#kyle thoughts

[bi-writes]

Thinking about going into labor while your partner is on the way somewhere unimportant, who refuses to come home to help you. And instead of being alone and scared, you hang up and call up one of your childhood friends everyone thought you'd wind up with. Kyle shows up at your door, furious but does his best to hide it, and helps you through it all. Next day the father of your child has the audacity to show up like nothing is wrong to see Kyle holding your baby so you can take a well deserved nap.

he picks up on the third ring. you tremble, gripping the edge of the porcelain tub. when you finally hear his voice, just the sound of him soothes your beating heart, just a little.

"'ello, love."

"kyle?" you sniffle. his background quiets a bit. you hear a door close, and then he's a bit louder.

"hey, love. what's wrong? you sound upset."

"my water broke," you hiccup. "a-and i...i was in the bath...i-i..." you close your eyes. "i can't get out of the tub."

"jesus fucking christ." you whimper, but kyle just hums. "not you, baby. hey, you just relax, alright? you said you were in the bath. just relax, and i'll be there soon."

"kyle--"

"don't be scared," kyle chuckles, and you whine a little. "hey, you're gonna have a baby. you've been waiting for this, yeah? haven't you?"

"y-yeah..."

"aren't you excited? you always tell me how much you can't wait, right?"

"yeah..."

"don't be scared," kyle repeats. "you just relax. be happy. she's coming today!"

you smile, wiping your face a little, and when kyle hears your giggle, he sighs.

"good girl. you sit tight."

so you do. you lean against the side of the tub, and you rest in the warm water as you stare at your phone screen.

he won't answer the phone. he hasn't read your texts. he's not coming.

you hear the front door open and close, and then there's a gentle knock on the bathroom door. when kyle comes in, you try to cover up, moving your hands over your tits, embarrassed, but kyle just goes to look for a clean towel to help you out.

"it's okay, love, i won't look," kyle tells you. he smiles at you, cupping your face gently, and you look into his dark eyes. "you look so pretty. you're glowin', y'know that?" you smile through gentle tears, putting a hand over your belly, and you try to move, but it's no use. kyle drops the towel, kneeling, and you shake your head.

"i-i can't get out--" you gasp, and kyle rolls up his sleeves over his thick forearms, putting the towel over his shoulder before he reaches for you.

"it's alright. i'll get you out. i'll try not to look, okay?"

"i'm so embarrassed...i'm so sorry, kyle..." you sniffle.

"don't apologize, love. i got it. give me your hands, put 'em around me."

you lift up your wet arms, wrapping them around his neck. you press your chest against his, and he picks you up as you stand, helping you to your feet. as you cup your belly, he wraps the towel around you, covering you, and then he holds your hand as you step out of the tub.

"alright. now where's your bag, darling?"

kyle grabs your bag and supplies as you get dressed in your room. as you pull your socks on, kyle comes up behind you, smoothing your hair down your back before he starts to braid it. he used to braid your hair all the time when you were kids--he always said he wanted to practice for his sisters.

"you got the car seat, kyle?" you ask as he holds your hand, and he nods.

"mhm. in the car already."

"a-and the diaper bag?"

"in the boot."

"my extra clothes? and my...my stuff?"

"mhm. i got it, love. and whatever you forgot, i'll get it for you. alright, up, buckle in, that's a girl."

he holds your hand the entire way. you groan softly when a particularly painful contraction hits you, but when you squeeze kyle's hand, all he does is squeeze back. you take deep breaths, leaning your head back, and he hums.

"you're doing so well, love. so well."

"why..." your eyes water. you squeeze his hand again, and when you look down, your vision is blurry from your tears. "why didn't he answer? w-why...why doesn't he...w-why would he..."

"don't worry your pretty head about tha', love," kyle interrupts you gently. "only thing you need to worry about is you and her. i got it."

"o-okay."

she's beautiful. she looks more like you than her father, and kyle counts that blessing. she's got your eyes, your nose, your hair. her cheeks belong to her father, but she might as well be your twin, and when kyle takes her from you later that night, rocking her gently, he can really see up close how much she looks like you.

in the middle of the night, kyle holds your hand as you get up to go to the bathroom. your entire body is tender and sluggish, but kyle keeps you upright as you walk, kissing your head gently as he helps you take a seat on the toilet.

he even gets your underwear set up for you, with the big pad and everything, and he helps you step into it and slips them up and over your hips. you're a tearful mess as he does this, but kyle just presses his forehead against yours.

the look in his eyes, you will never forget it. the intensity. the commitment. the stability. every time you pick up the phone, kyle answers, and sometimes he's thousands of miles away. your own boyfriend can't even have the decency to answer when you're nine months pregnant--what did he fucking think the call was going to be about?

back in your room, kyle fits into the bed with you. he lets your rest your head on his chest, and when you ask him if he's going to go home, he tells you this is close enough.

in the morning, kyle's sitting outside your room with the baby. he's holding her, touching her little nose, letting you sleep in. you had a rough night, and when he found you still with your eyes closed that morning, he figured he would let you keep sleeping, just for an extra hour or so.

you deserve it.

