#kyle cod x reader

[lologoinsolo]

Gaz is the type of boyfriend that hates who and whatever you hate.

Pickles? “I hate’em too, love.” Salt and vinegar chips, “who even eats them?” He says as he chunks an opened bag that he was chewing on out the window.

That weird guy that looked at you weirdly, making snide remarks at you cause you told him to fuck off and leave you alone while you were on a date with your boyfriend? Gaz is already getting up and out of his seat with his hands balled. “No, no, this didn’t ruin date night,” he says oh so reassuringly as he wipes his bloodied knuckles, “let’s get some takeout and watch some movies at home, yeah?” Making sure to kiss you as many times when you feel bad. You could never ruin his night.

That one bitch from kinder named Bethany who stole your favorite crayon and suddenly Gaz also remembers a bitch named Bethany who stole his crayon too. He wasn’t even in your class but he vividly remembers her and he’s praying on her downfall right as you speak.

That time you were in gym and a ball hit against your head and he’s wishing he could stab the ball out of its air. Never mind how the one throwing the ball apologized profusely, Gaz is gonna come back later with scissors when no one’s around.

Your idiotic boss that keeps giving you the worst shifts changed his tune when Gaz payed a nice little visit to him out of the blue. “Oh? You’re finally getting your weekends off? that’s wonderful, love.” You had gushed so happily about your schedules finally being how you’ve been asking. He smiles gently as if he didn’t outright threaten your boss with a one way trip on the black train.

Literally he’s the biggest hater, you even look at a person wrong and Gaz is immediately giving the meanest stink eye known to man.

[miwsolovely]

—Low & Careful

kyle ‘gaz’ garrick x gn!reader | hurt / comfort | gaz appreciation week masterlist.

day two : hurt / comfort

tw : dependency ( kyle on reader )

It stuck to him like glue.

The feeling of dread, of loss. Sunk its poisoned talons into his flesh, touching bone, tainting anything and everything. It travelled from his flesh, his bones, to deep in his belly; taking root in his stomach and growing there. Drinking what he did, stealing what he ate.

He felt as it grew up from his stomach, used its vines to claw its way up and out his throat, his mouth. Felt it become him; turning into a skin as deep as his, mimicking the molten caramel of his eyes, the dripping honey from his smile, the tiny moons imbedded into his cheeks—it replaced him.

No wonder he’s always lived like he’s bracing for something to fall apart.

He doesn’t mean to — it’s just instinct by now. Keep things at a distance. Don’t get too soft. Don’t name anything you don’t want to lose.

( “Don’t name anything you want to lose”—Yet he catches himself giving you names that drip like molasses from his lips.

Smiling at you in the morning, a hand at your waist as he leans your body on his. “What do you want to eat today, angel?”

Thumbing away your tears, smoothing the furrow between your brows and replacing it with a kiss. “It’s okay love, I got you.” )

He’s good at pretending.

Knows just how to smile when someone cracks a joke, how to nod like he’s listening, like he’s not somewhere else entirely—buried under the weight of everything he’s lost, and everything he never let himself keep.

You come along quieter than most. You don’t ask too many questions. And that’s probably why he doesn’t shove you away.

But even then, he keeps you at arm’s length. A careful, practiced distance.

Because it’s not you—it’s what you could become. Another person he could miss. Another name he’d carve into his bones if things went wrong.

He doesn’t let you see it though—the nights when sleep won’t come. When the silence curls tight around his ribs like barbed wire. When he lies awake replaying the past in fragments he can’t put back together.

He remembers touches he never gets to feel again. Laughter that doesn’t echo anymore. He remembers what it’s like to hold something close and still lose it.

So he keeps his voice calm. Keeps his hands steady. Keeps his heart barricaded behind worn smiles and casual shrugs.

And you—

You’re. . . patient. That’s what terrifies him the most. You look at him like you see the cracks and don’t mind the sharp edges. Like you’re not going to run when things get messy, piercing your skin and when he tries to help, his fingers get painted with blood. Your blood.

But you don’t know what you’re in for.

Because if he lets you in, if he lets himself want this, want you—

he knows it’ll ruin him if you ever go.

And part of him already thinks you will.

They always do.

When he first felt this way, this hopelessness that stuck to him, it scared him how you didn’t press him to open up to you.

You never asked him what kept him up at night, or why his eyes lingered a little too long on doorways, shadows, goodbyes. You don’t try to fix him—and maybe that’s why he sometimes finds himself watching you longer than he means to. Like he’s trying to memorize you in case you disappear too.

Because you might. Because everyone else does.

He tells himself it’s better this way. Keeping it light. Keeping it safe. Jokes over bruised knuckles and tired grins over half-eaten takeout. Letting you in just far enough that you think you’re close, but never far enough to see where it hurts; where each crack lies.

And it does hurt.

More than he’ll ever say out loud.

The silence after missions. The way his chest aches when his phone lights up and it’s not you. The way he finds traces of you in places you’ve never even touched—your shampoo on his towel, your laugh echoing in his kitchen, your ghost curled up on the couch long after you’ve left.

He’s scared.

Not of dying. He’s made peace with that. It’s easy, in comparison.

He’s scared of his dependence on you. Of letting himself believe this could be something, and then waking up one day to find you gone, just like the rest. Another person who realized he wasn’t worth staying for. Another empty room. Another silence he has to learn to live with.

So when you ask, one night, soft and unsure, “Do you ever get tired of being alone?”—

he doesn’t answer right away.

Just looks at you, like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll find the words he’s buried too deep.

His voice is quiet when it finally comes.

“Only when you’re not here.”

You only looked at him for a moment, then a slow, unsure smile crept on your face.

Part of him thinks he doesn’t want to notice something’s wrong. Like keeping it tucked away in the back of his mind, locked away and collecting dust. But he knows it’s there. Knows that he needs to notice it. But nobody notices anything at first.

Not the way his day starts to feel off when you don’t text back. Not the way the silence in his flat stretches longer without your voice in it. Not the way he stops buying coffee for one.

It creeps in—soft, quiet, like you. Like the way you leave your cardigan on the back of his chair. Like the way your laughter settles into the walls like warmth. Like the way your presence feels less like a visit and more like a rhythm he’s gotten used to.

You never ask him to need you. You never make it obvious. You just. . . show up. When he’s had a rough day, when he doesn’t say anything but somehow you still know. You hand him tea and don’t ask about the blood caked in his fingernails. You sit beside him and let him exist without having to explain.

And he doesn’t say it—that he looks for you before he looks for anyone else. That your name on his phone makes something in his chest unclench. That some days, the only reason he makes it out of bed is the thought of maybe seeing you later.

He tells himself it’s not need. That he’s just used to you now. That it’s convenience. Familiarity.

But he starts keeping your favorite snacks in his kitchen. Starts sleeping a little better when you’re around. Starts catching himself listening for your footsteps down the hall like they mean something. Like you mean something.

And when you’re gone—even just for a day or two—he feels it.

Not in the dramatic way. Not in the falling-apart, can’t-function kind of way.

But in the quiet spaces.

In the way he leaves the TV on for background noise. In the untouched mug on the counter he still sets out for you by habit. In the way he checks the door three times, like he’s hoping you’ll walk through it.

Like he’s already forgotten what life was like without you in it.

And as always, he tells himself he’s fine.

That he hasn’t noticed how your toothbrush lives beside his now. That the worn-in softness of your jackets on the back of the couch doesn’t make his chest feel too tight. That the playlists on his phone—the ones he swore he didn’t care about—are full of songs you’ve hummed under your breath.

He still sleeps on his side of the bed, even when you’re not there. Leaves yours untouched. As if you might walk in, any second now, and crawl into it like you always do—feet cold, eyes tired, muttering something about how shit the weather is.

And maybe that’s what scares him.

Not that you’ve changed his space,

But that he’s started needing you in it.

