#soap is matching ghost mask

[giotanner]

John "Soap" Mactavish - behind the Red Skull mask

(Hey cod fans please help me to be in your circle with a reblog)

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[phantasm-ae]

cw: fluff, cowgirl afab reader x ghost, grumpy x sunshine, clumsy reader

HEADCANON: the team meets Ghost’s little bird

PAIRING: Simon Riley x reader

It all started when Soap, half-joking -- not really -- asked over a pint of that terrible guinness that one of the recruits mentioned that he voiced out a lingering thought out loud,

"So, Ghost. Ye ever gonna introduce us to yer missus? Or is she just some hallucination ye made up tae wind us up aye?"

Ghost, who had never confirmed nor denied anything about his personal life, simply shrugged. "Pub. Friday. Seven."

Soap thought he was joking.

At exactly Friday, seven-fucking-pm though. Soap. Soap realized he was wrong.

They met at a grimy pub near base. Price was wary. Gaz looked openly curious. Soap just looked excited, because how normal could Ghost’s wife possibly be? Some goth lady with a death glare? A sniper with a scar over her eye? A shadow in human form?

None of the above.

What actually walked in was—

A tiny woman in a beat-up leather jacket, dusty denim jeans, a battered cowboy hat tilted low over her messy braid. Coupled with a pair of cracked leather boots that clomped across the floor like she owned the place.

Holy shit

She looked like she could ride a bull, shoot a rifle, and kiss you breathless — not necessarily in that order.

She waved frantically the moment she spotted them though — knocking over a chair and nearly tripping over her own boots as she did.

"HEY, SI" she yelled across the entire bar.

Ghost — stoic, terrifying, 6'4" Ghost — immediately straightened in his seat like a teenager seeing his crush. He actually moved. Stood up. Went to meet her halfway like she was the only thing that existed.

Soap’s jaw was physically on the table.

This tiny woman. Small. Wiry. Sun-kissed and with the greatest pair of tits Soap has ever seen immediately launched herself into Ghost’s arms like a missile. He caught her easily -- of course -- one hand on her lower back, the other ruffling her tousled brown hair with ridiculous tenderness.

Leaning down to let her smack a kiss right onto the cloth of his mask like she couldn’t give a single shit about what people thought.

She yanked the brim of his hat down over his eyes — wait! when had he gotten a hat?? — and laughed that big, reckless, wild West laugh that turned every head in the pub.

The team stared in horror and awe.

"This can’t be real," Gaz muttered. "I’m dreaming. I died in Syria."

"She's so small," Soap whispered back, scandalized. "And she’s—she’s—hot??"

They made it back to the table, Ghost’s hand resting casually on her hip like a leash.

When they made it back to the table, she shoved Ghost into a chair, plopped herself onto his lap without ceremony, and grinned at the rest of them.

"Howdy, boys," she said, tipping her hat.

Soap almost cried.

She was absolute chaos. Stole the darts right out of the wall and challenged Soap to a game ("loser buys shots, city boy" "'m from Scotland, lass" "Cattle country ain't like sheep country, sugar" "we have cows. They moo too").

Gaz: "You're so fucking stupid mate"

Soap: "Shut it aye?"

Flirted shamelessly with Ghost across the table — calling him "sugar," "cowboy," and "my big strong man" with zero shame in her Southern-twanged voice. Told Price he looked like a "sheriff with a broken heart."

Somehow wrangled Ghost into a pool match where she used him as her pool cue guide — pressed up against him, his huge hands guiding hers, while she winked at the others over her shoulder.

Ghost never smiled. Never joked. Never talked much. But with her? He was... different.

Softer. More human. Maybe even a little helpless, the poor bastard.

Price, to his credit, kept a straight face. Barely.

Soap, meanwhile -- after losing to her on those stupid darts and took on the challenge of guzzling down the said shots -- was vibrating with suppressed laughter.

She was chaos. Pure, distilled chaos — loud, funny, mean, fun, but also wildly affectionate. She stole a chip off Gaz and a stranger's plate without asking. Shooed off two creeps with a death glare who wouldn’t stop pestering the girls at the counter. Challenged the bouncer -- a hulking and massive bloke -- to arm wrestle and actually fucking won! Spent half an hour helping to take pictures of an old couple on a vacation to send to their grandkids. And started a chant for Price to shotgun a beer (he declined, though grimly but... endeared).

And through all of it, Ghost just... watched her. Silent. Steady. The same way he’d scan a perimeter — except more devoted. Soap swearing that he could even see him smile behind the mask.

At one point, she tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear that made him let out a genuine, low chuckle. An actual laugh. Gaz's drink came out of his nose at that and Soap almost passed out from the shock.

By the end of the night, they were all completely obsessed with her.

(And slightly terrified. She challenged another guy twice her size to a pull-up contest and won.)

As they stumbled out of the pub, she looped an arm around Ghost’s waist and shouted, "THIS IS MY HUSBAND! HE’S BIGGER THAN YOUR HUSBAND!" at absolutely no one.

Ghost didn’t even blink. Just tugged her closer and murmured, "Alright, birdie. Inside voice yeah?."

"YOU LOVE ME BABY," she hollered back.

"Yeah," he said simply, not caring who heard. "I do."

And if anyone at the pub dared to stare — well, nobody wanted to make eye contact with a man wearing a skull mask who looked like he could bench-press a car and the woman who looked like she could drive said car through you and still smile while doing it.

Soap later: "Lass is unhinged aye?." Gaz: "You’re just mad she drank you under the table, mate." Price: "I like her. She’s good for him." Soap: "Naw, like... she’s pure mental. He’s just as daft. It’s a match made in hell, I’m tellin' ye.

Ghost, hearing them gossip: (Just shrugs.) "I like her loud. Makes it easier to find her."

masterlist

[on-a-lucky-tide]

cw: hair pulling, 141 sexcapade discussion.

"You know, I've never understood it," Gaz said, folding another hand as the cards Nik turned over on the table ruined his chance of a Full House. They'd had a few, so Gaz's brain was wading slowly towards its point when Soap folded too.

"Ye dinnae ken much, Garrick. Ye gonnae have tae narrow it doon."

Ghost raked in his winnings and then stood with a grunted, "need a slash."

Gaz scowled and flipped over one of the cards they'd been playing with before Nik could tidy it away. The set was raunchy, with depictions of busty girls in various states of undress and intimacy. The Ace of Spades had a brunette facing out of the card, her lover behind her with one hand in her hair. "Why do girls ask for this?"

"Why ask for doggy?" Soap asked, smirking around the top of his beer bottle.

"Nah, mate. The hair pulling. I've had at least two birds ask me for it. It can't be fuckin' good, can it?"

"Aye, well, I dunnae tend tae pull the freaky ones, so..."

"Alright, alright. Shut it. Nik, help me out here." Gaz looked over at their dealer, who was busy expertly shuffling the cards for the next round.

"There is a right way and a wrong way to pull hair, sergeant," Nik said.

Gaz raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Da, observe." Nik placed the deck down carefully and turned towards Soap. "The wrong way is to grab a random tuft," he lifted a large palm and snagged a handful of Soap's mohawk, shaking him from side to side, "and just start pulling them about. It is wrong. Hurts, no?"

"Ah, Jesus fuck, Nik," Soap squawked, batting at Nik's forearm. "Aye. Feels like ye scalpin' me."

Ghost returned, chuckling low in his throat at Soap's bleats of protest. He rolled his bally up over his nose and took a swig of bourbon, observing the little scene he'd stumbled back in on with interest. "Li'le scrote finally run his mouth too much, Nikolai?"

"Naw, Nik's showin' Garrick how t' pull a lady's hair in bed." Soap growled, head still tilted at an odd angle where Nik had scruffed the strip of ferret fur he called a hairstyle.

"Oh yeah?" Ghost's eyes slid over to Nik, lingering on the hand that released Soap's mohawk. "G'won then, show us the proper way."

"Regrettably, the sergeants both favour the short back and sides, but yours is longer." Nik rose to his feet, matching Ghost in height and bulk. Ghost's hackles should go up, but with Nik, they hadn't in years. It had something to do with how Price was around him, Ghost reckoned. When your damn leader relaxed, you were relaxed. Like a good dog. Nik spread his hands. "May I, lieutenant? Your mask will remain on."

"C'mon, L.T. Lessee."

"I'll buy you a drink at the pub when we get home, sir."

Ghost swallowed, levelling Nik with a heavy stare. "Ya pull my hairline as far as yours and we'll 'ave a problem," he murmured, emptying his glass before placing it down on the table. When Nik stepped into space, he got a hit of expensive cologne and engine oil that sat pleasantly on the back of his tongue. Damn handsome bastard too, all things considered. Ghost tried not to scrutinise what having him so close did to his heart.

Nik's hand settled on Ghost's shoulder first and then slid around the back of his neck, careful to keep his thumb tucked to avoid Ghost's throat.

"You slide your hand up their neck through the roots at the back," he said softly, his hand moving as he spoke, fingertips sliding beneath Simon's bally to the softness of his blond hair. "And you pull upwards, keeping your fingers close to their scalp."

What was left of Ghost's soul left his body momentarily as Nik pulled. His belly did a little flip, his knees suddenly weak, shoulders rising as he sucked in a shocked gasp. The sensation that bristled over his scalp settled behind his eyes, and they rolled closed as it continued down his spine. The world screeched to a halt as Ghost zeroed in on the man before him, his instincts firing off like sparkplugs in an engine struggling to turn over. Frozen.

Nik was watching him closely, his head tilted to the side. "It should not cause pain, but it is a... mammalian response, like a cat scruffing its kitten. It should inspire a feeling of pleasure in submission."

Ghost couldn't breathe. His eyes flickered open and he zoned in on Nik's dark eyes, the fullness of his lips and the unshaven scruff of stubble around his jawline. In that breathless moment, Ghost's entire body tingled with heat and want. He could feel Nik's warmth, so close and yet not touching him at all but for the hand in his hair; a sturdy bulwark waiting to catch him. What Ghost would give to press his face into the open collar of his shirt and rub through the dark hair he could see there, while--

"'Ear that, L.T.? Ye like a big fuckin' kitten."

Soap's jibe broke the spell and Nik released Ghost's hair, stepping out of his space to return to his seat. His gaze lingered on Ghost's eyes before he turned, and for a tense second Ghost was fockin' worried he'd be outed for whatever the hell that was. But Nik sat down with a nonchalant shrug.

"Shut it, Johnny," Ghost grunted. "Don' see what all the fuss is about."

"Aye, ye tell 'em, sir. Missionary with the lights off fully clothed is the only way, eh?"

Ghost flipped Soap his middle finger and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. "Gonna hit the sack, long day tomorrow. Don' fuck around too late." He left the room at what he hoped was a reasonable pace, but his mind was already elsewhere, namely on the aching boner stretching down his right trouser leg. He was grateful no one could read minds; if he was thinking of Nik as he had a sad, furious and slightly drunk wank, then that was between him and god.

Nik watched Ghost's retreating back over the rim of his vodka glass, his head tilted to the side in thoughtful consideration. The embers he had watched flare to life in those somber brown eyes were unmistakable. He had seen similar in two twin baby blues only two mornings ago.

Khoroshego vam nastroyeniya i do vstrechi, Simon.

[beloveds-embrace]

Noona you have given me brain worms.

I wonder what the guys would do if they found the scentless reader had entered an enemy house and killed them all before the guys could get close because of their lack of scent? Does John hate using them for intrusions but does it anyways because it's the best chance of everyone coming home alive? Do the guys have a ritual of coming home off missions and rescenting their reader? I really need to stop thinking about this one and get back to homework.

(As an aside I am in LOVE with your writing and I read your works when I get stuck because you craft words so well.)

I claim no guilt over giving anyone brain worms, and omfg thank you!! That’s extremely high praise to me bc i absolutelyyy love your works <33 💕💕 :3 for your first question, they wouldn’t exactly be surprised. It’s why you were brought on the Task Force, it’s what makes you so useful. But once they reached the state of wanting you, and then slowly pulling you in?