"is that her?"

kyle's head turns with a snap. standing there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, is your pathetic excuse of a boyfriend. not man enough to answer the phone when you most needed him, not strong enough to do the right thing and marry you, and not wise enough to realize all he had to do was take care of you, and the world would be right again. you're not greedy. you don't ask for anything. all you want is to love and be loved, and kyle doesn't think that's too much to ask for, kyle thinks you're one of the most selfless women he's ever known, so why does this fucking bastard of a man get to call himself this girl's father?

kyle looks back down, fixing the blanket over your daughter's neck carefully. he thinks he did pretty good swaddling her this time, but you might have an opinion on it.

"i'm gonna say somethin', mate," kyle says lowly. "'n after i say it, y'r gonna do some thinking, real thinking."

he laughs a little, shaking his head.

"why don't you give me my baby, and get the fuck outta 'ere?"

kyle looks up and snickers, shaking his head. he gets a better grip on your daughter, sitting back, and he fixes your ex with a sinister smile.

"and what if i don't? you gonna take her from me?" kyle chuckles. "i'd love to see you try."

he stands, raising a brow.

"listen here, and listen close." kyle takes a step closer to him. "you're a right pile of shit comin' here thinking that you can just waltz right in and be daddy of the year, alright? what kind of man are you, eh? your girl in need, callin' you, and you don't even have the fuckin' balls to answer her? take a good look at your kid, mate, cause it's the last time you're ever gonna see her."

"no, i have the right--"

"to fuck right off," kyle snaps. "if i see you near her or her daughter ever again, i'll find you, and i'll make it worth your while, mate. make you feel real sorry finally, y'hear me? 'n when i take her back home, all of your junk better be out the flat. otherwise, i'll fucking burn it."

"kyle?"

your voice pulls him away. kyle adjusts the baby in his arm, going back inside, and he shuts the door behind him, finding your eyes. you reach for the baby, arms outstretched, and kyle easily sets her down in them, watching as you cradle the tiny thing into the crook of your neck and stroke the back of her neck.

the nurses come in and drop off a few papers. one stops, looking at kyle, giving him a big smile.

"congratulations," she tells him, and he smiles back at her. she takes a seat next to him, holding out a clipboard. "do you think i could get a few details? i just need to know mum's name, baby's name--"

kyle gives it to her. your birthplace. your birthday. your name. your baby's name. then she flips a paper over, putting her pen down.

"and dad's name?" she asks.

kyle sighs, leaning back in his chair. they don't give out birth certificates right away. you have to request it. you won't find out, not just yet, maybe he'll even pick it up for you. you'll be much too busy being mummy dearest.

"kyle," he tells her, flashing her that big smile. she blushes a little, writing it down. "kyle garrick."

he looks back at where you are, your eyes on him. you smile shyly when your eyes meet, and kyle leaves the nurse to come up to you and drape a hand behind your head. he strokes along your hair gently, thumbing at your temple.

"i heard you outside, kyle."

"did you?"

"and i heard you just now."

"mm."

you blink, reaching for the edge of his shirt, and you pull him down, further, until his face is nearly against yours.

"i guess i shouldn't be surprised," you say softly, reaching up to smooth a a few knuckles down his cheek. he leans into it, licking his lips, and you bite your lip. "you've always had a habit of...taking what doesn't belong to you, huh?"

kyle laughs. always the pretty boy, ever since you were little. one smile from him--kyle could get away with anything. anything at all.

"who says you don't belong to me?"

[saint-ajax]

when you married ghost , it's automatic that you're married to the rest. that's why they call it one for one. hubby's friend comes over with just you in your robe, nude underneath, and price needs a little taste? no problem captain hubby, lieutenant's consent and yours is given. soap is drunk and needs help with his boner? baby, im here, it's okay. you assure him while simon watch you two proudly. while, kyle, his big respect to the both of you hindrances his needs. simon appreciates that, big time. at the same time, we're family here sergeant. you nod and brush your palm on top kyle's lap to gently assure him as you agree with simon, yes, that's right. let me help you, sweety.

it's just something to love about the concept of your beefy husband casually fucking you whenever he wants, and letting other gigantic men who are very close to him, share you.

[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.

[temeyes]

hair pulling (extra under the cut!)

you brought this to yourself, soap...

[majinbangus]

Your man coming home from a particularly tough deployment to find you nursing a concussion with a black eye and broken arm, looking a little worse for wear. His mind immediately assumes the worst, and when he asks darkly, "who did this to you?" ready to raise hell upon who dared hurt his love, you grin sheepishly at him and confess, "I slipped in the tub."

He stares blankly at you for a solid ten seconds before dropping his chin to his chest, shaking his head in fond exasperation before looking back up at you, sighing with a hint of judgey adoration, "Bloody hell, dove, I'm gone for one month and you're gettin' up to all sorts of trouble."

You try to protest only for him to smother it with his lips, chuckling into your mouth, "You just wanted an excuse for me to take care of you, is that it? Don't deny it, you've always been a crafty one, mischief."