There’s a rhythm to his life now, and it’s shaped around you in ways he didn’t authorize. You’ve folded yourself into the cracks he thought he’d sealed off— the quiet, jagged places no one else bothered to stay long enough to find.

He finds himself remembering your voice in moments you weren’t even there for.

When it’s late and his hands won’t stop shaking. When the mission chatter fades and there’s only blood on his boots and something cold in his throat—he hears your laugh. Not loud. Not bright. Just there, like a tether. Like a promise he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

You’re in all the soft places now.

The back of his mind. The curve of his routines. The split second before he answers the phone—hoping it’s you.

And still, he doesn’t say anything.

He won’t.

Because to say it would mean admitting something’s shifted. That the distance he’s always kept, the armor he’s worn for so long—it’s not holding like it used to. Not with you.

He tells himself it’s manageable. That he can handle this—the way he checks the door when he hears footsteps, the way he sleeps lighter when you’re not there, just in case you come back and he doesn’t want to miss it.

That he’s not getting used to you in the same way he breathes—constantly, unconsciously, like something vital.

But he is.

And that terrifies him more than anything he’s faced out there in the field.

It starts small.

You don’t text that morning.

No “morning, sunshine” with a sleepy photo of your pillow-smushed face. No joke about how your coffee tastes like regret. Nothing. Just silence.

He notices, of course. Pretends he doesn’t.

Wipes a hand down his face and tells himself you’re probably just busy. That you overslept. That it’s nothing. He even types out a message—You alive?—but doesn’t send it. Just stares at the screen for a while and puts the phone face-down on the table.

By midday, the silence is louder.

He checks his phone again. Then again. Then again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t. It feels stupid. Pathetic. He’s a grown man. He’s seen hell and walked out of it. But this? This radio silence from you? It puts a knot in his chest he can’t seem to loosen.

You’re not pulling away on purpose. Not really.

But you don’t show up that night either. No knock at the door. No comfortable silence on his couch while you scroll through your phone with your legs in his lap like they belong there.

And maybe they did. Maybe they still do. But without you here, the space feels off. Airless.

He eats half his dinner and tosses the rest. Sleeps like shit. Wakes up twice thinking he heard you, only to remember you never came in the first place.

It shouldn’t bother him. You’re not his. Not really.

But your absence wraps around him tighter than your presence ever did. It digs into the space you carved out and reminds him, cruelly, that he let you get too close. That he’s not fine. That maybe he does need you—not in the abstract, but in the bone-deep, can’t-sleep-right-without-you-here kind of way.

And now, he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Doesn’t know how to ask you to come back without sounding like he’s falling apart. Doesn’t know how to admit he’s been leaning on you this whole time, even when he swore he wasn’t.

He picks up his phone again. Scrolls up to your last message — two days ago. A dumb meme and a heart emoji.

He stares at it longer than he should.

Then, quietly, he types out:

Did I do something?

He doesn’t send it.

Just leaves it there, cursor blinking.

Waiting.

Then someone knocks on his front door.

Somehow he knows it’s you before even standing up to answer it. Like he can feel your warmth through the old wood.

It’s funny, how just the sound of your knuckles against his door—three soft taps like always, calmed him down from his tense battle in his mind. And when he opens it, you’re just standing there in that old jacket he likes on you—his jacket—hands in your pockets, eyes tired but warm.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just blinks like he’s not sure you’re real.

“I didn’t mean to go quiet.” You say softly, already stepping inside like you never left. “Got caught up. Shit week.”

He nods. Says, “Yeah, no worries,” like he hasn’t been unraveling for days.

But you look at him a little too long. And he knows you’ve seen it.

The bags under his eyes. The slightly off-center tension in his posture. The way he doesn’t meet your gaze for too long, like if he does, everything he’s been holding in might just spill out all at once.

You don’t push.

You just move through the flat like you belong there, like the gap in the last few days didn’t stretch painfully wide between you. You toss your bag on the floor, kick off your shoes, and when you pass him, your fingers brush his briefly—not enough to be obvious, just enough to ground him.

He doesn’t realize how tight his shoulders were until they start to loosen.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch, legs under you, flipping through the TV with half-interest. He hasn’t said much. He’s just sitting beside you, head tilted back against the cushion, eyes closed, listening to the sound of you being here again.

“I missed this,” You murmur, casual.

His eyes open, sharp, like that one sentence tugged something deep.

You turn your head to look at him. “I missed you, Kyle.”

His name from your mouth does something to him. Always has.

He wants to brush it off, say something easy—“Right back at you”, or “Someone’s gotta put up with me”—but he doesn’t. Not this time.

He swallows instead. Quiet. Raw.

“I didn’t like it when you were gone.”

Your eyes soften. Not with pity—never pity. Just understanding.

“I know,” You say gently, and scoot closer. Your hand finds his, warm and sure. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were alone again.”

He lets out a shaky breath. Not quite relief. Not quite fear. Just something too big to name.

“You didn’t,” He lies.

You squeeze his hand once. “Yeah, I did. And I’m sorry.”

There’s silence for a moment—but not the bad kind. The kind where breathing gets easier.

He shifts then, a little awkwardly, a little helplessly—and lets his head drop onto your shoulder like it’s the only place that makes sense.

And when your fingers start threading through his hair, slow and steady, he finally exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

No words. Just you. Here.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like enough.

Then, when you say you need to talk to him—really talk to him, he gets scared.

But instead of the belittling scolding he thought he’d get from you, (“I need space, I don’t have time to be taking care of a man-baby right now.”he could think of other things you’d say, but it’d just make his eyes water and spill, decorating his cheeks in a clear, beautiful way) you just let him rest his head on your shoulder, his weight warm and solid and a little heavier than usual. His hand loops through yours, loose but not letting go, like he’s afraid you might vanish again if he does.

But eventually, you speak. Low. Careful.

“Kyle.”

He makes a soft sound—not quite a word—like he hears you, but doesn’t want to move.

“You’ve been doing it again,” You say gently.

That gets a reaction. His fingers twitch. His body goes just a little tense against yours.

You keep going, voice soft. Not accusing. Just truthful.

“Building your world around me without saying it out loud. Letting everything lean a little harder on me than it should.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. But you can feel it in him—the way he holds himself a little too still. Like he’s waiting for you to be angry. To tell him he’s too much. Too needy. Like everyone else eventually did.

You shift, just enough to look at him. His eyes are on the floor, jaw tight.

“I don’t mind,” You say.

His eyes flick up—guarded, hopeful, wrecked all at once.

You squeeze his hand. “I just don’t want you to break if I’m gone for a few days.”

He looks like he’s been hit in the chest. Swallows hard. Doesn’t know what to do with the softness in your voice. Doesn’t know how to answer without admitting how much of what you’re saying is true.

You keep going, because someone has to say it.

“You’ve been carrying so much for so long, I don’t think you remember what it’s like to stand on your own. And now that I’m here, I think you’re scared I’ll be the next thing to disappear.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just nods, slow. Miserable.

“I’m not mad,” You whisper. “But I want to help, not just hold you up when you’re falling.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes out like he’s in pain.

“I don’t mean to—” He starts, then falters.

“I know.”

You brush his knuckles with your thumb. Gentle. Steady.

“I want to help you build something stronger than this. . . than just me. I’ll still be here, but you need something that doesn’t fall apart when I’m not in the room.”

He leans into your touch, quiet. Vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Help me. . . please,” He says finally. Barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to do it.”

You nod. “We’ll figure it out. Together. But you’ve got to meet me halfway.”

He doesn’t answer with words.

Just leans into you, forehead pressed to your shoulder like it’s the only place he’s sure won’t fall away. And you let him. You hold him steady—not to carry him, but to show him he doesn’t have to walk alone anymore.

It starts here.

Not with a fix. Not with a promise. But with a choice.

To stay; to help him learn how.

It starts with silence.