They hated it. Hated it every damn time Price gave the order, even if they knew it was the right call.

No scent. No designation. No trace of you ever being there.

You were a ghost, in ways that even Simon couldn’t match. Silent, invisible to the senses, slipping through enemy lines like smoke and leaving nothing but bodies in your wake.

It was useful. Crucial, even. Quite literally the reason why the military had so much use of you. The best chance of keeping everyone alive. Price knew it, hated it, and did it anyway. Every time.

But it never stopped the way his chest felt tight when he had to send you ahead- alone. Never stopped the sharp glances Ghost shot him before you slipped away into the shadows, or the way Soap and Gaz went so still as they listened for any sign of trouble over the comms.

And it definitely never stopped what came after.

The moment you were back- safe and whole but covered in blood- Price’s hand was on the back of your neck, thumb digging gently into your faulty scent gland, his grip firm and grounding. Ghost was right behind him, his presence dark and heavy, crowding close enough to make your breath hitch. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to.

Soap and Gaz weren’t far behind. Soap’s hands were already reaching for your gear, tugging straps and buckles loose, brushing against your skin as if to remind himself you were there. Gaz hovered close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his fingers brushing yours when he helped you unclip your holster.

They didn’t leave your side. Not through debriefing, not through cleaning up, not even when you asked them to.

And later- once the adrenaline wore off and exhaustion set in- they were all but dragging you into the nest.

It was deliberate, the way they settled you down in the middle of it, surrounded by blankets that smelled like them, by them. Soap’s hands lingered on your hips, steady and warm, and Gaz was already curling up beside you, pressing into your side like he was trying to leave traces of his scent on your skin.

Price sat at your back, his chest pressed to your spine, one arm looped around your waist while the other cradled your head, tucking it under his chin. He didn’t say anything- just held you there, anchoring you in place as Ghost knelt down in front of you, tugging off your boots and brushing his gloved fingers along your calves and ankles as he went.

And then they started.

Ghost first, leaning in close to press his masked face against your neck. The slow, deliberate drag of fabric and leather along your skin made you shiver, and he didn’t stop until Price hummed low in approval. Soap followed, brushing his cheek against your shoulder before dipping low to nuzzle at your thigh, his hands curling loosely around your knee.

Gaz was next, pressing his forehead against yours and lingering there long enough that you could feel his breath warm against your cheek.

Price was last. His beard scratched lightly against your skin as he dragged his mouth along your throat and jaw, rumbling quietly when you tilted your head for him without thinking.

It took hours. Longer than necessary, longer than it had to, but they didn’t stop until you were covered in them- soaked in their scents and surrounded on all sides.

Didn’t stop until Ghost finally leaned back, pulling his mask away just long enough to press his lips against your temple, and murmured, “There. No one’s getting near you now.”

(If it was before, when you still didn’t realize what they were doing- everything was sharper. Tighter.

They didn’t say anything, but you felt it. Felt the weight of their eyes on you when Price ordered you to take point. Felt the way Soap’s jaw clenched when you slipped away, silent and invisible, like you always did.

You noticed how Gaz lingered by the comms, fingers tapping nervously against the console even though he wasn’t the type to fidget. How Ghost’s hands hovered near his weapons, muscles coiled and ready to move like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

And then there was Price.

Price, who stood stiff and silent until you reappeared, covered in someone else’s blood and staring at him like you knew he hated it but couldn’t bring himself to say so. Price, who didn’t let go of your shoulder the entire debrief, whose thumb rubbed small, grounding circles into your skin every time someone so much as looked at you the wrong way, and you told yourself it was just some weird Alpha instinct that you wouldn’t realize.

They didn’t say anything, not really. Just kept touching- light brushes of Soap’s arm against yours, Gaz’s hand lingering a little too long when he passed you gear, Ghost standing so close you could feel the heat of him against your back.

You thought it was just nerves. Stress. You didn’t think it was something else- not until later.

Not until you were sitting in the nest, exhausted.

Not until you caught Ghost staring at you like he wanted to devour you, or Price leaning in so close that you felt his breath on your skin when he murmured, “Stay still, love.”

Not until Soap tucked himself against your side with a soft, pleased sound, and Gaz let out a low purr, his hands running up and down your arms like he was soothing something neither of you could name.

You didn’t understand it- not then- but they did. The confusion on your face was almost cute if not just a touch infuriating.)

[bi-writes]

141 reactions to their pretty bird taking them to a sex shop to pick out a new toy for the bedroom? Pretty please!

hehe (18+, f!reader)

gaz — definitely a little shy, but the more you pick things out and hold them up, the looser he gets. he even picks out the candy bra and panties to try, because he says it'll really "complement your sweetness." the best part, however, is the little bottle of lube you slip into the basket, and when gaz eyes it as you check out, his eyes nearly bug when he realizes what you're silently offering. you wink at him, smiling, and he comes up behind you to cradle one side of your ass, drawing his fingers up between the seam of your jeans. if gaz is really an ass-man, well........feel free to prove it then, baby.

soap — SOOOOO excited. he's grabbing things off the shelves, picking out little plugs and vibrators and holding out weird toys and asking you what they are even for. he's making you laugh, and he's making it fun, but the part that makes you laugh and squeeze your thighs together the most is when johnny starts holding up different dildos against his crotch and asking which one is the most like him. he definitely buys you the dildo that he feels is most like his own dick—for when she misses me the most, bonnie...can't 'ave yer cunt cryin' for too long.

price — huge blush on him the entire time. he tries to look away or look up, but his eyes always land on something else that makes him equally embarrassed. you always hold up something to him and ask him if he likes it, and all he does is nod and push you along, "mhm, get whatever you want, love." just smacks his card down at the counter to buy all your things. he does survey the goods when you get home, and he is particularly fond of the remote-operated vibrator that you have. you knew he'd like that, and what can he say? he likes being in control.

ghost — no reaction. you hold up a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs, and he just stares down at you as you giggle. you hold up silk ties, whips, chains, sparkling plugs, and all ghost does is sniff or grunt at you. you stand on your toes as you fit a collar over his neck, and he's glaring at you as you giggle and fasten it around him. he just keeps his arms crossed over his chest, but you put your fingers on his jaw and angle his face towards yours. "good dog," you purr, kissing him softly over the mask, and ghost just cradles the back of your head and presses his forehead to yours. it's somehow in the basket when you check out. along with the matching leash. :D

[rawme-price]

Yes we all love the various monster!141 x human!reader, but have we considered human!141 x monster!reader?!🤔

Human!soap and werewolf!reader who is more than happy to be the prey u hunt on a full moon. He wont play easy either, makes u really work for the reward of getting to fuck him. Soap let's u bite until flesh tears, doesnt mind be marked with ur scent (freak lol), and happily rubs ur sore muscles when u transform back.

Human!ghost and vampire!reader who lowkey gets off on being ur bloodbag. Ur saliva only has mild pain reducing properties so he cant even blame his hard on as being from the aphrodisiac many other vampires have. He's always eager to let u feed bc his mask covers his neck and he usually wears long sleeves. This of course does mean that once ur done feeding, he wants a taste of u😔🙏. U two totally match with balaclavas and completely covered skin, perfect for avoiding sunlight btw.

Human!price x demon!reader who is happy to finally find someone who can keep up with his pace. He usually wears people out after the first three rounds, and is delighted when its actually him who has to tap out. Ur just so warm when he sinks in, and ur fangs sinking into his flesh drive him crazy. He also loves to use ur horns as handles whenever u suck him off lol. pulls at ur tail while hes railing u bc he likes the yelp you make, overall a menace.

Human!gaz x naga!reader who loves the feeling of u coiled around him. Ur smooth scales just feel so good rubbing on his cock, and u dont bruise as easily as a human which means he can be as rough as he wants. Ofc he'll be ur personal heater, just stay wrapped around him while u both bask in the afterglow. Also quite obsessed with ur fangs, please bite him its for enrichment.

[ryanisasleep]

Reader who is a biter and a scratcher

MDNI/NSFW/KINKY AF

Ft: Soap, Ghost, Price

- - > Ghost: he is complicated, I picture him as a kind of a feral guy in bed so having a lover that matches his freak is a peak win. Loves to know that he will somewhat find a scratch on his body that wasn't training related. May that be on his lower belly or his sides, he knows your fingernails did it.

He is jealous of them, he never shows them, not even to Johnny but looks at them with a difficult expression. You know what those heart eyes mean though, under that mask, he is red as fuck.

Talking about matching his freak, I think he is down bad to forcing you into submission. You two want sex? Good, who takes it and how? There we go, you two are at eachother's throats going for the kill. By the end of that you two are exhausted but happy. Having Simon with scratches and bite marks on his back is a sign that you are going to guide him through all the night, may you be on top taking him and riding him like a champ denying his release or simply him taking you from behind (may you have a strap-on or dick).

Fucking hell, he will surely remember who he belongs to, those marks around his nipples and nape and back are going to be there for days...expecially the ones on his lips, good thing he has a mask

- - > Price: He loves it. He can't get enough of you scratching and marking him all over. During training I like to think that if he gets the possibility, he'll bite you back. Just like two kids fighting, you know you can't always behave like a good and well mannered soldier so when the occasion presents itself, you go for it.

You do not kiss, rarely we can say. Instead you go on and gently bite whatever skin you can find, a finger? You are tugging it, his wrist? you are tugging it too and shaking it gently, his cock? He loves the thrill of knowing you will use your teeth why giving him a blowjob like the good little lover you are.

Taking risks, that is what he likes, so he has you sometimes under his desk between his legs and he can feel your teeth hovering the base of his dick or his puffy and fat red head. Of course, you do not bite him with force, just gently nibbing at it. No way you want to injure your boyfriend.

But with sex? Oh god he is a total mess after. On the bed with his hairy chest quickly taking in breath after breath as his shoulderblades and neck are strawberry red...maybe even his ass is a bit red...even his inner thighs...His body is like a chess piece filled with hickeys, bites and scratches.

He doesn't mind of any of that, actually he always wants some of your presence with him.

- - > Soap: loud bastard, gotta know how to shut him up properly. Deny him what he loves, affection and realease and he is whimpering like a puppy.

Still time though he wants to get what he wants, he will beg you to give it to him, even if it takes having the heel of a military boot crushing his weeping and red cock in the confinements of his jeans.

Gag him, you he talks too much. Bite his nape, after all puppies become pliant when they feel teeth on that part of their neck, it tells them to shut up.

If he had a tail he would swag just for you, and his mowhack? Perfect love handle to give pain to that masochist. He smirks as he knows he will get what he wants, he just needs to bribe you.

But you know, he likes to have some reminder that he must be a good boy, that collar is giving wonders around his red neck filled with red lines. You thought you were going over board but he said no, if you did, he would've said the safe words and things would be taken to an halt.

After all, he cant wait to do the same thing to you too, he just need to grow his nails a bit longer and then he would be ready to call you his personal slut.

[undercoveravenger]

Sleep Like the Dead

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Male!Reader

Requested: No

Summary: Everyone on the team thinks Ghost is the worst person to share a bed with. You don’t mind and Ghost finally gets a decent night’s sleep.

-----

No one ever wants to share a bed with Ghost on a mission. It happens every time, at every safe house, so he’s not surprised when Gaz and Soap call dibs on sharing one of the two double beds. They’re both pretty calm sleepers and won’t disturb each other’s rest so it makes sense for them to pair off. Price posts up in the battered recliner mumbling something about being “too old to share.” And that leaves Ghost with you, the 141’s newest addition. You haven’t been on the team long enough to know to find other sleeping arrangements.

You trail him easily into the other bedroom and strip down to your boxers, climbing under the covers without complaint at being stuck with him. He slowly settles beside you, just as tense as he’d been out on the field - adrenaline not quite fizzled out yet. You don’t seem to mind, eyes closing and breathing slowing basically as soon as your head hits the pillow and just like that Ghost is alone with his thoughts.

