#Roach Call of Duty | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oaksgrove · 3 months ago

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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

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