Not the aching kind that used to fill the room like smoke—but the kind that settles. Gentle. Mutual. His forehead rests against your shoulder, your hand still in his hair, the weight of his admission lingering between you like something fragile and sacred.

Help me.

You’d never heard him sound so small. So real. And you don’t say anything for a long moment because you know what it costs him to ask.

But when you finally speak, your voice is steady.

“Okay.”

He exhales against your collarbone—not relief exactly, but something close. Like a knot pulled loose in his chest.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, and you touch his cheek with the back of your hand—a small gesture, but one that anchors him. “We take it one step at a time,” you say. “No pressure. No rush.”

His nod is barely there, but it’s enough.

It starts slow.

No big changes. No dramatic speeches. Just little things—nough that he doesn’t feel like the ground’s shifting under him. You know him too well to push.

First, it’s the mornings.

You start texting him early, even if you’re not around. Simple stuff. Up yet? Go brush your teeth, love. Don’t make me come over there. He rolls his eyes every time, but he answers. Every single time.

Then, it’s lists.

You sit down with him one evening—calm, casual—and say, “Let’s make a routine for you. Just the basics.” He grumbles, but you see the way his fingers tighten on the pen when you hand it to him. Like structure feels safer than he wants to admit.

He starts small:

• Wake up.

• Shower.

• Eat something that isn’t toast.

• Go for a walk.

• Check in—with someone. Anyone.

You help him set reminders. You don’t treat him like he’s broken—just tired. Just someone who’s been holding the world up alone for too long.

Then comes the harder part.

“Talk to Price,” You say gently one night, when he’s stretched out on the couch and not quite asleep.

He stiffens. “Why?”

“Because he’s known you longer than me. He cares. And he’s seen this before—in other people. In himself, probably.”

Gaz doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

“I’m not saying unload everything,” You continue, soft but firm. “Just let someone else see you. Outside of me.”

It takes three days.

Then he texts you a photo—a blurry shot of two coffee mugs on a table, Price’s hand halfway in frame.

Talked. Didn’t explode. No emotional damage. Might try again.

You don’t reply right away. You let him sit in that little win. Let him own it.

You build from there.

Encourage him to reconnect with the others—Soap, Laswell, anyone who’s part of his life but got pushed out by his quiet dependence on just you. It’s not about letting go of what you are to him—it’s about making space for more than just that.

Some days, he slips. Cancels plans. Shuts down. You don’t scold him. You just show up with takeout and sit beside him, quiet, patient. And he always comes back. A little steadier each time.

He starts taking walks alone. Reading again. Even finds a dog shelter nearby and volunteers once a week—says the dogs don’t ask questions he can’t answer.

You don’t say it, but you’re proud. So proud.

And one night, weeks later, you find him standing in the kitchen, phone in hand, smiling at a message.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Soap,” He says, eyes still on the screen. “Sent me a video of his dog dragging his laundry across the house.”

You blink. “You text Soap now?”

He shrugs, casual. Too casual. “He texted first. I just answered.”

But you see it. The lightness. The shift.

The first signs of something better taking root.

He still needs you. But not like before. Not like air. Not like a crutch. Now, it’s something healthier. Something chosen, not clung to.

He steps toward you and wraps his arms around your waist, grounding himself in the curve of your shoulder, your heartbeat, your warmth.

“Thank you,” He murmurs.

You smile against his hair.

“I love you too.”

- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms !

- likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3 !!

©miwsolovely

[thebookbutterfly]

fanfiction isn’t enough, I need to chew on him

[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

[devil-in-hiding]

something something reader is a bartender at a popular little pub, and night after night you are hit on by men so plastered you often have to sigh and call over one of the guys you work with the idiots end up vomiting all over themselves (sometimes it’s worse than vomit but thankfully you can count those incidents on one hand)

you think by slipping on your grandmothers old wedding ring, it will sway men from hitting on you at work. And it does, there’s still some that try to test their luck, but the minute you flash that pearl on your finger they’re scurrying off to find their next target.

Cue four new regulars, four attractive military men that always flash you a polite smile and leave you a nice tip. Price comes in more than the others, claiming the stool near your register for himself, Ghost doing the same the rare nights he slinks into the pub. Soap and Gaz come in together some weekends, sitting themselves in front of you with big grins on their faces as they watch the game on the tv overhead.

They’re all sweet, a little cocky at times but nothing that one of their grins or sly remarks can’t make up for. They ask how their favorite girl is doing when they return from longer missions, genuinely listening as you fill them in on the things that have happened since they’ve been away.

Perfect gentlemen.

Until one night you forget your ring, having had to rush your shower and sprint out the door to make it to the pub before the nightly rush.

You filling glasses when you hear the chime of the bell and a familiar laugh fill the pub.

“Was wondering if I’d see you boys tonight.” You smile, motioning for them to give you a moment as you serve the other patrons.

When you slide back over to them, you immediately reach for their usual glasses, grabbing your cloth to wipe them off, when a hand clamps around your wrist and you jump, nearly dropping the glass as Ghost turns your hand over in his.

“Trouble at home pretty?” Price comments, concern etched on his face and it takes a moment for you to catch on, and you can’t help the little giggle that spills out.

“Oh! My ring… It’s kind of a funny story. I uhm.. I’m not actually married.” You laugh, expecting them to laugh along with you, but all you feel are four pairs of eyes piercing into you.

“Come again?” Gaz asks, voice a tad deeper than usual and you ignore the chills it sends down your spine.

“I started wearing it so some of the drunkards would leave me be, kind of forgot about it, just became habit.” You chuckle nervously, hand still in Ghost’s grasp and he’s eyeing you in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Hm. Interesting.”

[kkusuka]

this is in the "141 and john price's wife" universe. still gn pronouns. i also don't think price texts that much- old man syndrome.

the 141 absolutely have a group chat dedicated to pictures and information (porn) about their little wife.

it starts, as many silly things do, with johnny and a picture of you asleep on the couch. cuddled into the armrest covered in the tortilla blanket he'd gotten you as a gag gift, and it was just too good not to share. (although he only sent one of the thirty he actually took, he's gotta keep as much of you to himself as he can.)

then it was kyle with you in the yard, laying in the grass after cutting down branches in the sweltering heat (something john would never let you do if he'd know about it, but he appreciates the flush of your cheeks and the angle of the photo makes it seem as if you were under him doing another strenuous activity.)

and it continues like that for months, cute little pictures of you gardening with price, walking with simon, watching tv between kyle and johnny- just sharing the daily life of their pretty bird.

but the real nature of the group chat doesn’t start until simon sends a picture of you bent over, putting something in the oven, in the tiny, red daisy duke shorts that are only just long enough to be considered inappropriate for the public.

sr: fuckin' lucky that shit only takes 10 minutes to cook or we'd be in the kitchen all day.

soap: fuuuuuuuuckin' hell

kyle: don't rub it in simon, we'll be home in two days

sr: don't worry, i'll warm 'em up for you

price: Behave yourselves.

and it all just unravels from there.

john's the next culprit. he has loads and loads of less than decent pictures of you, perks of being the first husband, but he's not reaching into the stash for this one. he has a point to make: if anyone's getting off to pictures of his wife, he's gonna be the one sending them.

it's barely two hours after the other three left that something is sent into the chat. face down, ass up, cunt dripping with cum as price uses his thumb to keep your pussy open to the camera, the rest of his hand palm down on your ass, the ring on his finger glistening in the flash.

sr: fuckin' filthy captain

soap: BRING ME BACK, PUT ME IN CAPTAIN

kyle: tell 'em i said thank you

it's not surprising that the minute he comes back, johnny's on you. methodically placing the camera, making sure it captures all of you and his face buried between your thighs. it wasn't the first video sent into the chat but it's definitely one of the best ones.

your head thrown back, hands in his hair, gripping what you can so you can grind your pussy on his tongue. his phone is just close enough to hear your small pants and groans as he sucks on your swollen clit.