Despite himself, his mind echoes with the sound of Soap whinging about bruises he’d gotten from Ghost’s less-than-gentle “readjusting” and Gaz’s complaints of his snoring - “What, you running a chainsaw in there, Lieutenant?” “There a thunderstorm in your room last night, Ghost?” There’s a reason Price would rather go for a kip in some ratty old armchair than sleep anywhere near Ghost, even if he never voices why. He knows he’s not an ideal bed partner and he hates it. Hates that he’s exposing you to it - you, who’s never looked at him like he’s weird for keeping his mask on and who’s never seemed to be afraid of him, even the first time you’d met him. You, who’s seen some of the brutal things he’s had to do out on the field and never once judged him for it, who’s done plenty of nightmarish things yourself.

But this is the first negative trait he’s willingly exposed you to and he doesn’t want to see you try to duck him as a bedmate the same way the rest of the team does, especially when he’s starting to suspect that he feels more than camaraderie for you.

You move then, rolling onto your side and hooking an arm round his middle to tug him back against your chest. Ghost’s frozen against you, muscles tight and breath shallow, even as your heart beats steady and slow against his back. He settles slowly, breath evening out to match yours. He’s not used to being… cuddled, let alone being the little spoon, but it’s sort of nice to be held. Like you’ve got his back, even unconsciously. 

He shifts slightly, nudging himself back into your arms further and brings one hand up to curl around yours, settling your joined hands against his chest above his heart. 

Simon’s eyes slip closed somewhere between one breath and the next and he sinks into the most peaceful sleep he’s had in years.

-----

Everyone’s looking at him strangely when they all gather in the morning to prepare for evac and he’s not sure why. He can only take so long of Price’s concerned stare and Soap and Gaz whispering around furtive glances before he snaps.

“What,” he says, and that seems to be all the permission Soap needs to sidle closer, studying him intently. “Got somethin’ to say?” Ghost challenges, arms crossing over his chest. “Say it.”

Soap hesitates only a moment before he says anything, fingers tapping rapidly against his thigh like he’s nervous. “Did you, ah, did you sleep last night, LT? Like, at all?”

Ghost blinks. Blinks again. It’s not the weirdest question Soap’s ever asked him, not by a longshot, but it feels strangely pointed and he’s not sure why. ��Slept fine. Why?”

Gaz cocks his head, dark eyes puzzled as they dart between Ghost and the door to the bedroom that he’d shared with you. “Did he?”

Ghost is saved from answering by you making your way out into the living room with the rest of them, go bag already packed and ready. You’re shifting your weight up onto the balls of your feet like you’re ready to take in a run, like you’re itching to move. Your eyes are bright, not a hint of sleeplessness to be seen about you.

“Maybe they tuckered each other out?” Soap suggests, eyebrows waggling suggestively as he looks between you and Ghost. “Surprised they were able to keep that quiet-”

“Shut it,” Ghost growls, trying to keep the teasing from letting you on to the feelings he’s finally admitted to himself. “We both slept fine. What’s all the fuss about?”

Price claps a hand over Soap’s mouth before he can make another raunchy comment, interjecting himself to help move the conversation along. “Just glad to hear that you were finally able to get a good night’s sleep, Ghost. Seemed to us you hadn’t slept well the last few ops.” His eyes slip to you and back quickly, lingering just enough that he knows that Price knows. “Seems whatever change you’ve made to your nightly routine might be a good one to keep up. Maybe try to make it a regular thing?”

Ghost wants to argue. To protest that sleeping in your arms wouldn’t have changed anything for him, especially not enough for his team to notice, but he knows Price is right. Knows that it’s having you with him that’s finally allowed him to rest. That you make him feel safe, as crazy as he feels admitting it. He’s not ready to really do anything about whatever it means quite yet, but he knows that he’ll be seeking you out to share a bed again on the next op. And maybe, if that goes well, inviting you back to his flat in Manchester while the team’s on leave to see if the effect you have on him goes both ways.

[charliemwrites]

Soap’s Alpha is a goddamn menace.

Anyone who says otherwise just doesn’t actually know Saint, or is Gaz. (The bloody traitor.)

It’s not that Soap doesn’t like Saint. He does. What’s not to like?

The alpha is a walking wet dream, the kind a pubescent Johnny used to fantasize about. (Still does, really, he’s just got a face - and body, bloody hell that body - to focus on now.) Big and powerful, dominance and restraint from head to toe. Looks damn good in their muzzle too, like something forbidden, pearly fangs locked up out of reach. And their scent - if someone could bottle it up, they’d make millions. (Retirement project, maybe, Soap’s good with chemistry.)

It’s just that they’re so damn respectful. Too respectful, in Johnny’s opinion.

Teenage Johnny didn’t realize that an alpha so… well, Alpha, would have such Victorian sensibilities. Saint is practically old-fashioned, keeping their scent contained and a ribbon of space between themselves and others. Always waiting for an omega to make the first move, even their own omegas.

If Soap pushes, Saint goes. If he demands, Saint provides. They’ll let him scent them and mark them and generally pass the point of even modern social manners just to receive a slow blink, a soft chuff, the barest curve of those lips - scarred from when their fangs grew in, too big for a pup’s mouth. It’s driving Soap off his heid.

It’s not that Soap is attracted to the kind of alpha that would throw their scent around or flash fang when he obnoxiously shoves his nose against their throat. He’s rolled his eyes at his share of knot-heads all over the spectrum for thinking submission is their god-given right. Put just as many on their stomachs or scruffed them limp when they tried (and failed) to press the issue.

It’s just that… well, Soap loves hard. He loves intensely. Some (Ghost, also a traitor) might even say desperately.

And maybe it’s got something to do with how low-spectrum omega he is. Maybe it’s a few too many taunts and jeers from his childhood into adolescence, about how he’s barely an omega anyway, so he’d be lucky with an alpha that can tolerate him. Maybe it’s a relationship (or two) before the 141, with alphas that got frustrated when he could only pretend at submission.

Maybe he just needs Saint to show that they love him just as much as he loves them. That it’s not just mutual, but matched. That he’s not tolerated, but beloved - intense and forward and non-traditional as he is.

And maybe he’s not asking (“communicating”) that because he doesn’t want to have to ask.

“Fuck around ‘n you’ll find out, Johnny,” Simon warns when Soap makes hypotheticals aloud.

“Tha’s what I’m hopin’ fer, ya dafty.”

Simon grunts, but even through the mask, Johnny can see the skepticism. He might have a point - alphas like Saint, far-spectrum Alphas, are categorically Not To Be Fucked With. That’s designation 101. The farther along the spectrum one way or another, the stronger the instincts, the more mindful everyone else needs to be of provoking them. Especially Alphas, territorial and aggressive as they can be.

But Saint’s proven time and time again that those extra counseling sessions and the spooky etiquette school haven’t gone to waste. They could do with a little… provoking.

Now, Johnny’s a veteran provoker. Knows which buttons to push and how for the reactions he wants. Doing it to Saint almost seems unsporting, honestly. The poor thing is just so sweet. But, well, Johnny’s on a mission.

Soap groans, practically draping himself along Gaz’s shoulders.

“I dinnae ken what t’do, nothin’s workin’!”

“Here’s an idea: stop while you’re ahead.”

Soap growls and shoves at him, Gaz flashes fang back, but his scent is mellow and easy - not that Soap needs it to know it’s all show.

“I’m serious, Gaz. I’ve tried everythin’!” he complains.

And he has. Crawling all over Saint (more than usual). Scenting them at every opportunity. “Forgetting” his own scent neutralizers or conveniently applying too little to last the day. Even scraped his teeth across their throat once. And what has he gotten in response? Slow blinks, quiet chuffs. A nuzzle or two in response, Saint’s eyes smiling even if their mouth stays soft and mostly neutral.

“I am too,” Gaz replies, rolling his eyes. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, bruv.”

Soap casts a forlorn glance at their Alpha.

Saint’s halfway across the field with Ghost, Price, and the captain of the squad they’re working with for joint task force training. Hands clasped behind their back, boots planted shoulder-width apart. Every bit the imposing alpha lieutenant despite never speaking a word, even with a deterrent half step of space between them and the omegas.

“I dinnae think it would be a stupid prize if they acted like a normal Alpha. Just once, ya ken?”

“They’re not a normal alpha, Soap. They like us just fine, you know that, right?”

Soap grunts something that could pass for agreement. Gaz opens his mouth to say something else - likely more entreaties to leave their poor Alpha be - but two of the other team’s sergeants approaches. (It’s fine, he’ll have plenty of opportunity to complain after dinner, when Saint retreats to their own room to eat - and to a bigger audience too.)

“A little sparring practice while we wait for orders?” one asks.

Behind him, the other sergeant of their squad is staring. Has been since Price introduced the 141.

Unlike them, Task Force Alpha hosts three alphas - the captain herself, who’s mid-spectrum, and the two sergeants, both low-spectrum. It’s an unusual unit, but so is the 141.

Soap and Gaz exchange looks, then glance at their officers. Johnny’s a little startled to find Saint already watching - still relaxed, but observing from a distance.

Oh? Did that catch his Alpha’s attention?

Johnny turns back to the alpha sergeants, grin a little feral.

“Aye, show us what ya got.”

The problem with getting what he wants, Johnny discovers, is that he gets it in spades.

The “sparring practice” is doomed right from the first flash of alpha teeth before they’ve even begun, and rapidly spirals downward from there.

The other problem is that Johnny getting what he wants doesn’t preclude Gaz and Simon from also being right.

Unfamiliar alpha pheromones thick in Johnny’s nose, his pack out of his direct sight, and one wrong move. The other sergeant twists his wrist too hard, too far, and the yelp is out of Johnny’s throat before he can stop it.

A thunderous bark cracks across the field, message unmistakable - Stop.

The alpha pinning Johnny freezes. Unfortunately, that leaves Johnny in the same uncomfortable position that made him cry out in the first place. Every instinct in his body tells him not to move either, but the radiating ache in his wrist wins out. He shifts, tries to wriggle out, but the alpha’s grip is like iron - whether from fear or caught prey is unclear.

It doesn’t matter though. Because in the next instant, the alpha’s weight is gone entirely.

There’s barely even a scuffle. Just a rolling growl like shifting tectonic plates and then the alpha sergeant is pinned face down with a big hand scruffing him tight.

It’s Saint, crouched over Johnny’s (former) opponent, expression wiped smooth except for the snarl showing those big fangs - even still hidden behind a muzzle.

This is why, Johnny thinks, stomach flipping. If the muzzle wasn’t there, Saint’s teeth would be clamped down already.

They sink lower, knee against the other alpha’s back, slow and deliberate. Close enough that the smaller alpha bites off a whimper. A clear display of power and dominance that nearly has Johnny keening.

As if hearing his thoughts - or the subvocals he’s being less successful about suppressing - Saint’s implacable gaze darts to his. Their pupils are blown out, eyes stormcloud dark.

“Johnny.”

There’s no stopping the soft, purely Omega noise that slips out. Saint’s chest expands, breathing in whatever scent Johnny is giving off.

“Okay?” they ask, flicking a look at Johnny’s wrist.

“M’okay, Alpha.”

Saint turns their attention to Price, Simon, and the alpha captain - only just now finished crossing the distance Saint did seemingly in an instant.

“Stand down, lieutenant,” the alpha captain barks. It’s weak, though, they can all hear that her subvocals aren’t in it with her, instinct shying from the stronger alpha. (Her normal voice doesn’t sound all that strong for that matter, either.)

Another warning growl ripples through the air. This time, the alpha beneath Saint can’t stop his whimper - and neither can Johnny. (Though he’s likely whimpering for a much different reason.) The captain’s mouth shuts with an audible click.

A safe distance from her, Simon and Price visibly lock their knees to stay standing.

Saint tilts their head to meet the alpha captain’s glare, steady and unrelenting. Awareness crackles down Johnny’s spine - alphas locking gazes, and the dangers of them doing so.