You crinkle your nose at the nickname, which he kisses in response, making your cheeks heat. He's probably gonna 'punish' you when you're better for your 'devious plan', but that's okay because he'll take good care to nurse you back to health (with a good dose of ribbing for slipping in the tub because come on. Of course, you'd injure yourself that way, he's not gonna let you live this down. He's got himself a clumsy one, huh?

... however, despite all the teasing and goodnatured jabs, you notice the antislip mat placed in the tub a day later, a warmth blooming in your chest.

You got yourself a good one, huh?)

[showyoumyfavoriteobsession]

Dale Cooper in 1x07 / 1x08

[jinmepark]

Okay I tried too

[sh4rkkks]

𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 ✵

𝐓𝐰: 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡.

𝐀𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𖧐

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈

being married to Simon was an absolute cakewalk when it came to sex. you needed something quick? you're in luck because he's already hard. it’s your world, he’s just living in it. yet on occasion, you’re greeted by the reality that Simon can get disgusting when it comes to you.

you’re laying on the couch with him, wrapped up in his arms as the two of you watch a movie. you’re laying between his legs, warm flesh enveloping you beneath the soft blanket you’re tucked beneath.

“so pretty, babygirl,” his voice is gruff against the side of your head, lips pressed against your hair. his large hands cover your skin, the right resting on your inner thigh and the left holding one of your tits. his left hand squeezes and massages the flesh through your shirt, absentmindedly smushing it between his palm and your chest.

he’s completely entranced by you, paying no mind to the movie you picked for the night. his lips trail a hot path across your shoulder, nose pushing the collar aside to grant himself better access to your supple skin. you giggle as he sweeps his mouth over the ticklish junction of your neck. his right hand squeezes the flesh of your thigh, rubbing up and down the skin.

“simon..”

“shh, baby, m’tryna watch the movie.”

his hand runs up your thigh, large palm dragging over your clothed cunt. he moves his hand up and down in a rhythmic motion, grunting in approval when he feels your warmth seeping through the soft cotton shorts. one of his thick digits pushes the fabric aside. his middle finger runs down the slit of your pussy, pressing the fabric of your panties into your lower lips.

your attention is understandably no longer on the movie, nails digging into the flesh of his thighs.

“perfect fuckin’ pussy…” he mumbles to himself, inhaling against your neck. your head grows dizzy as he pushes his finger against your entrance, your underwear growing slick pressing to your hole.

“g’nna touch it, yeah?” it’s less of a question and more of a statement, his palm moving to press on your abdomen. large fingers shove at the hem of your clothes, dipping beneath the elastic material. “shit, lovie. smells so fucking good.” you let out a squeaky sound as his fingers brush over your clit, his index giving it a couple soft taps that have you squirming. his left hand moves from your chest, roaming up your throat before holding your jaw. “quiet. can’t hear the damn movie.”

you’re a goner, soft pleas coming from your mouth before he ultimately shuts you up. two of his fingers push past your lips, the heel of his hand pressing against your chin as he shushes you again. his hand between your legs tugs off your shorts and underwear, propping your legs up to give himself unrestricted access to your sensitive skin. you jolt as he gives your pussy a soft smack, his fingers flattening against the lips. “you like that, baby? hm?” you’re unable to respond, mumbling around his fingers before he shoves another one inside your mouth. you gag, hands reaching up to claw at his wrist. he doesn’t give, instead punishing your action with another soft smack.

“wanna play with this pretty cunt ‘nd you’re making it hard to.”you moan around his fingers the second he starts to roll your clit, the pad of his index sending a jolt through your body. he applies firm pressure in warning, silently telling you to behave if you want to even consider an orgasm. he moved his fingers up and down the slit of your pussy, spreading your slick around before he gives you another soft smack. this one is harder, the sticky juices enticing his reaction. “feels good, huh?” his tone is teasing, thick accent muffled by your throat.

you nod, babbling around his fingers. you’re unable to move, legs trembling as he teases your sensitive skin. “what do you want? want me to finger this pretty little hole?” his fingers circle your entrance, denying you of any stimulation. he smiles when you respond, an inaudible sound vibrating around his fingers. “take that as a yes.” his teeth nip at your neck, causing you to arch back into him with a yelp. he takes the opportunity to shove a finger inside your weeping hole, pumping it in and out slowly.

he pulls his fingers from your mouth, relishing in the string of spit that connects from your lips and his digits. “so pretty.” he praises, large hand wrapping around your jaw and smearing your spit along your skin. he adds a second finger to your hole, drawing a moan from your—now free—mouth. “simon!” you yelp, the stimulation making your body vibrate with need. “my girls getting greedy. c’mon babydoll, let me hear how much you need me.” his words egg you on, soft pleas and whines falling from your lips. the sound of the movie is muffled by the squelching of your cunt, his fingers driving hard and deep into your entrance.

his hand around your face moves to your hair, tugging your head back. he takes advantage of your gaping mouth, a fat glob of spit falling from his lips and onto your tongue. he seals it with a bruising kiss, tongue sliding against yours. “g’nna cum for me? fucking squeeze my fingers.” he grunts against your lips, another wad of spit falling onto your lips as he pulls away. his tongue runs over the puffy skin, dragging his spit across your lips and cheeks.

he absolutely tugs your orgasm from you, your thighs trembling as he finger- fucks your soft pussy. the second you begin to come, he pulls his fingers out, moving to smack your clit. tears form in your eyes at the sting, soft cry’s falling from your spit slick lips. “c’mon, babygirl.” he doesn’t stop rubbing your pussy until you’ve fully subsided, his hand trailing up to your inner thigh. he rubs in a soothing manner, leaving wet kisses along your jaw.

you pant, your body turned to mush in his arms. once your heart rate has returned to normal, he’s pressing you into the couch cushions and fucking you until you squirt all over him.

𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝, 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝!!! 𝐝𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐨𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲, 𝐢’𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.

[yenhan]

TF141 & International student neighbor on the verge of a crisis

Next - Masterlist

Synopsis: a tiny, itty bitty breakdown.

You didn’t cry when you moved into your flat. A few tears spilled when the kettle refused to boil, and the radiator wheezed like it was dying, but that hardly counted. You weren’t this close to a soul-shattering mental breakdown in four different languages and two whole personalities. Nope. That was just being a successful woman, completely in control of her life. You lived in a flat that could be described as vintage, or one good gust from collapsing, as your best friend kindly put it when you called. It had four walls, a roof, and the washing machine only flooded the kitchen every other week. It wasn’t the worst deal in the world. At least you didn't have spiders building their little lego-web houses on the ceiling. That would be disgusting.

However, you spent your first night on the couch wrapped in every hoodie you owned, scrolling through your phone with the Wi-Fi from the library nearby that cut out if you breathed wrong, wondering what the hell you’d gotten yourself into.

The move to England had been impulsive, at least that’s what your parents said. “You’re barely out of high school, sweetheart. Isn't it too soon?” But you wanted to prove you could do it; be independent, get a degree, build a career. Whatever that meant. You didn’t know yet. Those stupid tik toks about girlbossing your way through life didn’t help much, either. Classes were hard. Work was harder. You cleaned tables at a café full of old ladies who judged your every move, then crammed lectures and assignments into your evenings, falling asleep to the sound of cats screeching in the alley outside your window.

And then there were your neighbors.

The first time you saw them, your eyeballs nearly popped out. Four men who looked like they’d walked out of an action movie trailer. Broad shoulders, broader chests, paired with alertness that made you sit up straighter when they walked by. Pavlov's a bitch. One of them wore a beanie and had a beard that probably intimidated children. Or made them laugh, it depends on who you ask. You bet he worked as Santa Claus during Christmas time, that beard would do wonders. One limped slightly but moved like he’d break into a sprint at the slightest excuse, he also had a nasty scar on his head. One always had his baseball hat up and gentle eyes. And the last one… he wore sunglasses even on cloudy days and didn’t speak unless he was being sentenced to death. You nicknamed them The Lads before you even learned their names. It was honestly a really bad attempt at copying the British accent, a silly little inside joke meant only for yourself.

It was the limp that pulled you into their circle. Soap. His real name was Johnny, but everyone called him that. Something had happened to him. Not a car crash kind of injury, and surely not a oops-I-got-a-paper-cut issue. Something else. A kind of hurt that reeked of bloodshed and gunfire. He looked so cheerful despite it all... you envied his lack of self-restraint. He helped you carry a box of books up the stairs when you dropped it.

"You don’t look like a librarian." You tried to break the ice.

He grinned. “Cheers, lass. Ye don’t look like yer old enough to be living alone.”

“Rude,” you replied, winded. “But fair.” You became something like their mascot after that. Or a stray pup they all silently agreed to look after.

Price knocked on your door the night your power went out. Just handed you a flashlight and an extra blanket and left, didn’t even wait for a thank you. Gaz noticed your bike had a flat and fixed it without a word. Ghost, well, Ghost scared you a little. A lot. But you never said it to his face. It wouldn't be polite, would it?

You weren’t supposed to become attached to them. They were four grown men with lives and a bond so deep you couldn’t begin to understand. And you? You were just the girl next door. Sweet, a little clueless, a little cheeky, and hanging on by a thread.

You were tired all the time. Tired of pretending you were having the time of your life when really, you felt like you were slowly crumbling. Like the version of yourself that had boarded that plane so full of hope and plans had somehow gotten lost between Heathrow and the broken laundromat on the corner. How could you tell your mum you were regretting everything? How could you face your brother and say that the big sister he looked up to was just a loser? The weather was hell 365 days out of 365, if someone offered you another fish and chips dish you'd crash out, and you were likely forgetting all of the damned languages you spoke because of the humidity eating your brain cells.

Wasn't youth supposed to be the best time of your life? This was the part where you found yourself and laughed and made memories you’d cherish forever... Seriously, what the heck were you doing? You felt cold and alone. Ate one-pound meals at the measly convenience store run by Aunt Wang and listened to her ranting in Mandarin Chinese. What an exciting existence. How dignified.

Until the night you cried in the stairwell. You’d just finished a shift where someone called you incompetent because you didn’t know what a “flat white” was supposed to taste like. Your exam results had come back worse than expected. And your period had started early, like the universe had decided to kick you where the sun doesn't shine while you were already down. Bollocks, Simon's voice rang in your mind. You were curled up by the railing, the hoodie laid over your knees, when the door opened. Boots. Heavy ones. Speaking of the devil, Ghost’s voice scared the shit out of you. “Bad day?”