soap: i could spend the rest of my life right there

sr: you let 'em fuck yer face like that?

soap: lt i'd let 'em gag me

soap: then step on my dick

soap: then leave me on the floor to rot

*kyle, price, and sr disliked three messages*

soap: like you fuckers wouldn't

and kyle is not a man to be left out, but he is also not as keen on sharing his private time with you as johnny is. so there aren't videos coming from him, instead he has 4k close ups of your tits after he spent almost an hour sucking hickeys into every part of your chest he could reach.

and kyle is like an artist, he makes sure your hair is splayed out perfectly, and that you're just fucked out enough to give him a bright smile. he also makes sure that the locket they gave you, the one that's has their names engraved on the inside, sits perfectly above the swell of your boobs. and goddamn is he proud of his pictures. (it's not hard for you to look pretty in pictures because you're already pretty but kyle thinks he's the best at actually capturing it).

soap: another two things i would put my face between until i suffocate

*sr, price, and kyle disliked a message*

soap: go fuck urselves

and simon is just mean, fingers peaking under your panties, finding your clit just to sit there, finger pressed on your bud, only moving for a few seconds before falling still again; his other hand hold your hips down so you can't do anything but wait for him to move again. and he does it the entire length of the manchester game until your panties are completely soaked through.

soap: stone cold, lt. stone cold.

but before he can do anything, he has to take his picture so the other fools can remember what a whore you are for him. and because it's between games he'll let you sit on his dick and grind into him during commercial breaks. maybe he'll even film in and send it to the guys, let them see you drip all over his lap whole stretching to fit him in your cunt.

but whether his team loses or wins, he'll flip you over and fuck you into the couch cushions, so at least you get that!

then they're all away on a mission, and you know about their little chat (it's hard not to when suddenly they have a camera out every time you're in their vicinity.) so you take it upon yourself to give them their fix. and why not play around with them well you're ar it?

it starts when you go shopping merely three days after they left. they tear up your bras and underwear so obviously you would need to buy more eventually. but usually when you go shopping one of them is with you to share their opinions, but since they're away, you just have to send pictures instead!

a whole catalog, in facts. you've got angles, dressing room lighting, and a whole lot of time on your hands.

*you sent 22 photos to 'the bird house'*

you: i can't choose :(((

you: help me out?

kyle: give me 6 hours to fly home and i'll help you with anything

price: Looks great. But I can't tell from the pictures, you'll have to try them all on again when I get home.

soap: licking the screen isn't working, captain i think i need to go home.

*sr saved 22 photos to Camera Roll*

kyle: smooth riley, real smooth.

and of course it doesn't end there. you have a chance to torture them a little bit with zero consequences and you're going to take it.

but it takes a while for you to send videos, usually you send  your outfits, or the tiny bathing suit top you wear while tanning, even one of you in the kitchen in nothing but your tiny apron. (it's the only one that john does not appreciate, popping a boner between briefings as a captain is not hie proudest moment.)

but as the months go longer and longer, you get more and more desperate. your toys are reserved for times like this, a small bullet vibrator and a thick 8-inch dildo. it's nowhere near as nice as fucking your men but it'll have to do for the time being.

and you know them being away is not their fault and they'd be home in an instant if they could choose to be; but if you have to deal with your pent-upness, so do they.

so you set up your phone, leaning it on the lamp that sits on your bedside table, so it captures your entire body, covered only by sheer light-blue lingerie and your locket, as you sink down the length of your dildo, vibrator pressed to your clit. you send four different videos, one for each of them, in the order they came into your life (you think it's cute, they're one picture away from firebombing the whole country they're in and flying home).

you: just something to hold you over until you get back!

kyle: so good for us babe.

soap: yer evil bonnie.

soap: my arm can't keep up with this

sr: birdie thinks it's real funny now

you: i do

sr: not gonna be so funny when we get home, yeah? might have to give you a refresher about what happens teasing birds.

price: 6:30am tomorrow, get everything you need in order because you aren't moving for the foreseeable future.

*you loved a message*

[skyrigel]

Reader who doesn't speak English as their first language and Simon being so in love !!

Over the dinner course, you leaned forward confidently, like you were sharing a secret.

"I think we should buy a baby wheelchair for them."

Price's missus was going to have a baby shower next week.

"Wot?" Simon blinked.

"A baby wheelchair—" You pulled your fist into a punching stance and moved it back and forth, mimicking a tiny car. "Like a baby car… phew phew."

"Oh, that's a stroller." Simon raised a brow, watching your head bobble in a self-absorbed nod.

"Exactly, baby car… stroller."

And it was so cute when you looked up at him whenever you forgot certain words.

"Simon, how do you say in English? The takka-takka-takka—"

"Helicopter," Simon said fondly, earning himself a sweet peck on the lips.

The task force enjoyed it immensely. When Soap said, “Break a leg !” and you raised up a fight at why Simon should break his leg.

Or when Kyle couldn't stop laughing so much with the way you pronounced, “Bitch” to the bird who was hitting up on Simon.

And Simon loved it all, felt love in your eyes through your words, especially when you used his vocabulary—God, it did something to him.

Saying "bugger" when you put too much ketchup, and "bloody freezin’, innit?!" with that corky little smile because you knew how much it wrecked him.

"Bollocks," you would curse, and he’d already be losing his heart and mind, dragging you to the bedroom.

The way you would slip into your native dialect when you were upset, voice rising as you made frustrated noises—Simon would forget the argument entirely, just watching you with that pretty face he’d go to war for.

And something, something about the way you said "I love you" in your native language first, just as softly, and how you called him "my love" in that same way too.

Bloody hell, he’s so in love.

Masterlist

[quarterlifekitty]

One thing that makes me go feral is when in the middle of fucking, one person gets overstimulated and tries to crawl and squirm away from the overstimulation, and the other person drags them back by the hips like "Where do you think you're going?" 😩 which of the guys do you think is most likely to do this?

(Can you tell I'm ovulating... 🫣)

ALL

cw: daddy kink adjacent stuff for Nik, as per usual. Just a hint of aggression, and marking dubcon just in case

Gaz is literally so sweet about it. Like you’re a little kitten about to walk off the edge of a table and he’s just redirecting you. “No, no, love— this way,” he coos as he puts his hand beneath your hips to cup you and pull you back.

Soap is about to lose his mind, it’s so hot to him— “Ah’m just givin’ it tae ye so good, huh, bonnie? Cannae take it anymore? Too bad,” he tuts, his fingers sunken into your soft flesh as he pins your kicking legs and tugs hard.

Ghost reacts with some real aggression. He’s not mad at you— he’s mad at the idea. The concept of you being separated from him. He’s bruising and yanking your body, manhandling you under his weight. “Don’t fuckin’ run from me, birdie— don’ wanna know what’ll happen if’m pulled outta this cunt—“

Price can’t help but smile. Such a sensitive little thing. “If you’re already in this state— doesn’t bode well for the rest of your night, darl’— cause I ain’t near finished with you.” He’s prepared to wait upon you like you’re his ailing, bedridden queen suffering from the consumption tomorrow, cause you’ll have about as much energy left when he’s done.

König is holding you too tight to let you even begin to squirm away— he can just feel the tense and strain of your muscles against his hands. It makes him kiss you as deep as he can manage— he just thinks it’s so cute, like you’re a little moth with wings beating against his cupped palms.

Nikolai laughs. He laughs at you. You’re just so silly— thinking papochka will show you mercy. He’s not a merciful man, malýshka. He’d best remind you of that— not that you’ll ever really learn. He wouldn’t want you to, really. He likes playing this little game with you. It’s like ballroom dancing to him— very romantic and sweet.

[softaestluv]

next | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Something, something, about the 141 men all being quite obsessed with you, placing bets who could get you first— everyone thinks it’s Kyle, he’s charming, handsome, who wouldn’t swoon at his feet?