“I-I didn’t know he was your omega,” the alpha sergeant blurts.

Saint doesn’t look away. “You know now.”

“Yes, alpha.”

Johnny’s heart trips over itself to beat double time. His face feels hot.

Silence stretches for one, two, three breaths…

“He knows now,” the alpha captain says quietly. Her eyes drop to her sergeant. “Let him up, alpha.”

Saint doesn’t linger to make a point. The sit back, forearms resting on their knees, giving the sergeant room to scramble up and away. And Johnny finds, quite suddenly, that Saint’s focused on him again.

“Let’s pick this up another day,” Price gruffs in the silence, dredging his voice up from the depths.

“I’ll contact you for details,” the alpha captain says, steel returning to her voice.

Task Force Alpha shuffles away in thick silence. With the outsiders gone, some ease returns. The intense energy around Saint melts away, leaving the mellow alpha the 141 is used to behind.

“That was bloody brilliant,” Gaz blurts in the silence, absolutely smitten.

Saint snorts, shakes their head, and stands.

Mouth dry and still right where he ended, Johnny glances at Simon. The look in his eyes says “I told you so.”

Johnny doesn’t pout; but he does take the hand that Saint offers him with a purr.

“Johnny.”

A shiver raises down his spine and pools low in his gut - just like it does every time he hears Saint’s voice. Still, he tries to save face, whirling to fix his alpha with a winning smile.

“Aye, alpha?” he churrs - or starts to, but comes up short.

Because Saint isn’t wearing their muzzle.

“W-what’s the occasion?” he tries to recover.

Saint tilts their head, watching. Observing.

It’s just the two of them in the den right now. Price is in his office, smoothing over the afternoon’s events via phone call, and Simon and Gaz went into town for food.

It feels electrifyingly intimate. Because his Alpha is looming right there in joggers and a tight t-shirt and no muzzle, all that intensity focused solely on Johnny.

“Well… at least c’mere then, eh?”

And Saint fucking prowls across the den. But they don’t stop at the edge of the couch where Johnny’s reclining. They continue onto the cushions. First a knee, making the cushion dip sharply with their weight. Then planting a hand by Johnny’s head on the back of the couch, practically climbing over him.

It hits Johnny then. Saint’s scent, still diluted by a low-level neutralizer, but still theirs and still intense. And he doesn’t know why, knows better than to lead a predator, but Johnny scoots back, trying to maintain the sliver of space between them. Overwhelmed.

But for once, Saint doesn’t pull away or politely deescalate. They pursue until Johnny’s stopped by the arm of the couch against his shoulders and Saint’s hovering over them.

“That pup didn’t know you’re mine,” the rumble finally. “Do you?”

“‘Course,” Johnny answers instantly.

They meet his eyes, and Johnny realizes they’ve caught on to his efforts. Maybe knew from the start.

Embarrassed heat sears his cheeks, ears, and neck.

“‘M sorry,” he whispers, the words like ash in his mouth.

Saint shakes their head but it’s not a rejection. They tilt their head, rub their cheek firm but gentle against his. They’re… they’re scenting him.

Johnny reciprocates enthusiastically and earns a pleased purr that vibrates all the insecurities right out of his skull.

“Mine,” Saint churrs. “Omega.”

“Aye, Alpha.”

[cutiecusp]

Be mine, valentine?

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

tw. established relationship, fluff, Simon not understanding Valentines, a kiss or two.

...................................................................

"Wha' dya mean i have to ask?" Simon asks Gaz blankly. They were picking up dinner for the group when he saw Gaz look at the valentines day stock, a sea of pinks and reds. Soap making his way over to the cards and gift wrap, a smirk on his face.

Gaz laughs, picking up a plushie putting it in the trolley, before making his way through the candles.

"You have to ask her to be your valentine, Ghost. Just because you are together, it doesn't mean-"

"Aye, means anyone could ask her..." Soap returns, card in hand.

"Even me, think she likes candles?" Gaz murmured, a little loudly for Ghost to get the point.

"She's my girlfriend, Gaz, think she would know she's my woman." Ghost grumbles, but starts thinking about your favourite treats, looking over at the stand.

"Why do you have so much stuff? You only have your birdie at home." Ghost eyes Gaz's stash.

"Well there's my wife, my mum, my sisters..." He continues, picking out matching baskets, before raising an eyebrow.

"Wait, you've never done valentines before?"

Ghost shrugs.

"Got her flowers before."

Soap laughs, a booming laugh that startles the other shoppers.

"From the garage, Gaz. The garage."

Gaz joins in on the laughter, before grabbing a basket and thrusting it in Ghosts hands.

"Get her things you know she would like, candles, snacks, chocolates, and for the love of god, WRITE IN THE DAMN CARD." He advises, a smile still on his face.

"Might add another basket to my trolley, show your woman some love." Gaz teases, ignoring the glare from the masked man.

A few days later, Ghost surprises you with a little basket, filled with your favourite treats, a jumper you had been eyeing up, a skeleton plush, and a mug with your favourite teabags inside.

"Will you be my valentine, love?" He asks gruffly, cheeks red under the mask.

You throw your arms around him, peppering his face with kisses before puling down his mask and planting one on his lips.

"Never thought you'd ask!" You laugh, nodding.

Wrapping you up in his arms, he breathes you in, before his gaze flickers to a familiar basket on the dining room table, with a bow to match, and a card placed hapzardly on top.

"Those fuckers." He thinks to himself, smirking under the mask, secretly pleased his sweetheart had won his teammates over.

...........................................................................................................................

@kaeyasfuturewife @xoxunhinged @muneca-lemon-steppa @gardenof-venus @misshugs @soraya-daydreams @frudoo @renpodz @yesornowaitidontknow @thevoiceinyourheadx @shadowdark00 @rynbeerose @lunamoonbby @incredible-walker @identity2212 @pukbadger @urbimom @corvid007 @wordsfromshona @shadows-empress @m00xy @canyonmooncreations @oniraki @evie-119 @havoc973 @kylies-lover-blog @ishipdabands @cmbghost @heckinspooks @midwesternwitchery @eggy-yoke @redzluvvesage @masterclassofescapism @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @skeletonsucker

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Soap had been gone four days. No one had seen you in that time.

Gaz, Ghost, and Price stood outside you quarters. None of them wanted to knock. The silence behind the door was loud enough.

Price finally exhaled, long and tired, and opened it.

The stench hit them first—stale booze, ash, sweat, and something sour. Clothes were tossed haphazardly across the room, some torn. Bottles lined the desk, the floor, the sink. Cigarette butts overflowed every tray. A trail of burned-out matches led toward the bed, where your bare back peeked out from tangled sheets. You were sleeping on your stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow.

“Christ,” Gaz whispered. “Is she even alive?”

Ghost motioned to be quiet, but it was too late. Price stepped forward.

“Time to wake up,” he said softly.

The sound of the mattress springs shifting was the only warning before the crack of a gunshot. A round flew past Price’s head and embedded in the wall just behind him. He hit the floor with military instinct, heart pounding.

“Bloody hell!” Gaz shouted.

You sat up slowly, your hair a tangled, matted mess, eyes wild and rimmed in red. Naked. Gun still aimed, breathing ragged.

When you realized who it was, your hand dropped slightly—but not all the way.

“You’re lucky I missed,” you muttered.

“You sleep with a gun under your pillow?” Ghost asked quietly, though not surprised.

“I’ve slept with worse,” you said, voice flat.

Gaz grabbed a spare blanket from the chair and tossed it to you. “Cover up, yeah? We’re not here to see your tits.”

You caught it, but didn’t bother using it.

“What do you want?” You asked.

“You’ve been holed up since Soap—” Price started.

“Don’t,” you warned.

Gaz tried, gentler. “We’re worried.”

You looked at them, deadpan. “Why?”

“You lost someone.”

“No,” you said. “He died. That’s not a loss. That’s subtraction.”

The silence was heavy.

“Come on,” Price tried again. “You two were close.”

You leaned back, letting the gun fall beside you. You laughed once—dry and ugly.

“He was next.”

“What does that mean?” Gaz asked, confused.

“I was gonna kill him. Like I do with everyone I fuck.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I always mean it. You think it’s coincidence no one lasts? He was next. So maybe it’s better this way.”

Ghost’s jaw tightened beneath his mask.

“Bullshit,” Price snapped. “I’ve seen how you looked at him.”

Your stare hardened. “You see what you want. I never promised anything.”

“That wasn’t nothing,” Gaz muttered.

Ghost’s voice came in low. “There’s only one other person she’s looked at like that.”

Everyone turned to him.

“Graves.”

You didn’t flinch, but you didn’t speak either.

Ghost leaned toward Price and Gaz. “Let me make a call.”

You didn’t open the door for him. He let himself in. The room still smelled like despair.

Graves stood at the edge of the mess like it might swallow him too.

“Sugar,” he said, tone carefully neutral.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking. Still nude, still reckless.

“You look like hell,” he added.

“You always said it suited me.”

He stepped closer. “They said you were bad. Didn’t say you were this bad.”

You looked up then, eyes glassy, voice cracked. “You here to save me?”

“Not my job.”

“Then why?”

“Because you’re not supposed to go out like this.”

Your cigarette trembled. Just a little. Then you ground it into the ashtray and stood.

“I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. And I did. And now he’s dead.”

“You loved him?”

“No,” you snapped. “But I didn’t hate him. And that’s worse.”

Graves stepped forward slowly. “You’re breaking, sweetheart.”

“No, I’m remembering.”

Your voice cracked.

“I’m remembering how I let someone in. Again. After you. And now he’s gone. Again.”

You pushed at his chest. He didn’t budge.

“I’m not doing this again.”

“You already did.”

And then you broke. Collapsed against him, fists pounding once—weakly—before you crumpled in his arms, sobbing. Your hands tangled in his shirt, your tears soaking into his chest. Graves held you like he was afraid you’d shatter.

“I can’t feel anything without it hurting,” you whispered.

His hand stroked your hair, soft. “Then let me make it stop.”

It started with a kiss, bitter and desperate. His hands were steady when yours shook. You tried to pretend you had control, but he didn’t let you.

“You don’t have to win this,” he whispered.

“Then fuck me like I lost.”

You undressed him slowly—not out of gentleness, but because you wanted to feel every second of it. To know you were felt, even now.

You kissed him like you needed oxygen. Scratched down his back like pain might fix something.

When he slid inside you, you bit down on his shoulder, breathing hard through your nose like you didn’t trust yourself not to cry again.

“You’re allowed to feel this,” he murmured.

“I don’t want to.”

“Tough shit.”

Your legs wrapped around him. Your hands fisted in his hair. Your eyes burned as he fucked the grief out of you, slowly, deeply, like he meant to stitch you back together with every thrust.

And when you finally let go—when you gasped and broke around him—it wasn’t his name you said.

It was Soap’s.

Graves held you through it anyway.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART FIVE

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, not much for this chapter, but as always, be cautious! a/n: so sorry for the wait, this chapter isn't as long as the others but i'm in the process of moving! i'll be moved in by late next week, so when that happens, i'll finally have more time to deliver longer parts and be more active! <3 masterlist

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

“You let her get away.”

“S’not like I meant to, Cap,” Soap defended, scowling to himself.

The four men stood in Price’s quarters, all shoulders equally tensed and expressions grim. While Gaz and Ghost remained quiet thus far, the intensity rolled off of them menacingly. Soap could practically see the sourness fill the air.

“But you did,” Price reiterated, slamming his palm on the table. It shook the room, quill holders rumbling and threatening to spill onto the floor. “We already take a risk havin’ her on our ship until she grows accustomed to livin’ here. How could you be so careless?”

“Can ye blame her?” Soap spat back. The men fell silent with Price narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “The poor lass watched the four of us burn her village down. Then we took her in like a fit of scoundrels. I don’t blame her for runnin’ off the way she did.”