You sniffled, eyeing him up and down. “No, just peachy. Rainbows and all that.”

“Bollocks." He countered timely. You giggled. It was ridiculous and extremely easy to make your day better. Any of them could with just a snap of fingers. "I'm telling Price y'were here cryin' like a baby."

"Oh, shut it. I'll have you know some of us have beating hearts under our ribcage, Mr. Creep-a-lot."

"Oi, yer fifteen years too young t'make fun o'me."

Perhaps you did have one good thing in your hands, wasting it would be a shame.

[sir-heichou-smith]

Hear me out...

141 getting back from deployment and you pick them up in Price's old pickup.

You pull up to personnel quarters, barely putting her in park before leaping out of the vehicle. The boys are waiting outside with a small ruck each, covered in bruises and bandages from their latest op.

Johnny gets to you first. Picking you up and spinning you around, smiling and laughing and full of grateful kisses. "Missed you so much bonnie," he says with a cheese grin.

You turn your head to look at Gaz and Price, pulling out of the Scot's squeeze to embrace the other two men. You feel a pair of eyes on you as your shirt rides up while in their arms.

Simon had taken the bags and stuffed them into the bed before waiting patiently (as a lethal sniper does) for his turn to get his hands on you.

Except, he takes one look at Price and the older man already knows what's about to take place in the back of his truck. He sneaks the keys from your grip, too distracted by your other boys to notice.

Except you very much notice when you're hauled into the small rear seats. Simon and Johnny crawling in after you. Price takes up the driver seat and Kyle sits to his right in the passenger.

It's a tight squeeze with the two massive men on either side of you. Simon remedies that by having you straddling his lap, speared on his thick cock; Johnny already has his fatigues loose around his hips, palming himself through his briefs.

"S'alright birdie, we're here now. Gonna take such good care a ya." Scarred hands grip your bare ass and squeeze hard enough to leave red marks and nail indents.

Johnny takes your right hand and places it on his crotch, rutting up into your touch like a desperate horn dog. "Cannae wait to get ya home, lass. Gonna make ye feel so good."

He takes you by the back of the neck, a bit of hair in his grip, and gently leans you back so your shoulders rest on their legs pressed together beneath you, and your head sits perched on the console in the middle of the two men up front. Price throws his arm around your face, elbow securing your head so it doesn't move. The smell of sweat and deodorant and something that's just Price fills your nose, and makes you clench your cunt harder around Ghost's cock.

As your back is forced into a deep arch, you do your best to bounce on the veiny cock stuffing your tight little cunt, but between Johnny's fingers rubbing light circles on your clit, the smell of Price and his sweat, and Simon jamming into that gooey spot inside do you in quick.

You swear you throw your back out with how hard you come, seeing stars and biting into the meaty arm caging your head in.

Johnny's the first to follow after you, groaning desperately with a skeleton clad hand wrapped around his throbbing length, and then it's Simon, not bothering to pull out so you get flooded with his hot, creamy seed.

Price lets up on his arm wrapped around you, and instantly you're pulled forward into strong arms. You couldn't really tell whose hands belonged to who, deep voices cooing into your ears and lips kissing all over your neck and face and shoulders.

"Don't think we're finished with you yet, dove. Once we get home, you're not leaving that bed til we say so." Price's voice comes from up front, strained and a bit breathless if Kyle's hand reaching over into his pants says anything at all.

Oh yeah. You're in for a long, strenuous, very much so worth it reunion. The massages and kisses and warm tea after will make up for it, you're sure.

[bi-writes]

Horny ideas? What about the 141 reaction to their girl wanting to film them having sex? Like it's the first time and she's the one to bring up recording them. "I want something while you're away..." 🥺

ok ok ok (18+, f!reader)

gaz — super into it. he's all smiles, all giddy, and he's warm all over thinking about it. knows the perfect angle, too. he props up a pillow at the end of the bed and lays the phone there. he throws your legs up and presses your thighs down, and gaz is buzzing when he checks the footage after. it's just the perfect shot of his cock ruining you. the smack of your skin is so nasty, and gaz finds himself already cupping under his cock when there's an insane shot of him pulling out, globs of his cum spilling out of you. oh, but no, that's not good enough, we need another angle. he loves the POV shots the most, where all the focus is on you. he loves panning from your swollen pussy to your bouncing tits all the way to your open mouth, and he loves it even more when he moves the camera closer to get a shot of you sucking on his fingers all wet and heavy. pretty, pretty, pretty...

