first, when all the others grumbled about how they’d get their rears kicked, he thought about how it seemed mean..but then the curiosity got the better of him, and well, you know what they say about curiosity and the cat right?

So he walks into the kitchen, leans on the counter, and—

"What’s for dinner, bitch?"

And then—

You freeze.

The air shifts.

And his heart fucking drops.

Because instead of snapping back at him, instead of telling him to watch his damn mouth—

Your lips quiver.

Your eyes drop.

And then, in the smallest voice he’s ever heard from you—

"Um… I was just making your favorite… but if you don’t want it…"

Gaz immediately regrets every single life decision that brought him to this moment.

"Baby, NO—"

He scrambles, moving faster than he ever has in his life, cupping your face.

"BABY, I WAS JUST PLAYING—OH MY FUCKING GOD, LOVE, NO, YOU DON’T JUST TAKE THAT—"

Soap and Ghost are peaking around the doorway in the living room, watching in horror, jaws slack.

"Bro, you just fucking TRAUMATIZED HER—"

"SHE LOOKS LIKE A KICKED PUPPY, KYLE, FIX IT—"

He hears John shift in the arm chair he had taken custody of, see’s the shadow of his body coming into view along the face of the fridge, hears his gasp.

Gaz tilts your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

"Listen to me, yeah? You never let anyone—especially me—talk to you like that. Ever. You hear me, baby?"

You nod shakily.

"No, say it." His voice is firm, but so gentle.

"I… I won’t let anyone talk to me like that…"

He kisses your forehead, still holding you close as fuck. "Damn right, you won’t." Deep down he wondered what had happened to you in the past to make you fold in on yourself like that, you were a completely different version of your typically sassy and bossy personality in that moment and it made him sad.

Simon "Ghost" Riley – "Beat the shit outta Soap."

Ghost didn’t think much of it. You were good at telling him to go fuck himself when he did dumb shit like this. How was this going to be any different?

You were always fiery, feisty—he wanted to see what you’d do.

So, after training in the garage with the guys, he walks into the kitchen with Johnny and Kyle not far behind him, leans against the fridge, and—

"What’s for dinner, bitch?"

Instantly, he knows he fucked up.

Because you flinch.

Your shoulders drop.

And then—

You just… nod.

"…I-I can make something else if you don’t like what I made…"

Ghost stares.

Gaz and Soap, are shuffling down the hall from the living room: "Oh, he’s GONNA HATE THAT—" Soap whispered.

And he’s right.

Ghost’s soul leaves his body.

He crosses the room in three steps and tilts your chin up. "Baby. No. Don’t ever let me—or anyone—talk to you like that."

You swallow, realizing now that he hadn’t meant it seriously. "But… but it was just a joke—" You were embarrassed to have responded like that, the question bringing out memories of a past you thought you had suppressed.

"Don’t care." His voice is low, firm, but so goddamn gentle. "Even as a joke, you don’t take that. Ever. You understand me, love?"

You nod quickly.

He wraps his arms around you, holding you so damn tight, and you melt.

From the doorway, both boys are crowded together in it as they stare at the scene.

"HE’S TRAUMATIZED, LOOK AT HIM—"

"BRO, HE AIN’T GONNA SLEEP TONIGHT—"

Ghost, glaring at them and grumbling into your hair: "I’m gonna beat the shit outta Soap for making me do this."

Soap: "Wha—I’M NOT EVEN THE ONE WHO DID IT FIRST—"

Ghost: "Don’t care. It’s your fault somehow."

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – "Aye, do it again."

Soap was ready.

He had seen the TikToks.

He knew you were fiery as fuck.

He wanted to see you get pissed, show the boys his girl was as fiery as the sun.

He had seen them all go first, seen what they’d done to their girls, or what the girls had done to them in some cases and he was ready to show off his menace of a woman.

So he saunters into the kitchen, drops his gym bag on the floor, and—

"What’s for dinner, bitch?"

Soap is on the floor within 0.5 seconds.

You slap the absolute SOUL out of him.

"THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME, JOHN MAC TAVISH?!"

Ghost jumps in shock, bag dropping to the floor as he comes through the back door, hot on Johnny’s heels. "HOLY SHIT—"

Gaz, sobbing with laughter behind him, shit eating grin on his face. “SHE SLAPPED HIM SO FAST—"

Soap is grinning like a lunatic from the floor, rubbing his cheek.

"FUCK, THAT WAS HOT."

You tower over him, spatula in hand. "You think that was hot?"

"Aye." He grins up at you. "Do it again, lass."

You stomp off, fuming.

Soap just sits there, still on the floor.

"Babe, please, I love you—" He reaches after you dramatically before rolling to his knees, looking up at his friends with the most smug mug he could muster.

Gaz wipes away a tear. "She put the fear of God in you, mate." He made a mental note to ask you for take down move tips later when you were calm and not in the mood to aim weapons at anyone’s heads.

Soap sighs, rubbing his cheek. "Aye… and I’d let her do it again."