Price kept his mouth shut, pressed in a firm line. His shoulders were squared, an argument threatening to spill out, yet he didn’t encourage it. After all, Soap had a point, but they weren’t supposed to care. It was a simple part of being savages.

“She’ll understand eventually—“

“But she won’t,” Soap cut Price off, leaning his hands on the table to match the Captain’s. The two of them stared long and hard at one another. “We don’t even understand, so what makes ye think she will?”

“Soap,” Ghost warned. Soap’s gaze flickered over to the masked man, whose eyes were darkened with warning. Gaz shifted uncomfortably from beside him. “Watch your tongue.”

Soap opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Price raised his palm, requesting silence. The look on his face was unreadable, but the sign of authority was clear.

“You need to get your head out of the trenches, Soap,” Price warned. “Carin’ for her will only have you throwin’ yourself overboard, and that’s not somethin’ I can save you from. We needed a medic, and she was in the right place at the right time. That is all.”

“So ye don’t have the slightest bit of sympathy for her, s’that right, Cap?” Soap asked, eyes narrowing in on the Captain.

“There is no place in this world for sympathy,” Price responded meekly. “Let alone for her.”

“And for us?” Soap questioned, gesturing to the other two men in the room.

“You are my men,” Price grunted. “She is an unlucky woman that came from rags rather than riches. That is to no fault but her own. You forget your place, Soap.”

Though Price had remained calm, Soap could see the building aggravation. It was in the way the Captain’s hands clenched atop the table, his eyes glossed over with a heated fire from being rebutted.

“It seems yer forgettin’ yers as well, Captain,” Soap muttered bitterly.

The atmosphere was so thick, it was suffocating. Not a single man said another word, caught in a deadly stare down. It was a rarity to challenge Price’s authority, let alone over an unfortunate woman who they had ruined all on their own.

If Soap’s words affected Price, he didn’t make it known. Rather, his irritability was evidence, and he appeared to be fighting off any resentment towards his own crew.

“Get out,” Price uttered, voice low, but the notion was clear. “All of you.”

Nobody argued. Rather, they filed out one by one, Price’s door slamming on the way out.

Ghost grumbled when just the three of them remained, stalking off to his own quarters for the night.

Gaz joined Soap in watching the masked man leave. It wasn’t until he was fully out of sight did Gaz speak.

“You have a point, Soap,” Gaz said quietly, slapping a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Good luck makin’ Cap see that.”

Gaz gave him another squeeze of his hand before sauntering off himself, leaving Soap alone on the upper deck, the summer air suddenly feeling frigid and bitter.

The cell was suffocating you all over again. You missed the feel of a bed, the soft furs that lined Price’s bed that showered you in comforting warmth for the night, the flood of fresh air in your lungs.

Part of you felt like you took it for granted. The bitter part of you, though, knew that you deserved to have those things without being in the possession of a pirate.

The shoes Soap left you taunted you from the corner of the cell. They mocked you, called you ungrateful. It painted you with an uncomfortable guilt that settled deep in your bones.

You shouldn’t feel bad for a bunch of savages, but what kind of savages would think to surprise you with shoes, even picking out ones that you might like? You couldn’t speak for the others, but Soap had shed a light of humanity in a time where you needed it, and you had fucked that up.

Now, you wanted it more than ever. The cell was cold and unwelcoming, and you missed the taste of freedom you were given so shortly.

It felt as if you were back at square one. For the first day, nobody came to offer you food like before. Your stomach grumbled with a might that had you coiled over, silently crying into your hands. The second night was torturous, and it felt as if your own stomach was beginning to feast on itself.

The third night, however, was when you were finally graced with sympathy.

What greeted you, or more so who, had taken you by surprise. Expecting Soap or Gaz, or even Ghost to degrade you for being so stupid, you were instead faced with the Captain himself.

Price stood with a steaming bowl of stew and another bowl of simple rice. The sight of it had your mouth watering and your stomach gurgling in desperation.

“Hello, dove,” he offered, his tone surprisingly soft compared to the spitefulness he held days before. It still held authority, one you didn’t think would ever rid itself, but it wasn’t as angry as expected.

You gave him a nod in response but said nothing. A touch of dread crept up your spine. He was all too calm to you, who had nearly sent his men to unforeseeable death.

Price balanced the two bowls on one arm so he could unlock your cell door and step inside. Once in, he carefully placed the bowls on the ground in front of you where you sat, taking a cautious step back.

As much as you wanted to devour the food without. a second thought, you remained frozen and stubborn. You stared at the bowls of hot food before shifting up to look at him. When he gave you a nod in confirmation, that was all you needed to begin eating.

Eating was the nicer word. Demolishing was more accurate.

You didn’t bother to eat with the spoon given, rather you used your hands to grab a fistful of rice and guzzle it down. Grains of rice stuck to your face around your mouth, showing an embarrassing display. You were so hungry you didn’t care.

“Slow down,” Price ordered. You paused in your eating, glancing up at him. He didn’t look angry, but he did look a bit disturbed at your desperation.

Flustered, you swallowed the food down, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Picking up the spoon in the stew, you ate it with eagerness but allowed yourself some decency.

Price was silent as you ate, standing with his arms crossed, watching. You were too enraptured in the meal to care, even if you look distasteful. The food had never tasted this good before, and you weren't sure whether it was because you were starving, or because somebody else cooked.

You imagined the pirates in the kitchen together, chopping vegetables and meat to place it in a pot, using an array of spices. Arguing over who got to do what, disagreeing with a choice of meal for the day.

It gave them a small sense of normality in your mind, even eliciting a small laugh from you. Price’s face contorted in confusion, wondering what could possibly be funny, especially in times like this. You, locked in a cell, given the worst hand the world could’ve given you, finding something joyful enough to laugh through it.

“Would you like to tell me why you’re laughin’?” Price gruffed.

You swallowed down your food, peering up at him from where you sat on the floor. “I was just imagining Soap and Ghost arguing over who gets to cook,” you confessed, looking back down at your food. “I apologize. It is not funny.”

You could feel Price’s stare. The air was silent, tense, before he ultimately broke it. “Ghost is the one that cooks,” he explained. “Used to be a butcher back in his day.”

“A butcher?” you repeated, pondering. The mask Ghost flaunted made him mysterious and concealed. You would’ve never imagined him as a butcher, though the more you thought about it, the more it clicked. “That seems to make quite a bit of sense, actually.”

“Does it?” Price hummed with the telltale sign of amusement. It was hardly evident. “Yes, I believe it does. Explains why he’s so good with a knife, aye?”

You grimaced at that. Ghost was certainly good in combat, that was something you could see from the jump. You just didn’t want to envision who and what he uses it on.

“I believe we got off on the wrong foot,” Price began. The words took you by surprise. “Might have ruffled too many of your little feathers too soon.”

“That is a severe understatement,” you muttered. Price shot you a look, successfully shutting you up.

“We do not normally have others on our ship. If we have treated you with hostility, then I apologize. You must understand the walls we have built up, you see,” he explained.

“Then why have you taken me if you are going to treat me as a mere rat?” you asked. He sniffed, feigning disinterest. “I thought you appointed me as a medic. It does not feel as though you are true to your word. Is there perhaps another reason for kidnapping me that you are not telling me?”

Price was quiet, eyes wandering off elsewhere. He appeared in thought, as if debating something heavily in his mind.

“No,” he finally said, hesitating. “You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I do not apologize for taking you, but I do… sympathize. Perhaps I should’ve been kinder.”

“Perhaps,” you repeated, albeit a tad bitterly. Price was unfazed by the subtle resentment you held. He didn’t seem to care at all. He was a hard man to read, even harder than Ghost. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and that was dangerous.

Price cleared his throat, the aura of awkwardness smothering him. It was evident to you that he wasn’t used to being kind and having to resolve with someone. You briefly wondered what made him change his mind.

“You are right,” he continued. “We took you in to be our medic. Medics cannot work in a cell.”

Price took a step back to leave the cell, yet the door remained open. He gestured for you to step out, to join him. You were weary, slowly standing from your spot and taking a skeptical step out of the cell.

“I will give you the choice in who you wish to stay with until we can arrange a space for you to sleep.” Price began stepping up the stairs that led to the upper deck, so you silently followed. “If you wish to stay with me again, that is fine. But if you wish to stay with Gaz or Soap, that can be arranged as well.”

“No Ghost?” you asked in, dare you say, amusement.

“Unless you would like to be strangled in your sleep, I would not advise it,” he responded.

“That was a jest, Captain. I know how to pick my battles.”

Price paused in front of the doors to the upper deck, turning to you. He stared for a long moment, before you saw the tiniest of smiles play at his lips. It was buried under his facial hair, but from the slight crinkle in his eyes, you knew.

“You’re quite the wise bird, I’ll give you that,” he mused, before opening the doors. “Up you go.”

The moonlight soaked into your skin the moment you stepped out of the brig. It was inviting, basking you in the warmth you so craved. The air was crisp, and you breathed it in heavily through your nostrils, your body immediately faltering in relief.

Oh, how you missed the outside. Though your stay in the brig was much shorter than when you first arrived, it was still just as alleviating to get a taste of being human again.

“You will stay with me for the night,” he explained, guiding you across the creaky decks. “The others are already in their rooms. Tomorrow, you can decide who you prefer.”

You gave him a nod in acknowledgment, following him quietly to his quarters. When you arrived, the familiar scent of musk and cinnamon invaded your nostrils. For a pirate, it was a comforting smell, and you found a strange solace in it.

“I’m sure you wish to bathe, yes?” he asked.

A bath sounded heavenly. To wipe the grime and sweat off your skin, to feel clean again. You would’ve jumped into the dark sea if it meant bathing.

“You do not mind?” you questioned, suspicious.

“You’ll be sleepin’ in my cot for the night. I’d prefer if you were unsoiled. No bad blood, aye?”

Price’s boots were heavy against the floors as he made his way to the back of his quarters, where a lone curtain hung. Pulling it back, he exposed a wooden bowl, large enough to fit you, but certainly a squeeze for him.

A barrel stood behind the bath, and Price made haste to lift it with ease. Water began to pour out of the spout, slowly but surely filling the makeshift tub.

While he worked, your eyes wandered to glance around his quarters. When staying in it previously, you didn’t have the gall to be curious. Now that the two of you were on good enough terms to be acquaintances for now, you allowed yourself to be a bit nosy.

The walls were littered with pinned up maps, all varying in land. You hadn’t a clue where everything was, so none of it made sense to you. However, upon looking over to his desk, you saw another map, one unlike the others.

This one was written on with the ink of a quill. You weren’t sure the location, however, it seemed to be a mixture.

Over some of the islands graphed on the map, a large X was drawn in its place. They were crossed out with the ink, covering up the names printed over the location, deeming it impossible to read.

However, two locations were circled rather than crossed out. One was in the middle of the sea, not a piece of land or island in sight. The other was circled around a small island, tucked away from the Mainland, its name unknown. Beside it, a scrap piece of paper sat.

“The one who heals the ill and poor

shall be the cure to all demise.

Washed away to land and shore

shall be the looking glass for ocean eyes.

Find the one that you shall seek

to end the curse of Shadow’s Peak.”

As you finished reading, a large hand came into view, slamming over the poem. Price loomed over you, leaning against the table.

“Go and bathe,” he ordered. “I will leave you alone to do your bidding and return when you’re done.”

Jostled by the surprise appearance, you offered a meek nod, sauntering off to the tub. As Price left, he rolled up the map as well as the poem, tucking them under his arm and leaving no trace of what you witnessed behind. He had something to hide, it was clear, but you couldn’t decipher the meaning of the passage you read.

Perhaps he was simply a writer. It would explain why he seemed defensive that you saw it, but it wouldn’t explain the map. He also didn’t seem the type to sit at his desk and meddle with written poetry. He was a Captain, and his priorities lied with the men on his ship and the thievery of neighboring villages.

Now left alone in the quarters, you willed yourself into the bath, sinking into the water. It wasn’t warm nor cold, but it was relaxing anyway, biting away the tension in your muscles. You were in desperate need of it, and you were grateful you and Price were at a standstill where he allowed you the pleasure.