soap — 100% down, but he's so bad at it :( you're always so wet and whiny when you fuck. you can't help it — johnny is so hot, and you can't get enough of him. he makes you downright stupid when he's inside of you, so you relied on him to film everything, but he's so bad. the camera is shaking as he tries to film, and you get motion sickness watching it back. the audio is quite nice—johnny's grunts are hot, but you really wanted more footage of him absolutely splitting you. the best you got was a blurry shot of your tits when johnny spit on them to keep you crying. oh well, maybe next time :(

price — he's old-fashioned, he doesn't get it. he has a couple polaroids of you back in his locker, and that is always good enough to get him off when he's away from you. you're not even fully naked in those pictures, and he's cumming across his stomach just fine, so he finds it really odd that you want to film. he doesn't say no, but you can tell he finds it strange, so you simply point the phone between your thighs and bring his hand between your legs. john stares over your shoulder into the phone as he watches his own fingers slip inside of you. he leans in a little, watching, licking his lips as he finds it mesmerizing to watch you become wetter and wetter and wetter. soon, it's a wet slap of his palm against your pussy, and you're crying with relief as you come, flooding his hand and wrist and crying through the overstimulation. the audio alone is enough for john to forward it to himself for later use.

ghost — absolutely not into it at first. he is anti-photo. he has no photos of himself at all, and he never takes any, and he's always refused to be in pictures, so the idea of being filmed in one of the most vulnerable places makes him uncomfortable. you totally go with it, very supportive, but then ghost offers a compromise at your soft angel face—he can't be the feature. so there you are, reverse cowgirl, slowly lowering yourself onto your boyfriend's cock with relative ease. it still takes a lot to fuck simon, even now, but once you're finally seated, you whine with relief at the stretch. then you go for it. you make a show of fucking big bad lieutenant riley, and simon has one hand on your ass and the other with a fixed hand on your phone. over and over and over again, your hips come down, fucking down onto simon within an inch of your life, and simon can't keep his mouth shut. he keeps saying your name and groaning, and he's so vocal, you're losing your mind. the sight of you leaning forward after you've come, cum dribbling down as his cock glistens in the frame, is one of the most insane videos he's ever seen. my pretty, pretty bird.

[honeyhobbs]

idk how Soap can focus on the mission....

[charliemwrites]

Omegas are the best for the military. Everyone knows that, it’s just common sense.

Omegas are notoriously level-headed and calm, protective without the tendency towards aggression and territorial possessiveness that characterizes their Alpha counterparts. They’re cooperative and adaptable, with heightened senses that at one evolutionary time kept them safe from rabid Alphas.

Now, it’s best suited to sniffing out potential threats, communicating sub-vocally, and noticing the smallest changes in their environment. The military finds them much more economical for combat, special ops, and even espionage compared to Alphas, who are pheromone sensitive, hard-headed, and generally indelicate.

That said, they’re not without their uses. Alphas tend to be lean, fast, and vicious. That aggression makes them both sword and shield in a fight, filing their sense of pain and fatigue down to almost nothing until the threat is neutralized.

Still, having a full-time Alpha in a squad isn’t a necessity except in special circumstances.

Per usual, Task Force 141 is special circumstances.

Four specialist Omegas with a metric ton of trauma per team member has the unfortunate consequence of hormonal imbalance. One thing feeds into another, a heat is put on hold for a mission because they can’t spare the manpower - it stacks and stacks and stacks until sleep is scarce and their usually well-maintained instincts are bursting at the seams. Compound that with the near loss of one of their team members…

The new Alpha is already there when the team returns from their latest assignment.

Laswell is waiting on the tarmac and an operative in black gear is standing a polite distance (plus one step more) from her elbow. Well within peripheral, but deferent. Their hands are clasped behind their back, shoulders straight but loose.

As TF141 approaches, Price expects the Alpha pheromones to waft his way any moment. It’s normal, expected even. A new environment, meeting strange Omegas, Alphas usually burn through their neutralizers quickly. Perhaps a vestigial instinct to carve a space for themselves in the world. Not necessarily their fault, but it happens.

Price is surprised that he smells nothing from the Alpha at all. Just the scents of detergent and soap, clean and standard. A quick glance at Simon confirms their most-sensitive nose doesn’t detect anything either.

Laswell introduces them, an Alpha that she’s personally worked with before and can verify is solid both on and off the field.

The Alpha’s muzzle is heavy duty but long-wear design. Hard-case and rigid instead of the more popular soft and flexible ones. Cushioned but firm at the bridge of the nose, chin, and corners of the jaw. Buckled tight at the back of the head, steel grid pattern across the front.

Price doesn’t arch his eyebrows at it but it’s a near thing.

They duck their head in greeting when Laswell introduces them as Saint, eyes flicking up briefly to each team member, eye-shine reflecting green in the bright runway lights.

Soap whistles, impressed.

“Yer a big ‘un, tha’s fer damn sure. Didnae ken they make ‘em like ye,” he drawls. Ghost cuffs him upside the head, reminding him to behave.

Saint blinks and doesn’t say anything. Curious.

“Let’s do proper introductions inside,” Price decides.

It goes much the same way in the 141’s den as it did out on the tarmac. Saint stands quiet and still while the Omegas take their turns.

There’s no scent to familiarize themselves with, so it’s mostly offering theirs to the Alpha. Except Saint doesn’t duck down to the neck Gaz offers. Instead, they pluck up his hand and bring his wrist to their muzzle. Inhale so quietly that only the swell of their chest indicates that they’re breathing him in.

They chuff softly, hold so loose that Gaz’s hand nearly drops from theirs. It’s approval, it can’t be anything else, but it sounds so… detached.