Maybe even Johnny, he’s a bit of a dog, but he has a way with women, by some miracle, and he’s smart, maybe it’s his blue eyes.

No one thought it would be Simon, their lieutenant, of all people, anti-social, rough around every edge. A brute, curt, wears a skull.

Then one day, they get a message in the group chat from Simon, a picture attached. Kyle can’t believe it, Price, the dirty old man, saves it to his phone instantly, Johnny has to do a spit-take because there in the photo is you.

But it’s not just you.

It’s you perched on Simon’s lap.

Naked from the head down, back facing the camera, with your face buried in Simon’s neck. Simon gets a low enough angle, gets a perfect view of your pussy, stretched wide over his fat cock. Puffy and swollen, glistening with your sopping arousal.

With a simple sentence:

‘Look who I found’

[hidingwhere]

John Prices wife coming to pick him up at the airport after he returns from a mission, but the car is now full of military men.

One look at the three boys, completely exhausted and pulling their phones out to book a taxi had your heart crying. Without thinking, you offered them all a lift to yours and Johns home for them to stay overnight.

So now there’s three men cramped onto your three backseats, John having the luxury of sitting in the front. Simon is on the end (still in his balaclava but luckily not the skull mask because you’d be a little creeped out seeing that every time in the rear view mirror), Johnny in the middle and then Kyle on the other end. Johnny complains for about 10 minutes that he’s squished in and has no room to move but after that he’s completely zonked out on Simons shoulder.

Your music plays quietly through the speakers and they’re happy to listen to anything that isn’t gun shots or explosions.

Once you arrive home, they all climb out the car, grabbing their bags from the boot and dumping them down in the living room.

“Place looks less lifeless than last time I was here,” comments Johnny.

“Finally got a woman’s touch to it,” adds Kyle.

You smile a little at the non-direct compliment. Price also looks around, noticing the little details that have changed or the things that have been added around his house, keeping a hand on your back. He leans down and kisses you gently, mumbling “I missed you” against your lips.

“I missed you too. But it looks like you’ve lost weight.” You glance down at his body. “I’ll fatten you up again,” you tease with a little giggle as he chuckles.

It’s around 9pm by the time you’ve cooked dinner for four people who have appetites of bears. They all look at you as if you’re an angel sent from heaven when they see the food, sitting down at the dining table silently and scoffing down the meal.

By 10pm, you go into the living room thinking they’re all watching TV but instead they’re all asleep. You grab some spare blankets from beside the sofa and cover them up except for John. You shake him awake and make him move upstairs into bed with you. There’s no way you’re letting him sleep on the sofa and not with you after weeks apart.

[abusivegymrat]

Embarrassing things Ghost has gotten hard for before;

Warning(?): sometimes it’s okay to write about being the mc and the center of attention🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️😖😖 if i write it while cringing u will read it while cringing period. We love things that r hard to read.

1. You were in a briefing where you weren’t allowed phones, and when the other lieutenant on duty turned at you, you immediately took your phone and buried it between those thick delicious thighs. Bury his head, please.

2. When you dominated him in training, wrestled your way out from under him and kicked him face first onto the floor, stepping on his back. It felt like a foot job, tbh.

3. When you manhandled someone else. See, all the younger recruits are like siblings to you, especially women. You once saw one of them crying because she was “too heavy” for her man so you just picked her up and threw her over your shoulder. He felt saliva building up in his mouth when he saw the muscles in your arms ripple.

4. Whenever you get tasked to do a debrief, because he could watch you talk all day. And when he stares at you for too long, his mind wanders off into dangerous territory. Can’t help it.

5. Apparently fireman carried him away from fire when he was unconscious, Soap won’t shut his bitch ass up about it.

Meh sorry

[lologoinsolo]

In The Shadows

Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8

In The Shadows Masterlist

TW: I personally don’t think there’s any triggers in here BUT. There is talks of how Gaz views the people in the town and he likens them to a cow sooooooo yeah

“Hey, you okay?” Gaz knocks a light tap on the glass. You must’ve been in too long of a thought for him to have to ask. Once he gains your attention again he speaks, “Soap’s been talking about you so much. Wanted to see you for myself.” His eyes seem warmer than Soap’s bright blues. “You’re beautiful,” his eyes trail you up and down. There’s not much light save for what the full moon gives but he and Soap always find you easily. Were you ever able to hide?

You can’t seem to find your words. Your tongue twisted into knots as your fingers tightened over your old shirt that you’ll be needing to wash with the amount of sweat growing.

“Are you sleepy or nervous? Must be both by now,” he says, cooing at you gently, playing the part of a dashing gentleman. If there wasn’t a sharpness to his teeth you probably would’ve forgotten just what he is. “it’s alright, promise I’m not a right bastard like Soap. I swear he doesn’t know how to act around pretty birds like you.” And you do? You nod slowly at him and he's pleased but only for so long. Tapping just once on the glass, “talk to me.” Again, not a question but not a demand either from how his tone is so velvety soft.

Your knees bounces slightly, it’s inevitable that you’ll have to keep up a conversation with him. You wished and maybe hoped that he’d say a little piece and be off but no. He waits for you to get comfortable enough to talk once more. Your body might be a live wire but your brain is actively looking for a way to just sleep. You’re not like these creatures that come knocking at night. You need your sleep and maybe they do too but at least you don’t go banging on the walls or tapping at their windows.

“Comfortable yet?” He asks, albeit there’s something prickly in his warm eyes. Maybe it was always there but you haven’t noticed till now. “You look all soft and sweet sitting there.”

Sweet… “Gaz likes them sweet.. tastes better to him..” Soap’s words that he used earlier have become a wisdom of caution that snaps you out of your silence. “Yeah,” your tone is short and he blinks, the first one to do so. “I’m fine, it’s nice.” The chair being nice but your hips ache from sitting for so long and so does your neck from how it was bent back. You’ll have to massage it come morning. “Could be better.” You’ll probably be too tired to do much so maybe you won’t get that massage.

His shoulders shake a little as he grins. His deceptively warm eyes sucking you in even as you try to be pointed with him. “Have I upset you? Haven’t even spoken to you till now.” He sounds genuine but you know better.

“Soap didn’t tell me I’d get another visitor.” It’s the honest truth but you don’t know if Soap’s made mention to him that he told you what Gaz does at the Townhouse. “Forgive me for being unprepared.” If Soap had told you before running off like he did that Gaz would be here then maybe you’d be acting better than you are.

“Apology accepted, sweetheart.”

You can’t hide your scowl now. Your arms crossing tightly over your chest. “Where’s Soap?” At least Soap is easier to manage… sorta. Gaz plays the part of gentleman extremely well, he’s the kinda guy you’d take to your parents after the second date. The one you’d make scrapbooks for a future wedding before an ‘I love you’ is even said. It’s why you’re so on edge right now. What’s his game? You do your best to choke down your own anger before it gets the better of you. Pissing Gaz off will do you no favors and it sure as hell won't keep Erin safe. Before you can apologize, even when you don’t want to, he answers your question easily.

“He’ll be pleased to know you miss him.” There’s his dazzling smile once more. If your attitude makes him upset then he’s hard pressed to say anything. With Soap you knew he’d get upset by the sound of his accent deepening and how his skin would stretch tight. Gaz gives nothing but a smile and sharp eyes. “To answer your question.” He leans more of his weight to his right side, “he’s off hunting.”

You stiffen a bit. Hunting could mean he’s looking for an unsuspecting animal or… he’s going after a human stupid enough to actually be outside. Is that why he left so suddenly? You have an urge to grab your binoculars to look out but Gaz is standing in the way of you seeing anything important. “What’s… what’s he hunting?” You ask, curiosity and worry bubbling up in your heart. You hope it’s not a person, you hope it’s a rabbit or a bird that’s caught his eye. Something that won’t scream and haunt your nightmares.