While you tried to rid yourself of what you saw, it kept creeping in in waves, burdening you with questions unanswered. Even after you scrubbed away the caked dirt until your skin was raw and changed into clean garments that Price tugged out for you, the sense of unease never went away. You felt tainted, like a lingering darkness was coursing through your veins and oozing from your skin.

The garments you wore were large. They overtook your body, swallowing you whole, but they were much better in comparison to the rags that hung from your body, dirtied with nasty impurity. You didn’t know how to feel about the Captain after everything, but he was showing you humility, and that was enough for you right now. It was the best you could make out of being kidnapped by the four of them and thrown in a life of chaos and uncertainty.

As you tucked yourself into Price’s cot, you took one last glance to the maps that remained on the walls. None were like the one you had seen, not a scribble nor blotch tainting the paper. The one Price held was special, and you knew you’d be fighting tooth and nail in order to find out. Until then, you could let yourself relax. After all the torment you’d been through, you deserved a moment of peace before everything imploded once again.

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ NEED TO LISTEN TO ME — price is disappointed in you and your other three lovers, and finds that some 'training' is in order

read on ao3.

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, poly tf141, ANGRY sex, mean dom price, angst, degradation, minor dom/sub, light humiliation, orgasm denial, dacryphilia, minor spit play, minor blood play (not really), rough sex, price orders EVERYONE around, price-centred, whiny johnny and gaz agenda

// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //

You weren't scared of many things at this point in your life.

Being a signal officer for the military certainly aided that statement, but it was more the fact that you had four guard dogs in the form of the most seasoned special forces operatives you've ever known. Four very large, very scary men that you'd somehow found yourself lucky enough to get to call your partners.

Both on, and off, the field.

That being said, there was one thing you were terrified of. Like, to your bones, petrified.

And that thing had a name.

John Price.

He was formally the captain of your force for a reason, but he was also informally the captain of your relationship, as well. The one you all looked to in the most difficult of moments, the one that held reason and guidance above all.

It's been that way since the five of you met, and remains the same to this day.

Nonetheless.

It was a known fact between you, Soap, Ghost and Gaz that none of you liked seeing the man mad. You four could count on one hand the amount of times you'd witnessed it, all of which having been directed at either his superiors or an enemy.

But. Right now, in this office, seated on the small couch between your three lovers?

Yeah. You don't fear many things.

But John Price's disappointment is quite easily in your top three, and this situation only cements it.

"He's probably ordering our caskets," Gaz murmurs wistfully, eyes wide as he stares at his foot, tap-tap-tapping against the wooden floor. It's a nervous tic that gives him away too easily, but even with your hand on his knee, it doesn't seem able to quit.

You exhale a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut. "I hope he gets me a cute one," you mumble back, tone matching the resignation that clouds your captain's office.

"You four. My office."

Those were the only words Price had spoken to you guys, before marching off to a meeting with Laswell.

To say that you and your lovers were mortified was the biggest understatement of the century.

Even Ghost, sat perfectly still, expression perfectly neutral beneath his mask, oozes trepidation like it's the carbon dioxide he exudes with every breath.

"I know 'm 'n tha military, but I still don't wanna die, ya know?" Soap whines, his head flung back and blue eyes glued to the roof as his hands shake in his lap.

You guys must look like unruly students sat outside of your principal's office to any onlookers, and it should be embarrassing.

It would be, if you could feel anything but mortal peril.

You're about to quip a reply to Soap, when the door clicks open, and the three of you sit ramrod straight, Ghost not moving from his already perfect posture.

Price steps in, the door shutting closed behind him.

The silence is a tangible force, and your mouth is so dry, you'd think you were in a desert, not in your lover's office.

His footfalls echo around the modest space, before he leans against his wooden desk, folding his arms over his chest, before directing his furious gaze to you four.

"When I give orders," he starts, and oh god, his tone, it's so unbelievably firm, "I expect my team to follow them."

There's no response, except for the overwhelming quiet coming from the usually passionate and comforting presence that underlies your entire dynamic.

Price clears his throat, meeting all of your eyes one by one. You wonder if you can see the glassiness of yours, the barely restrained tears.

"So why," he begins, before swallowing once more, determination settling in, "Did all four of my teammates rush into an unstable building after being ordered to keep out?"

You know it's not just the anger of a captain's orders being refused.

It's the anger of a lover having to watch all four of his partner's risk their death, while he can do nothing but watch from the scope of a sniper rifle.

The clock on the wall above the door ticks, and none of you make a sound.

Price grabs a pack of cigars from his pocket, quickly sliding one out, placing it between his lips, and shoving the pack back into his slacks. He then pulls out a lighter from his back pocket, lighting the tobacco, before exhaling his first breath of smoke.

In any other situation, you or Gaz would be chastising him, telling him to stop smoking, or to at least do it outside.

Neither of you say a word.

Rubbing at the furrow between his brows, Price then drifts his eyes to Ghost, the only one who hasn't said a word since the mission.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Price says on a deep exhale, shaking his head. There's hurt there, genuine pain, and your heart stutters in your chest at the sight. "You're my lieutenant, Simon. I thought you'd at least 'ave the brains to listen to me when I make an order."

Ghost's hand tightens where it sit on his cargos, and even with his mask on, you can tell that a disgruntled frown lays beneath it.

"And you, Soap," he looks at the man to your right, now, and you can physically see him deflate at the disappointment in his captain's eyes. "Disrespecting authority is cute 'nd all, until it's me, mate."

Those words feel like a physical wound, even to you, and judging my Soap's crestfallen expression, for him, it must hurt tenfold.

And, then, it's your turn.

His mouth is set in a grim line, and you hope that he can see the regret, the genuine sorrow you feel at disappointing and -- and scaring your captain. Your lover.

"What were you thinking?" He asks, and your mouth wants to open, but it's as if there's an invisible force pinning it shut. "You weren't even supposed to step foot on enemy grounds, and you knew that."

And it's true. Your role is mainly with communications and technical supplies, not actual combat. You were trained, yes, but it has never been your role.

But you'd seen Soap rush in, Ghost trailing after him, yelling, and then Gaz not long after, and it was like your mind shut out any rational lines of thinking. There was no rationale when it came to your partners.

That was a flaw. A genuine character fault, and Price was cementing that fact in this very room.

"Kyle," Price runs his hand down his face, cigar in between his middle and index fingers, "Kyle."

The pain, regret, the melancholy -- it's its own element in this room, its own being, and it feels as if it's choking you from the inside out. Like a gas leak, or a grenade stuck in your throat, about to go off.

Ghost, shockingly, is the first to speak.

"Captain," he grits out. Not 'old man'. Not 'love'.

Captain.

"We're aware of our... misgivings," he states, the words coming off of his tongue like hot coals he needs to rid off, lest his entire mouth burns.

Price nods, slowly, eyes narrowing at Ghost. It hits you, then, how your lover's just dug all of your graves in one sentence. Gaz seems to realise, too, his eyes going wide, exhaling a low, short breath in surprise.

"Sweetheart," he quips, standing up in the transition of one moment to the next, eyes snapping to your glassy ones. The endearment holds no warmth to it, for the first time, and your heart shatters where it beats in your chest, shards of glass embedding into the muscle surround it. "Get on the desk."

He says the words, and in the next movement, sweeps his arm over his desk, causing all of his papers, his pens, his folders, to go careening to the floor.

Soap mutters a curse under his breath, and Gaz winces.

On shaky legs, you stand, walking the short distance to the wooden surface and sitting on it with short pants of breath.

His large hand grips your chin in a tight grasp, tilting your head back and forcing the eye contact between you both.

He leans in, mouth mere millimetres away from your own, before speaking. You can taste the tobacco as he does. "I'm gonna let every single one of my subordinates fuck your disobedient cunt, and it's not gonna get any cum. Do you understand that order, sweetheart?"

It's cruel. Patronising, and so unbearably condescending, but you nod, a tear finally leaking down your cheek.

With a calloused thumb, he wipes it away in one stroke. "Save that for the actual punishment, operator."

And then, he steps back, and takes a seat in his chair, allowing him a full view of the other three still sat at the couch, and your position in his desk.

"This is a lesson on following your captain's orders," Price barks his order, like most other men of his rank would. It's a stone cold contrast to the gentle, comforting way he usual spoke to the four of you. His voice, now, holds no love, no underlying adoration lacing through his words. "You will follow every command I give you, and hopefully, this training will carry onto our future missions."

You're all aware that if it gets too much, one of you will utter the safeword you're all aware of -- the weight of it almost embedded into your beings.

Price knows it, too. And no matter how angry he is, he'll always put you all first, listen to you when you genuinely need to stop.

The feeling in the room has shifted from one of heavy disappointment, to an electrifying anger that has liquid heat melting to your core.

"Simon," Price snaps his fingers, and it's almost as if you're in a parallel universe, because the large man immediately stands. "Lay 'er down on the desk."

Ghost only needs to take two steps from the couch before he's standing in front of you, hand fisting into your hair, before somewhat gently pushing you to lay flat against the smooth surface. Your breathing is harsh, your chest moving in quick rises.

"Strip 'er down," Price orders, voice gravelly as he takes another deep inhale of his cigar, folding his leg so his left ankle rests on his right knee, legs spread wide. He fills out the chair with his frame, and it makes you shiver as Ghost gets to work peeling your clothes off of you.

When your heated skin feels the kiss of the cool air, you let out a haggard breath, head falling back to hit the wood as you clench your eyes shut.

Ghost goes to spread your thighs, before pausing, awaiting Price's directions like a dutiful dog.

You never thought you'd see the day.

"She's wet enough," Price shrugs, taking another drag of his cigar. "Fuck 'er."

Oh, fuck.

He wasn't lying, you were soaking, something about the fear unknowingly having your inner thighs sticky and core aching to be filled.

But... not getting prepped? At all?

Ghost makes a surprised grunt of a noise, pausing for a moment, before recollecting his senses and unbuckling his pants.

Oh. Fuck.

He's really, properly following Price's directions, like the man had demanded. The guilt was eating all of you alive, and that festered in Simon's actions.

His deep brown eyes flick to yours, before he unzips his fly with one hand, gaze not moving from yours. There's slight apology in them, only a hint, before he leans down to spit on your cunt.

You inhale a sharp breath at the act, squeezing your eyes shut as his dick presses against your heat, rubbing against it slightly.

Then, he pushes in -- it makes you cry out, breath hitching as the tip enters. It's a tight fit, but he continues to push in, and it's almost as if you can feel the intrusion, the pressure in your chest.

"So you can follow orders, huh?" Price quips, almost nastily, and it has you shuddering as Ghost's hips finally flush against your own. You don't think you've ever taken any of them without foreplay, and it's a special form of torture. The pressure is almost too much, his cock filling you up so much.

Simon's head hangs between his shoulders, muscles tense as he stares down at you, the epitome of self-restraint.

He always was the most controlling one, the most calculating.

Not today, however.

That title easily belongs to Price, who merely relaxes further into his seat, as if he wasn't just mere feet away from the two of you.

"I said fuck her, Riley. Not stand there and keep it warm."

He's so fucking. He's fucking cruel about this, fully willing and wanting to make this hurt. It's so completely unlike the man you love, and it's psychologically damning in a way nothing else could be.

But, like directed, Simon fucks you.

He stops trying to be kind about it, stops wallowing in guilt. It's rough, forceful, urgent, unlike the way he usually liked to savour your pleasure, your pain. He usually delighted in the smooth, deep strokes, prolonging the passionate act almost vindictively.

No. Now, it's quick, punishing thrusts, and your head falls back and little moans escape your throat.

It's like you've both forgotten that Soap and Gaz sit on the couch, watching, waiting. Price has likely made it that way on purpose, to make them envy the attention you and Ghost are getting.

"Fuck," you moan, tits bouncing as Simon continues to fuck you relentlessly, harsh in his movements.