Still, Gaz chuffs in return, and makes way for the others. Saint does the same to Soap and by the time Simon steps up, he’s already tugging his sleeve up and his glove down.

Simon, to his own surprise, receives the same polite huff as the two sergeants. Most Alphas have found his direct scent to be unpleasant - too sharp and savory, bordering on Alpha. But Saint doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

When it’s finally Price’s turn, the only difference is that Saint swipes their own wrist along his. Scent claim. Not marking the 141 as theirs, but rather Saint as belonging with them.

Laswell, suspiciously amused, takes her leave soon after.

The 141 has an Alpha. A permanent one.

Living with an Alpha would have been a learning curve on its own. Living with SAINT is something else entirely.

For one, they apply clinical-strength neutralizer religiously. They have spares stashed everywhere. In their go-bag, their combat gear, the den, the lockers - even one in Price’s office. It’s better than the ones with fragrance, but if not for their ever-present muzzle, no one would be able to tell that they’re an Alpha.

And speaking of the muzzle.

It goes beyond common courtesy and public conduct. Even in the den, they keep the thing tightly pressed to their face, and don’t remove it for anything. They eat in their room and drink through straws when necessary.

When Price tells them that the team wouldn’t mind if they used a bite guard in the den, they just chuff softly and brush a hand along his shoulder. The muzzle stayed.

It’s not to say they don’t seem comfortable. Day by day, little signs of trust and ease seep into their Alpha’s mannerisms if they know where to look for it. A brush of skin here, a sub-vocal purr there. Spending hours upon hours in the den, available for any of the Omegas to sit with or cuddle or chat to. As much as teammate as an Alpha in the traditional sense.

It doesn’t take Soap and Gaz long at all to start hanging all over them, but Saint takes it with all the patience of their namesake. Price finds Soap lounging in their lap most times that they’re sitting, or leaning hard into their side while they watch recruits.

The muzzle is a no-touch zone, but they don’t get even growl the first time Soap discovers that. They just redirect him with a quiet click of their tongue, and let him nuzzle in when he apologizes.

Gaz is hardly any better, scent marking Saint like some bad Alpha stereotype. Poor thing goes around smelling overwhelmingly of bergamot and honey sometimes, but they never mind, never stop him from pressing his face to their chest or their back or even into their hands. Rubbing his face over any bit of skin or fabric available, even their jugular, despite the vulnerability of such a spot.

Still, Saint is aloof.

They’re perfectly responsive to their Omegas, head tilting at the slightest vocalization, quick to offer physical comfort when asked. They hardly ever seek it out for themself though, and show none of the near-obsessive behaviors associated with even the most mild of Alphas on the spectrum.

“I dinnae think Alpha likes us,” Soap whines one evening.

Saint is eating in their room, leaving the Omegas to a cuddle pile while they wait for their return.

He’s been lamenting it for a while now, repressing the rejected pang in his gut any time Saint doesn’t vocalize back, or reach for them first.

They work out in the Alpha-Only gym on base and do their laundry in the designated Alpha wash. Neither of those are regulations, it’s a choice they make. And it hurts a bit.

Saint is sweet, but their politeness goes past the point of old-fashioned.

“Course they do,” Simon grunts, dismissive. “They probably like us too much.”

“How do you reckon?” Gaz asks.

“Alpha didn’ go t’ eat ‘til we were all fed,” he replies, shrugging.

And it’s true. Saint doesn’t collect a scrap of nutrition until every one of their Omegas has had something to eat. Even Price, stubborn and work-focused as he can be, is gently urged to eat before Saint fills their own belly.

It doesn’t stop there.

Saint is always the last one on or off a transport, and quick to notice if any of them are injured. They’re always present around large groups of other Alphas, especially recruits.

The sheer amount of time they spend available is unusual, preferring the den to rest in their off hours - even sleeping there on occasion.

Then Gaz’s heat is due. A week out and he’s already feeling it descending - it’s been well over six months since his last one. His skin feels itchy, his senses on overdrive. Thirsty and hungry and generally feeling restless beneath the skin.

“Alpha,” he calls.

Saint’s eyes are on him instantly, one-sided conversation with some other, non-Pack Omega forgotten. Gaz purrs, pleased.

“I want something of yours.”

They tilt their head, a silent question.

“A shirt or something,” he specifies.

And something in their gaze flickers. Gaz isn’t sure what it means, but it definitely looks positive.

Saint brings him something better - a blanket. It’s intimate; it’s perfect. It smells incredible, if… oddly faded. From his most reserved Pack member, it means the world.

Gaz balls himself up with it in the nest he assembles over the next day and a half, until he wakes up one morning with the knowledge that his heat will l well and truly have taken hold before midday.

He puts in his notice and calls his Pack.

Saint is the last to enter his barrack, a huge bag of supplies in their arms. Not just for Gaz, but for the rest of them. No one will be leaving unless duty calls.

And it’s perfect. The best heat Gaz has ever had. Surrounded by Pack and protected by his Alpha, who stays on watch while Price and Ghost and Soap fuck him through the dregs of preheat and well into Heat proper.