His head tilts, “do you really want to know?” His voice sounds amused now, “curiosity ate the cat from all the questions the cat asked after all.” That’s not how the saying goes but perhaps here things are different.

You swallow and shake your head ‘no’ quickly. “Nevermind then.” It doesn’t matter. Deep down you don’t want to know. It’s not like you’ll be able to do anything if it was one of the townsfolk. You’re not a runner, you’d just get in the way and then you’d be their meal. As selfish as it sounds… you don’t know if you’d ever leave your home to save another.

You’re stuck in this cage just as much as your visitors are stuck in their nature. They won’t change their ways anymore than you’ll decide at random to open the door or pull the nails off the windowsill to open the window.

He hums a little tune, one that sounds vaguely familiar. The same one that Soap hums, the same notes from when you were at the dinner with Erin for the first time. The same song Gaz himself hummed when he spotted you at the Townhouse.

“That,” you start and he perks up, “that song.” He nods as if to encourage you, “you and Soap hum that a lot.” The question is why? Why that song in particular?

“Catchy isn’t it?” It’s your turn to nod albeit unsure, “heard Soap humming it a while back and now it’s stuck in here.” Tapping his forehead. He grins a little grin, “must be stuck in yours too for you to have noticed.”

That song isn’t stuck, it follows you. Sometimes you’ll hear it in your nightmares. Especially in the one that’s been plaguing you here recently. Sometimes they’re exactly the same and other times they are slightly tweaked.

Running through the forest. Home is just up head even with how dark it is. The branches pick at your skin as you run and then fall. You look up when you hear a laugh, a person blurry to your vision. Like they’re not all there comes into view and blocks your sight to the house. They stand far away and every step that it takes towards you they hum the song.

“Yeah… you could say that.” Shrugging your shoulders nonchalantly, no dream has stuck with you like that one does. That one has been coming around too often for your likening and you’ve started considering it to be a warning. “Why,” you bite your lip to reword any sharp tone that could come out. You take a breath and speak to mimic him in a way. “Can I ask why you are here?”

“I told you, sweetheart.” Tutting softly, “Soap talks about you a lot. Wanted to see you for myself.” His eyes roam yours just for the show of it but he lingers and drags for a few seconds over your neck and chest.

That’s not much for you to go on. There’s always a reason with them. There has to be something more. Why now? Why come when Soap’s gone?

“I can’t come see a pretty bird like you?” He asks and you have a half a mind to think he’s getting upset but there’s no difference in how he’s acting. “Are you Soap’s only?” Grinning wide when your eyes open like a deer in headlights.

“No!” You cough as you stumble over your words, “I just meant,” you sigh and pull yourself together before he gets anymore joy out of this. “What I mean is, is that only why you’re here?”

“Nope.” He pops his ‘p’, he teases now. “I figured it’s time we met. It’s not every day that we get something as curious as you. Landed you somewhere you didn’t want to be in, huh?”

Your hand slowly balls into a fist in the fabric of your shorts. There it is. Now you’re getting somewhere with him. “Yeah, you could say that.” To your credit, you don’t grit your teeth or scowl. You keep neutral or as neutral as you can be. Your hand comes to cover your mouth as you yawn loudly. Rubbing your cheek and staring at him, he hasn’t blinked again. His eyes seem hallowed now, that warmth that was there is gone. Artificial like the artificial sunlight lamp you got your grandpa when you got your first paycheck. It was never real and you knew it but why show it now?

“Do you want to know who I’m talking to?” Of course you do, you’ve been racking your brain since Soap threatened you. You want to know. If you can find out who he’s romancing then you can prevent a massacre. He knows this of course, dangling it over your head and raising it higher and higher when you reach for it.

“Yes.” No point in lying. No point in pretending otherwise like he and Soap and the rest of his friends do.

He brings a finger to tap at his chin in thought. “Now, why should I tell you?” There’s an offer in there, persuade him. Make him give you the answer you so desperately want.

But what can you offer death? What does death even want?

“You can have me.” That’s all you can give. “I’ll open the door to you tomorrow night. You can kill me however you want if you tell me who you’re talking to.” You’ll tell the sheriff once Gaz gives you the answer and then tomorrow night you’ll drink yourself to numbness and wait for hands to rip you apart. At least it’ll be your choice, you’ll be selfish to drink liquor. All their other victims weren’t allowed to prepare but you’ll take your death willingly if it means your only friend in the Townhouse will be safe.

It must be a good deal with how his smile widens but everything sours when he tosses his head back to laugh loudly. He laughs as if you’ve told something so hilarious that even a professional comedian couldn’t hold a candle to you. Maybe you are laughable in saying something like that.

“One meal against how many in there?” He rolls his head to look back at you. Moving up and down on the balls of his feet before settling once more. “Let’s see,” He counts on his fingers the bodies that live in the Townhouse. Each count makes your chest squeeze, he and his friends are incredibly greedy you realize. Hounding for something bigger than what your body can give. For the first time in your life you’re the smallest compared to the rest. Gaz makes a disappointed whistle, “doesn’t seem like a fair trade, don’t you think, sweetheart?” Patronizingly sympathetic as he speaks, maybe he’d pat your head if he was inside the house.

Your teeth grind, he has you against a corner. Backed you in there and made you see that you’re not all that. What else can you offer him?

“Nothing,” he says as if he’s in your head. You stare wide eyed for a fraction of a second, “there’s nothing you can give me.” That forehead of his falls to the glass and you see him clearly for what he is. Despite the kindness and warmth he’s shown, he sheds it fast. “The only reason I haven’t gotten my meal is because now I’m made to wait.” His skin, like Soap’s, stretches little by little. Pulls back and keeps whatever straining to get out to stay put. “Eating you won't satisfy me the way that one will.”

“Because I don’t love you?” Snapping quickly at him and he just grins. You’d liken him to a wolf and a cat with his teeth show.

“Soap told you what I like, hmm?” Licking over his lips, his skin stops thinning out and he’s slowly pulled right back to normal. He’s right back to being a charming man, nothing monstrous underneath him at all. “Can’t blame a guy for wanting something sweet to love him.” He sighs longingly, “sweets are something I prefer. Tastes better on the tongue more than salt, don’t you think?”

Your brows twitch, “you’ll kill him though.” It’s a long shot if he’ll correct you on the gender. You’re hoping to narrow down the men from the women in the Townhouse. “He’ll open the door to you and then you’ll kill him as the rest of your friends will kill everyone else just so you can eat.” It makes you sick to your stomach to even mention it. If you had eaten earlier maybe bile would’ve come up.

There’s an annoyed scoff from him that dampens your bravado. “Do you feel sad when a cow is slaughtered for you to quench your hunger?” His eyes darken, the brown blurring to black as his hand lands on the window. Soaps eyes brightened like an electric blue but Gaz’s deepens like the abyss, reminds you of Mask’s soulless eyes.

“Is that what he is then? Just a cow for you to cut open?” You trail on, is that all anyone breathing is to these creatures? “Never mind that he—“

“You keep saying he,” cold washes over you as his head turns like a cat does to its bird. He watches you with intense observation. You flapped your wings too hard and he caught wind of what you're trying to do. “Clever little minx. Tried to get me to slip up, didn’t you? Thought I’d give something of a detail away to you?” Your heartbeat quickens and he shushes you, probably smelling your anxiety the way Soap can. “It’s no fun if you can narrow down who my ‘cow’ is and even if I did tell you,” he whispers and your ears strain. “What would stop me from going to the Townhouse to just kill them right now once their name is known to you?”

“I—“

“You?” Gaz laughs but there’s no joy in it but sick pleasure. “You’ll what, sweetheart?” Your eyes fall as does your shoulders, “oh don’t look like that. You tried your best, almost had me slip.” He says but it could just be a lie. “How about this,” he sighs like there’s just no way to please you. “I’ll tell you if you give me an exchange?” He sees the tiniest form of confusion and Gaz smiles like prior, “give me ten people and I’ll tell you the name.”