"Does he feel good?" Price is standing, and when you open glassy eyes, it's to see his face looking down at you. If you had the mind to, you'd flinch under his criticizing expression. "Answer me."

You nod, shakily, and when his brows narrow, you rush out a verbal response. "Yes, yes, he does!"

Price hums a noncommittal sound, before his hand slides down your stomach, leaving your hairs to stand on end, before his fingers reach your clit. In tight circles, he has you on the edge almost immediately, and you cry out.

"Gonna fuckin' cum," Ghost grunts, voice low as his eyes clench tight.

"Aww, you two close?" Your captain's voice is gruff, all too condescending, and just before you can find your release, his hand leaves your clit, and wraps around Ghost's neck. He leans into his ear, and his whisper is loud enough for everyone to hear. "Pull out."

Simon makes a noise suspiciously close to a whimper, and it's so unlike him that it has your eyes opening wide, before he does just as Price ordered.

He pulls out.

"Seriously?" You groan, filter eviscerated like your high was. You lean up, using your elbows for leverage.

Price raises one brow, before scratching at his beard almost absent-mindedly. "Got a complaint, sergeant?"

You shake your head, lightning quick, like a puppet on a string.

That's what you were right now -- what all of you were. Just puppets in whatever acts Price wanted to see you all star in.

It's exhilarating in the worst of ways.

"Soap, Gaz," Price snaps once more, and Ghost is nothing more than a neglected mutt. Which, really, is almost funny considering the amount of times the man teases you, Soap and Gaz about such a comment. You couldn't count the amount of times he's compare you three to 'needy puppies'.

Now, he was nothing more than that, and you wish you could enjoy that fact more.

The two men adhere to the command, radiating nervous energy as they stand to attention, not unlike they would if they were in a standard military unit.

"Gaz, take her mouth," Price demands, before his hand buries in the short hair near the nape of Soap's head with a mean grip, meant to hurt. Soap barely hides a whine as Price tugs him, forcing the man to his knees as if he's nothing more than the mutt Ghost usually refers to him as. "You, lick 'er clean."

You realise, then, what exactly this is.

It's truly a display of power. Of control. Because you four took that away from him on the field, unrightfully so. There truly is thought behind his anger, his pain.

It only makes the ache in your heart burn, makes it bruise and bleed where the shattered pieces cut and embed into the innerworkings of your body.

This 'training' won't make up for what you four pulled. Not in the slightest.

But it's something to let John get some of his emotions out, in a somewhat healthier way than you lot usually resorted to.

You'd always offer your support, offer yourself, and he knows that.

He's deliberately taking away that option for you, taking control to comfort the side of him that is so deeply ingrained, so deeply relied on for him to live.

You love him. So effortlessly.

Those words remain accurate, even as Johnny first licks over your wet pussy, and Kyle's dick bumps against your lips.

Opening your mouth without a thought, Kyle's tip slips in, his pre-cum salty on your tongue as you flatten your tongue against it. Johnny's as enthusiastic as ever, maybe even more than usual, as he delegates all of his attention to your aching warmth.

John's grip doesn't release from Johnny's hair, shoving his closer against you, and the sight is so hot that you wish you could fully, properly enjoy it.

Another time, when you're all in better spots, happy and unapologetic, you'll ask them to re-enact the scene.

Johnny moans against your pussy, hands coming up to grip at your bare thighs, and you just know there'll be finger-shaped bruises come tomorrow morning. He's always been unaware of his strength, not understanding the proper damage he can inflict, especially in the bedroom. It's attractive as all hell.

"Yeah? She taste good, hm?" John nearly snarls, and you let out a drawn out moan at the pleasure and words. The sound is muffled by Kyle pushing in deeper, having you almost gagging on his length.

Your eyes flutter shut at the onslaught of feelings, but even with no sight, you can feel Simon's eyes on you like a physical weight.

You know what position he's in, without having to look. Leaning against the wall with a furious expression, large arms folded over his bulky chest. Maybe he's pulled off his mask, maybe it's just been hooked over his crooked nose.

"Fuck, cap," Kyle groans, bucking into your throat. "So fuckin' good--"

Johnny muffles a whine as his efforts nearly double, and you swear spots colour the darkness of your vision. You're already there, and it's not like you can say anything, with Kyle abusing your mouth like this.

"She's close, ain't she, Johnny? Feel her clenchin' on your tongue?" John taunts, and you can feel Johnny nod against your core, nose brushing your clit as he does.

John huffs a cruel laugh, before he abruptly pulls Johnny away by the scruff of his neck. You can't help by buck up, searching for touch, but none comes.

"Kyle," John's tone is one requiring no resistance, and with a shaky exhale, Kyle pulls out of your mouth, a string of spit clinging to his dick, before snapping and leaving your cheek covered with a line of it.

You shakily open your eyes, your pussy begging for a release, knowing that you won't get one. Not yet.

"You make a mess, you clean it up," John says.

So, Kyle leans down, his tongue licking over the spit trail, and really it should be disgusting.

Instead, it only makes you wetter.

Your thighs incessantly shake, no hint of stopping as your body aches. The emotional turmoil, mixed with the physical kind -- it's a concoction for torture.

With half-lidded eyes, you watch as John forces Johnny's head in between your breasts, pressing his face into them. It must be almost suffocating, but Johnny manages to whine as you feel John's hand wrap around Johnny's dick, positioning it against your twitching hole.

"Rut into her," John orders, before stepping back.

Johnny does just that -- he thrusts in, bottoming out with one push. Your moan sounds too alike to a squeal at the stretch, the sudden intrusion. Your arms wrap around his back, nails scratching lines down Johnny's back as he thrusts into you almost manically. You're sure that you're drawing blood, but it only seems to encourage the man rutting into you further, his thrusts urgent and feral.

"Jesus christ," someone -- you're sure it's Kyle -- murmurs, and you suddenly want to know what you must look like from a spectator. Ruined, probably.

Your breaths are harried as you feel yourself getting close once more, tears burning at the corner of your vision at the pure need coursing through your veins.

"Please," you whimper, squeezing like a vice around Johnny's dick. "Please, oh god."

"Now you want me to make decisions? Let you two cum?" There's a hand in your hair, and in any other situation, it'd be calming.

Currently, it feels like a thinly veiled threat.

"Please, John, 'm so sorry, please," you beg, eyes blurry as you look up into the man's stormy blue eyes.

Usually, they're comparable to a calm ocean, the beach mid-summer.

Now, they're akin to the darkest of storms, the ones sailors whisper about, the ones that haunt them while they're asleep at sea. Ones that cause shipwrecks to wash up on shores, ones that cause stories to be passed between campers on the scariest of nights.

"Now you're sorry, sweetheart?" And, oh, there's a sliver of the warmth you've come to crave, and it almost has you melting where you lay.

You're so close, you can taste it on your tongue, and your moans get louder, needier, more frantic --

"Stop, Johnny."

Tears fall, then. Hot and heavy down your cheeks, leaving sticky tracks in their wake. Hiccups fall from your lips as you sob from the deprevation.

Johnny whines, head drooped low as he stops, and you can feel him pulse inside of you, both of you at your wits' end.

"You follow orders so well in this room, don't you?" John says. The voice of a captain.

It's almost your last straw. The devastation is too great, the mix of physical and emotion stress weighing on you heavily.

"'M so sorry, shoulda listened," you cry, body trembling.

"John, please, we're sorry," Kyle insists, a furrow between his dark brows where he takes a step closer to you and Johnny.

Simon, although silent, is also closer to you both now than he had been, no longer stood against the wall.

Your boys -- they're so inherently protective, and it's such a nice feeling. No matter how guilty they feel, how genuinely sorry, they can't stand to see you or Johnny so weak, so vulnerable.

Love. You love them, in a way words can never describe.

John exhales. A deep, thoughtful one.

"We're talking about this, after we're all cleaned up," he says. It's the first hint of himself that you've heard tonight, and the relief is like an intoxicating drug.

It's like even the room itself takes a deep breath, dispelling of some of the tension lining every inch of it.

"Off 'er," John snaps his fingers, and Johnny pulls out with a small whimper, head still hung low.

Grabbing your hips, John flips you over, making you bend so your face is to the desk and your ass is in the air. His large hand presses against your lower back, bending you into an arch.

He slides in, and it's an easy entry. You don't think you've been more wet in your life, and gods, you need it.

Setting a ruthless pace immediately, every thrust forces a whimper, a moan, a whine out of your mouth, eyes dazed as your cheek presses against the wood. His hand fists into your hair, forcing your head to face the three men stood side by side, watching you both with a flurry of emotions behind heavy stares.

"Feel so fuckin' good, christ," John seethes, his grip tightening in your hair, causing your moan to become louder as it leaves your lips.

It isn't long before you're at that cliff once more, begging for a final push, just so you can reach that finish you ache for.

"Gonna, fuck, please, let me cum, John, I love you, I'm so sorry," your words aren't fully your own, and they come out in a desperate plea.

"Yeah? My girl gonna cum for me? Needy slut."

Those words are your undoing, your nirvana.

You cum, body strung tight as tears fall down your cheeks once more, your vision nearly blacking out with the strength of your orgasm. It's almost painful, the stimulation altogether too much, and not enough.

John finishes not long after, his cum filling you up with a loud groan from him.

He releases his fist in your hair, and you head falls to the desk, body slumping with the final release of pleasure.

Stroking a smoothing hand down your back, he pulls out, and you can feel his seed leaking down your thighs. You must be a sight -- all worn out and dripping with the white liquid.

"We don't getta cum?" Johnny whines, and you can hear the roll of Simon's eyes.

There's a hand stroking stray hairs off of your face, and from the texture and size of the limb you can tell it's Kyle.

"You won't get to tomorrow, either, if you keep tha' up," Price mutters, and you let out a delusional giggle at his words. You're cum-drunk, almost, from how drawn out your orgasm had been.

"We really are sorry, Cap," Kyle murmurs genuinely, and the hurt is a sharp barb on his tongue. "You know we love you, didn't mean to hurt you."

John releases a long, worn-out breath. "I know that. I do. But you're a bunch of reckless muppets 'nd you fuckin' went too far today. I'm your captain, lover or not."

"We'll talk it over later," Simon states, and you can't help but agree with the sentiment.

You will. And it'll be a painful conversation, but one that you all owe to your captain.

Because, at the end of the day, you four would do anything for the man that you love. That includes the tough words, the difficult exchanges.

John presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and with complete certainty, you're sure that you're all going to be okay.

a/n. the day that i stop loving poly 141 is the day that i die. price needs all the love omg this one kinda hurt to write cause oof angst but hopefully it was an enjoyable read!!!! thank you to everyone who comments on my fics, your notes etc make me do a lil happy dance ily all!!!!!!!!!!!!

[modernquackfare]

How about Simon having a wife that is a toymaker and makes plushies. Wife!reader comes to the base and gives each of the tf 141 a plushie that looks like them. All of them gets one… except Ghost

Needles to say, he’s very upset, all day, that he didn’t get one.

Only when he gets home, he sees plushies of himself and the reader on the bed

A/N: okay omg i'm so so sorry this has taken forever but I've lost my draft three times 😭 luckily i wasn't TOO far along writing/had it copied but HERE U GO <33

Ghost x Fem!Reader - Toymaker Wife

For such a special day, you come prepared. It's the first time you're setting foot on Spec Gru's European base, thanks to your husband's insistence on security and containment—whatever that means. After much begging and many strategically missed video calls, Simon finally extends an invitation.

It's a cold, concrete world, Simon tells you. Nothing like you, love, or so he says. Does he think being a toymaker for work is synonymous with an inability to handle a few more military men than you already have? It's hard to believe that anyone on base could be more threatening or deadly than Simon himself.

Or Ghost, as they call him here. It's a little funny—reminiscent of middle schoolers that roleplay wolves named Luna or Rebel, but he'd have your head if you ever say such a thing, regardless of how true it might be. You've considered making him a wolf-ear headband just to prove a point and laugh at his furrowed expression. You're sure that his friends, those large men and women in the photo he let you keep, would find it equally funny.