Half of him purrs at his Alpha’s dedication to protecting them, to providing for them. The other half protests the Alpha’s attention being anywhere but on him.

“Alpha,” he calls. And when that only earns him Saint’s eyes and not his affection, he barks, sharper, “Alpha.”

They come to him instantly, settled in between his legs, smooth their thumbs along the glands at the base of his neck. He curls into them trilling and chirping and needing more than just social acceptability right now.

And finally, finally, a low rumble sounds through his Alpha’s chest. It’s deep and rich, hits the subharmonics in a way that has all the Omegas going still and quiet. Their voice purrs out a moment later, practically vibrating their skulls.

“Easy, Omega.”

Gaz bares his neck, whispering, “Saint.”

They lean in, breathing loud and deep, warm hands soothing an ache in his lower back. “I’m here, Kyle.”

They fuck well into sundown, Kyle so wound up that he can’t bear to be parted from Saint to even let them breathe. Any space between them is whined or growled or bitten out of existence, the ever-indulgent Alpha soothing their Omega with their body, with the newly discovered vocalizations that he just can’t get enough of.

Ghost and Price have to feed and hydrate him between rounds, working together to manage his clingy limbs and careless (but sharp) teeth. In the meantime, Soap helps to do the same for Saint, who is far more cooperative.

“How’re you still goin’?” Soap wonders, amazed, slipping bites of granola between the bars of their muzzle. Saint is sitting upright with Gaz collected against their chest, sweaty but already breathing evenly again.

Saint licks a bit of chocolate off their lip and meets his eyes easy as anything, serene for how blown out their pupils are.

“I’m your Alpha. I go until you need me to stop.”

Which just sets them all off, each taking (needing) a turn with their Alpha.

By then, their neutralizer has begun to wear off, friction and sweat and fabric thinning the chemical deodorant to nothing. The scent is intoxicating, unlike anything any of them have ever smelled before. It’s overwhelmingly Alpha, overwhelmingly good. Even Ghost and Price, rare to bend the knee to anyone, find themselves weak for that scent.

No wonder Saint keeps it on lock, it’s practically a weapon in itself, not demanding submission but expecting it. A foregone conclusion. In a social setting it would be a brutal domination, rude wouldn’t even be the right word for it.

Saint isn’t just an Alpha, they’re on the extreme end of the spectrum.

The kind that comes with counseling and desensitizing therapies. Etiquette schools and specialized doctors.

The kind of Alpha that can not only manage four chaotic Omegas, but give them what they need.

With types like Saint, Alpha isn’t just a designation, it’s a title. And the 141 is proud that it’s theirs.

[urmomschocolatemilk]

Coloring dates with the 141 (inspired by new hello kitty coloring book)

You're sitting in the breakroom at the deep wooden table, scribbling away at the pages in front of you when you feel a presence looming over your shoulder....

Simon 'Ghost' Riley watches you color in silence for a bit before asking what you were doing. He thinks its cute the way your face heats up when you realize you'd been caught, but he doesnt think you should be embarassed about your hobby.

When you invite him to join you and offer to make him a copy he just grunts in response and walks away with his fresh cup of hot tea.

Dont worry though, cause he'll take you up on that offer next time.

Captain John Price would watch you color from a distance and before you could realize he's there, he's slipping out of the break room to grab his 'adult' coloring book and pack of pencils from his office.

He accidentally startles you when he pulls out the chair next to you and drops the thick book in front of his seat. It takes you a moment to realize that he's joining you, but you couldn't be more excited about it.

The two of you spend the night coloring side by side in a peaceful silence.

John 'Soap' Mctavish will tease you about it to no end once he finds out you like to color in your pass time. He's pokes at you about it a lot, but with enough convincing he'll sit and color with you.

He gets a copy of the same book just so the two of you can be coordinated, and proposes a competition for who can color the picture better. He forces Ghost and Price to judge, and almost always looses because he cant pick color schemes

He doesn't take it to heart, and instead promises he'll beat you next time

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick his first thought when he see's you coloring for the first time is that its neat that you like to unwind in such a calm way. He doesn't need any convincing to sit down with you and color. It actually gives you an opportunity to connect better since you're the two youngest on the force.

Coloring together becomes a scheduled thing with him, and you even get matching coloring books together when you finally finish the first one.

[thebookbutterfly]

Tell me Simon Riley isn’t the kind of man to swear up and down that he doesn’t want a dog only for him to get immediately attached.

Nine times out of ten if you’re looking for where the puppy is, you’ll find him curled up next to Simon on the couch. The same couch Simon was insistent he didn’t want dog fur all over 2 weeks ago.

And if he wasn’t curled up next to Simon, chances are he was sleeping on top of him during Simon’s afternoon nap. Both of them snoring, as if the pup was copying him.

When Ghost comes home from deployment you’re no longer top of the greeting list. Your reunion kiss was now firmly relegated to after he had dealt with the overexcited, wiggly bundle of fur.

Nobody can change my mind about this.

[alchemyfreak321]

Damocles - Sleep Token

What if I can't get up and stand tall? What if the diamond days are all gone And who will I be when thе empire falls? Wake up alonе and I'll be forgotten