“Ten?” Ten names? But that’s not it and you know it. “I…” what’s to stop him and his friends from still going after the Townhouse. You’ll kill just to get a name and then what? Will they stop? “I-I can’t,” your minds jumbling together, so many pros and cons smashing and making it difficult to be steady in your voice. “I won’t do that.” Who’s to say he or his friends wouldn’t make you do it again?

“Then happy hunting,” he grins and stands. Your heart lurches to your throat as you stand quickly. Your chair is thrown backwards as you press against the window.

“Wait! Wait,” he hasn’t moved, “where are you going? Don’t—“ his index finger comes up and curls over the glass where your face would have been touched if there was no barrier. He crouches once more so he can be better leveled with you.

“I’m not allowed to have my meal just yet.” Your heart doesn’t ease when you hear that but at least the Townhouse gets another night. “The Captain will be speaking with you soon enough.” He rubs his index up and down and you swear you could feel it against your cheek. Whoever this Captain is, you don’t want to meet him but there’s no choice here. There never has been. Gaz speaks softer now, a gentleness that he puts on just for you. “Get some sleep, the suns gonna be coming up in an hour or so.” He leans back so he can look at how the night sky has become lighter.

You don’t say anything as he stands up once more. He jumps down like Soap did and you’re quick to grab your binoculars to watch him. He passes the sheriffs office and keeps heading north till he disappears into the woods. You follow the tree line, looking to see if anyone else is there but your back tenses when it is Mask that you find staring back at you.

He makes no motion, makes no move to turn away. Just stares at you, his boney mask shining better with the night sky that begins to ebb into just the tiniest sliver of sunrise yellow. Mask eventually fades into the woods leaving you to worriedly ponder over everything.

Eventually you toss your binoculars on the bed. You can’t sleep, Frank is coming around with food and even though you’re exhausted you are also hungry for something to eat. Your stomach growls and growls even longer as you sit on the ground. Your head against the wood of the windows edge, the bed is too enticing and even touching it could make you pass out. So you just wait for the coming—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It’s softer than Soap’s and your eyes, try as you might, have to be forced open since they closed without your permission. You stand with a groan as you faintly hear the old man yelling for you to, “come on down, can’t stay asleep forever!” Snorting a heafty laugh, as if you could.

Trudging down the stairs is a chore in itself but you get to your door and open it up for him. He’s got two large brown bags with food for you to use for your week. It smells divine to you, there’s the prettiest red apple that you’ve ever seen peaking out on top and your stomach growls so loud that Frank cocks a worried brow.

“Need food in your stomach,” as he states the obvious you open the door wider for him to step in. “And sleep,” of course he’d notice that, “you look like you’ve been run through the ringer.” He laughs to himself as he sits the bags on the kitchens counter. You try to put them up but he smacks your hand. “Go sit before you pass out here. I swear I’ll never understand young people and their need for staying up late.”

You rub your hand, you could argue with him but all your energy is being put into standing still long enough and then for taking heavy steps to fall on your couch. You faintly hear him rummaging about your kitchen. Muttering under his breath about the cast iron needing help and it doesn’t take long for sleep to take you. It’s safe to sleep with him your mind must think.

He must’ve let you sleep for longer than you would’ve liked when he rouses you, “lunch?” He offers with a plate of breakfast and a kind smile on his face. “It might not taste good, my mom didn’t teach me all that much but I can make a mean omelette.” It looks good and he sells himself short on his cooking.

You hork it down fast not even listening to him chastising you about how you’ll choke. He shoves cup of water in your hand and takes the plate from you so he can clean it. Doesn’t need to clean much since you licked it clean or so he says. He must’ve already ate because he didn’t eat with you and that does make you feel just a bit guilty since you were supposed to eat with him. “Oh well,” you sigh and he pokes a head back.

“What’s that?”

Your head falls on the back of the couch as you peer to look at him. “Sorry for sleeping, I’ve uh..” god, what can you say? What can you tell him without something bad happening? “I’ve got—“

“Nightmares?” He offers and you simply nod. Not a lie but also not a truth. He sighs, making his way to sit on the recliner, “wanna talk… about it?” Rubbing his neck and he looks away before looking at you.

“Not really.”

“That’s fine,” he murmurs, “you don’t have to but,” his fingers tap on his knee, “if you want to. You can tell me. Promise I won’t tell a soul.” He laughs slightly to ease the awkwardness. He’s used to giving orders and keeping people safe, he lends and ear and a shoulder whenever he can but that doesn’t mean that he’s good with this. “I get my fair share of nightmares too.”

“Really?” Makes sense, you turn a bit on your side to lay down fully on your couch. “Mines not something that makes any sense. Too many things and not enough time to figure them out.”

“You wanna figure them out?”

Shrugging your shoulders, “I’m curious.” About your recurring dream and your visitors. He doesn’t need to know about the visitors though.

“You know what they say about curiosity,” he hums with a knowing tone, “curiosity eats the cat when it asks too many questions.” Rolling his eyes just as you scoff. “It’s the truth, sometimes things are better left unlearned.” He rocks now, the point of his shoes pushes off so the recliner will move. “Must be some dream if it’s bothering you so much.”

“It’s… yeah, it is something.” Curling up as best as you can. For a moment you can pretend it’s your grandpa talking to you, for a moment you can pretend you’re back home in that trailer with that old air conditioning that hums. Can even pretend to smell the leather from your old couch to this fabric couch and pretend it’s your grandpa that made you breakfast. Just pretend for even a second that you’re somewhere safe and loved.

“Hey?”

You hide your face, you blame how tired you are for starting to cry so easily. It’s not fair. Why does Frank have to be so nice and observant?

“You okay, hun?” Thankfully he doesn’t stand up but there’s an old gentleness in his eyes that makes you wish you were blind.

“I’m just tired gr— Frank,” biting on your lip when you nearly slip up. “I’m just really tired.”

“I know,” he murmurs softly and the sound of the recliner squeaking comes to a stop. You silently cry and he stays seated, probably because he doesn’t know if he should hug you or tell you the lie that everything is going to be okay. “You know,” he starts as you blink in rapid succession to stop any newer tears. “I used to have this nice barbecue grill,” he stands finally and sits down on the floor. His back to the couch as he nears you but doesn’t make you do anything to move. “God, I loved that thing. Me and my dad,” he makes a sharp whistle, “we’d try to outdo each other.”

Sniffling, “really?” Wiping the stray tears from your cheeks as you look at him.

“Yeah,” he laughs, “one time though.” He rolls his sleeve up on his right arm. A strip of a nasty looking burn mark is faded but still telling, “I got too excited. Hurt myself real bad, some kids,” he sighs at the painful, old memory, “some made fun of me and it made me real sad. Messed with my head a lot and I finally just went and told my dad about it and you know what he said?” Frank turns his head to you, you give him a turn of your head for him to continue wordlessly. “He said, “Frankie, you can let those voices hurt you or you can tell them to shut up and keep going” needless to say, I’m still here.” He gives a tentative pat to your knee. “Listen, kid, I don’t know what’s going on up in there.” Motioning to your head, “it might really be dreams or something else you’re not telling me, and you don’t have to say just what, but whatever’s messing with your head. Sometimes,” he pats again a bit more firmly, “sometimes you just gotta ignore it.”

“This place will chew you up and spit you back out,” parroting what he told you the day you came to the house. Not exactly the same but close enough and he smiles.

“Exactly,” his hand moves but he’s yet to get off the floor. Too old to move too quickly anymore, “don’t let this place change you. If you want me to stay the night then I can do that. Or if you want me to start coming over to make breakfast for you I can.” He offers, “I’m no stranger to spending the night. Sometimes people just need a new perspective, you know? Or sometimes they feel safer with the ‘sheriff’ coming around.” His fingers make a dramatic gesture of quotations around the word. “Don’t want to toot my own horn but I like to think I can be a nice shoulder to lean on. Even for hermit kids like you.”