[partiallysame]

Big men stupidly quiet on their feet

This is self indulgent bc my first reaction to being startled is to throw hands (thank you older brothers for sneaking up on me and making this a habit that stuck)

141 + Konig

Price turned the corner the same time you did. Neither of you knew the other was coming until a scream followed with a solid gut punch had Price stumbling back. Apologies flowing from you as the Captain was gasping for air trying to regain composure. “Where’d you learn to hit that hard?!?”

Kyle took a full on slap to the face when you turned around and he was right there. Both of you just stared at the other after the loud sound smack. His hand slowly raising to rub the burning skin on his cheek. “Please don’t tell me this is going to be a habit of yours.”

Johnny deserved it. Man was purposefully trying to sneak up and scare you. Quiet feet and body ducked down as he made his way to you. Jumping out and yelling “boo” only to be met with the crack of his nose under your knuckles and blood pouring down. “Fuck Johnny m’sorry” your hands covering your mouth, just as surprised by your action as he was. “Will you marry me?” Maybe reset the broken nose first.

Simon was standing right in front of a door as you opened it and same as Johnny, your fist instinctively went flying for his face. “Bloody hell” his head ducked to the side just barely dodging the same fate his Sargent had encountered.

Konig was waiting so patiently behind you for you to finish pouring your tea so he could pour his. An unintentional throat clear came from him and suddenly your hand holding the kettle went flying up high enough to shatter on the side of his head. Large body hitting the ground with a thud. Konig woke up maskless to you holding an ice pack to the bleeding head wound you had given him (bonus points if this was the first time you saw him without he mask)

[gazstations]

Part 3 of Serial Killer!141. A random thought just popped into my brain, and so I wrote it down. This is probably bad, but it's fine.

TW: implications of torture

"Darling..."

No answer.

"Darling..."

Footsteps approached.

"Darling, that pencil did nothing to you."

Your head was lifted, and finally, you blinked to meet John's stormy blue eyes. You sighed, spell broken as your thoughts left you. You blew air out of your nose in exasperation.

"Writing is hard." You complained.

John chuckled, offering you his hand. You took his large paw, letting the calloused warmth bleed into your skin. You didn't realize how cockeyed your posture was until you groaned and felt a pop in your shoulder blades.

"I'll take your word for it," he said as he naturally found his hand resting on your lower back. A possessive manuveur. He even bunched you up close to his side, making sure you were right there.

He was about to guide you towards the backyard before he suddenly pivoted on his heel, making you raise your eyebrow in confusion.

"How 'bout I take you on a drive, eh?" He declared.

"A drive?" You asked. "Why?"

"Doesn't nature help you jog your brain?" John asked quickly.

He gave one not at all subtle glance towards the backyard before pressing his lips into a firm line. He mumbled something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

He helped you put on your shoes, not at all concerned that you were still in your pajamas. He started to drag you across the living room floor when you broke out of his grip.

"Wait..."

"Darling," John started, but you cut him off. Maybe his nerves were a special surprise for you. You, now giddy, played along. Even though you could smell his nerves--which wasn't common.

"Can't go into nature without my journal, duh," you said as you held up said item and your pencil.

John just sagged, tension coiling tight in his body. You kissed his cheek softly; assuring.

"Should we invite the others?" You asked sweetly.

"They're busy, darling. You don't want to be alone with me?" John asked lowly.

You just smiled. "I love being alone with you, sir."

John eyes narrowed, and he clenched his jaw.

"Get in the bloody car," he ordered, suddenly very eager to go on his impromptu drive.

You giggled and skipped towards the garage.

♡◇♡

What you didn’t see was one of their latest victims giving the other men the slip. They were turned around and desperate as their bloodied form clambered out of Price's workshop at the edge of the property. They managed to get halfway across the yard before Johnny tackled them roughly to the ground--a crimson stained hammer in hand.

John was already heavily considering installing some locks on the inside of the door and knocking some sense into his men for the close call.

But he had you to attend to first.

SERIES MASTERLIST || NEXT

[writersdrug]

If you smack your boyfriend's ass...

Captain John Price will snap his head up, looking at you with a confused but intrigued expression, rubbing his behind in slight shock. "What's that for, luv?"

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick will throw back his head and laugh, rubbing his ass and smiling at you. "Been workin' out more - is it paying off?" He'll say, looking back at his own ass.

Simon "Ghost" Riley will let out a shocked grunt. "Oi, little wanker-" he'll quickly grab you by the waist before you can scramble away and give you a few sharp pats to your ass.

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish will chuckle mischievously, putting down whatever he'd be doing. "Right, askin' for it now, cheeky-" he'll say, chasing you into to the bedroom.

[lxvvie]

Gaz and Ghost share a three-way kiss with your pretty cunt. You're on your last legs (literally and figuratively) because it's a fuckin' miracle that you can hold yourself up, what with how their pretty brown eyes look up at you as they eat you up like it's the Last Supper.

[lay-z]

If any one of the 141 blokes suggests using that new remote controlled little pink vibrator on you just for fun tonight while you meet up with the others at the pub—don't do it. Do not, under any circumstances, trust them.

It's a fucking trap.

I will elaborate shortly.