"Sergeant Gaz, Captain Price, Sergeant Soap…” You count, knocking each handheld plush into your bag. It feels just a little childish, showing up to a military base with a pack full of toys-but in your defense, they're the product of your profession and adorable. Each is handmade to recreate the likeness of every member of Task Force 141. They'll probably like the gifts, if Simon's description of each's personality is accurate. Soap's boyish charm, Gaz's calm demeanor, and Price's warm, but dry sense of humor—that's something you can work with.

***

"It's—is this a mini me? This is braw, you've nailed it, lass." Soap lifts his plush into the air, as if holding a newborn babe to the sun. "Down to the scars. I'll be."

You can't help the ripple of a laugh when beside him, Gaz similarly examines his miniature self. "Not bad," he breathes, wiggling the doll's arms as if to make it dance. "Not bad at all. What a handsome fellow."

Soap lifts his doll, moving its head as if it were speaking for him in a poor attempt at ventriloquism "Finely crafted, maybe. Handsome? Well, that's up for—"

"Well, pass yours on over then, let's see that Yule log you call a mohawk," Gaz sneers back, matching Soap's doll's movements with his own.

It's a successful introduction, you think! Simon watches on in silence, loving warmth evident in his eyes as he does. He's not dragging you away and shipping you back home, so things must be going well—as silent and distant as he's being.

"Do you like them?” You ask, hands folded in your lap.

Price fidgets with his, admiring the tiny boonie hat that you've included, small strips of Velcro lining the bottom to adhere the hat to the head. "Never thought I'd ever be the owner of my own doll," he murmurs. "Got the hat just right, didn't you? Spot on."

"Aye, but don't leave it lying about," Soap grins, making his doll trot on over and speak in pitched up tones. “That hat of yours might just disappear. I've got hair too, Cap'."

"Yeah, hair that needs covering."

"Oh, bolt, ya dobber."

Amidst the light chatter of your newfound friends in Simon's comrades, you glance over at the man. There your husband stands, arms crossed tight against his chest. He's got that look—definitely pouting under that mask of his, as much as he protests, saying that it isn't pouting, it's brooding. The others seem to take notice of your wandering gaze, though, and suddenly all eyes are on Simon and his very obvious lack of a personalized doll.

"Don't look so solemn, Ghost," Gaz grins cheekily. "You've almost got me feeling bad for you. You're the one with the dollmaker for a wife, mate.

Simon doesn't respond. His dark gaze, gentle brown eyes hardened into rocks, finds Gaz. Shut it, he seems to say without even opening his mouth.

That grey cloud seems to follow him throughout the day. Convivial conversation with his other friends on base falls flat when the spotlight falls on him, his responses limited to a scant "Hmm," or "Uh-huh," or even a quiet look that verges on a glare. He'll pull away when you reach for his hand, casually enough to pass off as an accident or fault of imperceptibility. As if you didn't know him better—that his reflexes and peripheral vision weren't as sharp as blades.

"Stupid anyway," he mumbles to himself, catching your ears. "Stupid toys."

You frown. He knows better than to speak this way—you've discussed it before, about how much you treasured your work and hated having it dismissed by words like stupid and childish. “I don't think they're stupid," you interrupt, never too intimidated to speak up against him.

Simon immediately softens upon realizing that you've heard him. “It's not—that's not what I meant. You know I don't think they're stupid."

Right, but he's acting strange all day. Still, you can't find it within yourself to probe. "Something is, though. Right?"

"The way they play with them,” Simon immediately speaks, shoulders stiff. "Just…grown men, playing like children."

"Ah," you hum. Somehow, you can't bring yourself to believe it—but you don't ask. It's not as if it's even remotely big enough of an issue to need addressing, after all. You just hate to see Simon so withdrawn. At least, more so than usual.

***

Simon is absent from dinner in the mess hall later on, after giving you an extensive tour and dropping you off at one of the on-base cafes. That's how you know something's off. He would never normally give up an opportunity to share a meal with you, even in a noisy, crowded cafeteria like the one on base.

"Wasn't hungry," he only shrugs when you find him in his on-base unit, boots kicked up as he nurses a neat whiskey. Oh, he's pouting.

You can't help yourself. "Aww, baby," you coo, lingering closer. "Are you feeling alright? You've been gloomy all day…"

"Mmph," he shrugs, gaze flickering up to yours—and he can't help how he all but melts at the love in your eyes. "Just…tired. Go'n and get your shower done. Wanna snuggle."

And how could you say no to that? Your growing suspicion had been that Simon was feeling left out, or forgotten, not receiving a doll of his own. Little does he know, you giggle to yourself.

***

You're in the shower when Simon emerges from his brooding, lurching off the couch and trudging towards the room, where he'd made his bed with clean sheets and set up fluffy pillows for his wife's arrival. The bitterness of being left out of her sweet benevolence has largely faded. She is his wife, after all.

He nudges open his bedroom door, set on his dresser to shed the heavy layers of the day, the mask, and finally exist as Simon for the rest of the night. With you. No doll could ever distract him from you.

He's pulling a hoodie over his head when tiny figures catch in the corner of his vision. A hallucination? No. Dolls.

You and him, smiling and snuggled together. You in your favorite sundress, rosy cheeks and cute face. Him in his mask—which is removable, he discovers on closer inspection. Simon gently tugs off the cloth skull mask, curious to see his own likeness rendered in doll form.

"Handsome bugger," he mutters, thumb brushing over his doll's small face. Blond with stern brown eyes, but smiling. Soap was right about the scars—each placed with perfect accuracy. The one extending from the left corner of his lip up his cheek. The one across his eyebrow. You even got the one under his chin, tucked under the plushie's soft, round face.

On the right hands of both dolls, he realizes, there is a hidden circle of Velcro. So they can hold hands in any orientation. It's such a you thing to do that it hurts.

When you emerge from your shower, all three are gathered in the living room, watching TV. Simon with his legs up on the coffee table, and your miniatures holding hands in his lap. It's hard to help the beam that curls up on your lips—and why would you want to?

"Looks like someone's found the kids," you coo, swaying over and plopping down beside him. “I'm glad you like 'em. Did I do you justice?"

"More than," Simon rasps, scooting close, flush against your side. "They're better than that git, Soap's, that's for sure."

His words coax laughter out of you as you press your head to his chest and scoop up the two little toys into your arms. "Careful, Si. They might hear what you said and tell him.”

"They can go on and tell the whole base, for all I care. Your skill went as far as it could go, it's his face that's the problem." Simon snorts, tugging you close and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Better believe I'm showing this one off tomorrow. Might have to keep it in here, though. I'm not risking a theft."

"You say that every time," you laugh, snuggling close and shutting your eyes for the night as he wraps an arm around you—warm, solid, and safely his.

Request Archive

[bi-writes]

If you need horny ideas. How would the141 men react to their partner having nipple piercing.

i'm so glad you asked !!!!!! (18+, f!reader)

gaz — oh, baby, gaz is a sucker for pretty things, being one himself. he frequently records both of you. he takes amateur videos most often, recording you in fits of breathlessness and deliriousness. he's definitely an ass-man, but his favorite video he's ever taken is you underneath him, your thighs pressed up around his hips as he pounds into you at an intense angle. your tits are bouncing with every movement, piercings nearly sparkling in the low light, and fuck if that isn't 100/10 wank material.

soap — johnny is into anything. any kink, any piercing, anything new, and if he hasn't tried it, he's a panting dog, eager to discover new, sexual experiences for himself. and when you, very shyly, showed him what was under your bra, johnny's eyes rolled back into his head because holy shite, ye are the woman of my dreams. loves sucking on them and slobbering all over your tits—says the metallic taste is so good, and his favorite place is putting his head between your tits and suckling a nipple into his mouth with a low groan. he'll do it anywhere, too—on the couch as you watch a movie, in bed as you try to sleep, anywhere anytime for any reason.

price — the first time he sees you naked, he immediately thinks "fuck, she's too young for me," but you recognize that timid look in his eyes. as soon as you get that man on his knees and your tits in his mouth, he's immediately slack-jawed and pawing at you like a needy puppy. the thought "mommy?" flashes through his mind. just briefly. just a little.

ghost — you're so shy when you show ghost the only quirky thing about you. this man is covered in scars, burns, tattoos, old wounds. he wears a skull mask on every date, and yet you're a little jumpy to show him your tits? you toss your shirt onto the floor and perk up a little on your knees. your nipples are overly pebbled, with the cold air and his dark eyes right on them, but your mind just whirs when ghost chuckles low in his chest and pulls up the hem of his shirt to show off his chest. you're in a fit of giggles when you he comes closer—there was nothing to be worried about. ghost has a matching set, too. :D

[imaginedreamwrite]

The whole 141 doesn’t know he’s married let along has kids. When his family comes to visit, they’re all blindsided by the pretty Mrs. Price and Cap’s daughters who are Price’s little shadows

Can you do a Drabble on this

“You know Price is married?” A fork clatters against a plate, as two sets of blue eyes centre on Gaz’s face.

“Wha’thefuck?” The statement comes out all in one word, Johnny’s surprise matching Gaz’s, but not Ghost’s.

“He’s got kids too, daughters-” Ghost relays the information, much to the surprise of Soap & Gaz, both who stare at him like he’s got a third head. “-little rugrats-”

“How the fuck do y’know?” Soap rests his elbows on the table and lean in, his eyebrows furrow.

Ghost hears the sound of little feet against the floor and has only half a second to prepare before a small body slams into his own. Behind his mask he smiles and lifts the little body up without a moment’s struggle.

“Uncle Simon!” The little girl with hair the exact shade of Price’s, bounds toward the rugged soldier. She’s a little mini-Price in all her features, taking after her daddy.

“Squirt,” he greets the Captain’s daughter, tickling her sides as she squeals—all while Gaz and Soap sit dumbfounded.

“Uncle?” “Squirt?”

“Got any stories for me today?” The question is spoke with that little voice that makes Ghost feel protective of the captain’s daughter—like a true uncle who adores his niece.

“Hold the fu-”

“Don’t.” Simon cuts Johnny off with a glare and a sharp tongue, making him mindful of the innocent ears. The little girl who clings to Simon is quickly distracted by her parents who enter the mess-hall.

John is walking with his wife, a pretty and kind woman that he is fiercely in love with him, and another two kids. The little boy on Mrs. Price’s hip takes after you, a pretty cute boy with your eyes and smile.

The little girl that trails behind John is the middle child, and a little shadow that completely follows him like a duck following its mother. The Price children are all his pride and joy, a family unit that he didn’t think he would ever have the chance to have.

“There’s more Price bairn?” Johnny stands slightly to look over at the other girl and boy, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Who the ‘ell was going to tell us?”

“Simon Riley, an uncle-”

“Shut it, Garrick.” The little girl following Price joined her sister in attacking Ghost, leaping at him with just as much excitement as her sister.

“What have I told you two about jumping on my men?” John approaches the three soldiers, only one of which is being tackled, and gently scolds his girls with no real seriousness. “Leave the boys alone.”

“Sorry daddy.” The eldest girl scrambles to get off Simon, but not her sister. Her sister still stays clinging to the man, her fingers running over his mask. “I got a little excited.”

They’re in shock, Soap & Gaz, still bewildered by the implication that their seasoned captain is married. With three kids.

“And Mrs. Price…” Ghost makes the introduction without them having to ask, the sound of his voice drawing the two sergeant’s attention toward you.

“You can always tell them to get off Simon.” You laugh as you reach for your middle child’s hand, gently leading her off the big soldier’s lap.

The moment she’s off she darts toward Price, diving toward her daddy. The middle, like the eldest child, is crazy about their daddy. They think he’s a hero, a man who’s invincible.

“Don’t mind it, miss.” Simon speaks to you with respect, the kind that is deserved. “Little rotters are cute.”