The good feeling is gone and you sit up just to shove him and he groans like he’s been shot. Ever dramatic in how he bends over.

“Hurting the elderly is a crime here,” he cries as he gets on his back to look up at the ceiling, “I’m never making you an omelette again.” Glaring half heartedly but he’s glad to see you smiling once more.

“Not even if I try to find a grill?” Tempting him like the snake did.

He sits up and his bones pop, “if you find a good enough grill then I’ll make you as many omelettes as you want.”

“So long as I get some ribs. I’d kill for those.”

“And a nice steak?” His hands rub together as an invisible cloud bubble forms over both your heads of all the things you could make on a grill. Eventually you both talk so much about it that you feel better than you did. Can’t even remember why you cried in the first place but you’re grateful for his company.

He gets to leaving albeit he was slow to get going. Apparently his hip has been acting up lately and you offered to help him with making the rounds around the town but he brushed you off. “Get some sleep, kid, if you ever need me to stay or need some old man advice just tell me you need an omelette.” A secret code that only you both will know and understand, “might get eggshells in them from time to time but everyone needs their calcium.” His brows wiggle and your eye rolls hard.

Once he’s gone you’re left alone in this big house. You feel lighter than before. If there was a safer way to tell him what’s really going on then maybe you and him can make a plan. Gaz gave you nothing to work with but he did seem upset about you saying his… cow… is a man. Maybe his ‘love’ isn’t a man but a woman? You head to your kitchen to find everything has been cleaned and put away. Hardly anything to do besides wait for night to come. You could go to your garden but you’d rather just stay in for the day. Tomorrow you’ll garden, you’ll get the little slice of peace back even with the growing pressure.

[7s3ven]

tatted! simon motorcycle shenanigans

TATTED UP! Simon Riley who lets you turn him into a colouring book. He doesn’t care how you colour his tattoos, he just wants to see the scrunched up look of concentration on your cute face.

“What colour do you want?” You murmur as you glance at your numerous eyeshadow palettes. Simon wants to say black or grey but he sees the way you eye the pink palette for a moment too long.

“… Pink.” He finally answers, his gaze focused solely on your bright smile.

You find joy in colouring his arm with various shades of pink and purple as he watches. “Look, so cute.” You murmur, eliciting a low laugh from Simon.

“Yeah.” His voice rumbles, “You wanna colour the rest in?”

BONUS

“Aye, LT, you got your tattoo redone or what?” Jonny can barely hold back his laughter as he looks at Simon’s arm. The previously edgy tattoos were now adorned with feminine colours and glitter.

“No. Just making the misses happy.” Simon doesn’t really care for his teammates’ reactions because the memory of your smile is enough to block out Jonny’s cackles.

[forsworned]

Being the only female on TF141 is like Simon constantly scolding you for getting into sheningans with Johnny and Kyle while Price sits on his arm chair with a good book, whiskey in hand and him puffing out smoke like a chimney from his cigar like the daddy he is.

"Delete it."

"Why?"

"Cos I fockin' said so."

You cock an amused brow at him as you look up from the embarrassingly cute photo of the skull-masked behemoth fast sleep and cuddling your Hello Kitty plushie. "Cos y'fockin' said so?" You mock his gravelly Manchester accent and it sends Johnny and Kyle into a fit of giggles. And even Price is chuffed by it. It's contagious really.

It lets your guard down enough for him to yank your phone out of your hand deleting the picture with a swiftness that made your eyes ream and your heart jump. You all groan and jeer at him for being a poor sport but he's quite satisfied with himself. Little does he know, you have a few copies of it in your desktop.

[partiallysame]

Price’s lil Wife Poly!141

Price’s rules for the boys

- work and home are separate. He can not stress this enough. No call signs used in the house. No ghost mask (told Simon this the very first time he met you. No mask. Not now. Not ever)

- soap used “gaz” once and price made him run laps around the neighborhood (the other housewives loved it)

- No talking about any mission any op. Complaining about recruits or higher ups was allowed. Only can talk about what happened on base.

- The missus was kind and pure and he would not let the type of work they do reach her

- When it came to what could and could not be done physically that was fully up to you “stop asking me. It’s her bloody body for christs sake” after the thousandth awkward “can I please fuck The Missus tonight 👉🏻👈🏻”

- If you wanted one of them one night? Just fine. All of them one night? Also fine

- In fact most things in this new relationship were completely up to you. If they stayed/lived in extra rooms, what they called you, how often and how they got to touch you

- Other than the No Work rule the only other thing Price (tried) to put his foot down on was “if she sends you a voice message. Don’t. Fucking. Open. It. In. Public” well that just seems weird now doesn’t it? No lil Mrs price was a lil tease and now she has more men to mess with????

- Only a week or so in to this whole thing Johnny was the first to get one and did he forget or just choose to ignore Price’s rule? The world may never know but he pressed play (full volume bc men always have their volume up for no reason) and the sweet sounds of you moaning his name played so fucking loud in the grocery store. The rest of the boys made the same mistake. Price tried to warn them, he really did.

[sigh-tofm]

when they come home drunk…

… price

- thinks it’s important that he loudly tells you he’s married while you steady him upstairs to bed. points to his ring incessantly, slurs on and on about his perfect wonderful wife with the big ass and soft tummy. you roll your eyes and can’t help but smile when he doesn’t let you hold on to his arm to support him. something about protecting his virtue for his wife, as if you’re not standing right beside him. proceeds to lock you out of your own bedroom when you finally get upstairs, telling you his wife will be home soon so he can’t have a strange woman in their bedroom (but still remarks on your wonderful ass). you decide it’s too early in the morning to persuade your drunk husband to let you in, so you go down to sleep on the couch. you wake up with price sleeping soundly on the floor beside you, having gone to find his wife when she never showed up in his bed the night before.

… kyle

- gets sappy and apologises for being away. loses all concept of time when he’s drunk, says he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to be away so long, he was thinking of you the whole time, the guys pulled him along and he couldn’t say no. while he’s on his knees at your feet, pressing his face to your thighs and mumbling into your marbled skin, almost making you lose your balance with his fervent apologies, you gently remind him that you were the one who made him go out with the boys because he needed to unwind after a stressful weekend of combat drills, and that he had left with them less than two hours ago. he refuses to hear and only hugs your thighs closer, so much so that you have to support yourself on the wall. turns out all he needed to relax was you.

… johnny

- is horny. almost starts drooling when he eyes you at the top of the stairs, after struggling to close the entrance door for a good minute, causing you to investigate what made all the noise. gets a wild look in his eyes when he sees you in just his t-shirt and makes you scream and giggle as he chases you back up the stairs and to the bedroom. being absolutely shitfaced, he has the coordination of a tranquillised moose and stumbles head over heels across the floor, catches his foot on the doorway and narrowly misses the edge of the dresser with his head as he falls. still, his little soldier is courageously tenting his pants when you worriedly lean over him and he gets a good look right into the collar of your shirt.

… simon

- is emotional and clingy. can’t get enough of you, won’t leave you alone. you can’t make out half his words when he’s had this much to drink (and the mancunian in him breaks out too, making it ever harder to make out the words), but you play along, smile and nod and let him sit on the closed toilet seat and talk and talk while you do your night routine in front of the mirror. so lucky to have you, luv. how could’a lug like me get a pretty one like you, luv. his melancholy statements of love become comfortable background noise for you as you remove your makeup and apply moisturiser. lets you wash the sweat and grime of the day off his face with a washcloth, closes his eyes while you massage your floral-scented moisturiser into his skin, never once stopping his little speech. ambles after you out of the bathroom, holding on to the hem of your shirt, when you’re all finished and ready for bed. his devoted mutters only let up when be falls asleep next to you.