#task force 141 x you

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Gaz: You do realise there's a rumour going around the base that you're in love with Ghost? Y/N: A rumour? Are you telling me people are doubting it?

[gloomwitchwrites]

There was this tiktok trend where kids and their mums would pull a prank on their dads by telling their mums to shut up...141 with a teenage son who tries it?

Anon, I am very aware of this prank. If mom is in on it, I consider it all in good fun, but omg, these guys would be absolutely stressed if they heard their teenage son tell mom to "shut up." Heads would absolutely roll over that!

Price is certainly old enough to have a teenage son on the older side. I would even say the same for Ghost. Gaz is old enough for a younger teenage son. With Soap's age...that's stretching it. BUT SUSPEND DISBELIEF Y'ALL. I'm aging Gaz and Soap up a bit for this one.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Presented in two double drabbles and two triple drabbles.

Task Force 141 x Female Reader (w/ children)

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, pranks, domestic, dad!141, brief suggestive themes, marriage

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Ugh. Shut up, Mum.”

There is a brief pause between mum and when the television remote hurtles across the room. Your son doesn’t duck in time, the hard plastic hitting his shoulder before bouncing onto the kitchen island with a loud clack.

Before your son turns, Kyle’s baseball cap with the Union Jack, soars through the air like a frisbee. This one your son manages to avoid, but it’s quickly followed by a slipper. It flies past his head, and you catch it out of the air before it makes contact with the front of the microwave.

You and your eldest son turn in Kyle’s direction as he manifests in the kitchen entryway, the other slipper in hand, poised to launch it at the first sign of any movement.

“Wanna repeat yourself, mate?” Kyle appears calm and poised, but you notice the subtle tension in his jaw.

“It was a joke, Dad! Promise!”

Kyle’s arm holding the slipper starts to rise.

“Kyle,” you say. His gaze flicks to you. “Just a joke. No harm. I was in on it.”

His shoulders immediately sag. Kyle shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. Heading for the fridge, he opens it up, grabbing a can of his favorite beer.

Kyle sets the beer down on the island, pointing the slipper at you and then his son. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out, just an exasperated huff.

Kyle snatches up the television remote and sticks it into the pocket of his grey sweatpants. Keeping hold of the shoe in one hand, and his beer in the other, he gives the two of you his back, heading into the living room.

“No one bother me until the game is over,” he says over his shoulder. “And someone bring me my bloody slipper!”

John Price

"Fucking hell, Mum. Shut it."

John is up and out of his seat so fast you hardly see him move. He strides over to his son, yanking him off the stool by the scruff of his shirt.

"John! It's a prank!" you say quickly, reaching for his arm.

The boy is dangling in the air, toes just shy of touching the ground. "A prank?" asks John skeptically.

"Mum is in on it. Promise."

John sighs heavily and slowly lowers his son to the ground. The moment his feet touch ground, he tries to step away, but John holds firm, keeping his eldest child immobile. He leans forward a bit. Lowers his voice.

"Prank or no, you never talk to your mother, your sisters, or any woman in that manner again. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy." John releases his son. "The lawn needs trimmed."

"Yes, sir."

Your son scurries away. It isn't until the door to the garage opens and shuts that John moves toward you. His arm drapes over your waist, hand landing firmly on your ass, squeezing hard.

"You're coming with me."

"To do what?"

He presses his lips to your ear. "For a different sort of punishment."

John "Soap" MacTavish

"You’re off your head, lad.”

With Johnny’s cold tone comes a tension to your son’s shoulders. He becomes rigid, sliding down into his chair like he can escape from his father by cowering underneath the table. Johnny comes around the corner, a bit of sweat on his brow. He's been building furniture all day for the nursery.

"Want to repeat that for me?" asks Johnny.

Your son’s voice cracks. "It was just a prank, Dad."

"It was what?" Johnny strides forward.

"It's a prank. I'm in on it. Promise," you say, attempting to soothe Johnny’s anger.

Johnny crosses his arms over your chest. "Is it?" He glances between the two of you and sighs, muttering, “Am pure done in.”

He disappears down the hall, returning with a stack of instructional manuals, dropping them into his son’s lap. "You're building furniture."

"But I—"

“You right scunner. C’mon.” Johnny yanks his son out of the chair, the stack of instructional manuals goes flying. Your son reaches for them all, desperately clasping them against his chest.

“Johnny," you call out, walking around the counter to intervene.

He glances over his shoulder, frown gown, sly smirk on his face. “Deal with you later."

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Oi, Mum. Shut it.”

Your son is a wonderful actor. You’ll give him that. Even you almost believe him. Not that he would—he’d never—but his delivery reminds you of a completely pissed football fan ready to throw a punch at a member of the rival team.

He should consider theater.

Simon, your husband, is watching a rugby match in the living room. The television is on but at a low volume.

Within seconds of the words leaving your son’s mouth, Simon appears like a phantom guardian in the entryway. In one he holds the remote like a weapon. The other arm cradles his infant daughter. She looks like a small bean. Slightly curved as she snuggles closer against Simon’s chest as she sleeps.

He's not looking at you. He's staring at his son, gaze intense and full of fire.

You’ve seen that look before.

Mission abort.

"He's joking, Simon. It's just a prank,” you soothe, knowing you need to get ahead of this.

Not that Simon would hurt you or his son, but he rarely takes any shit. This prank was a gamble, and you’re completely regretting it.

"Don't mean it, Dad."

Simon just stares for a long minute. His daughter squirms and that is when he glances down, severing the connection. Observing her must change something in him, because his gaze returns to the two of you, and there is a calmness now.

Sighing heavily, Simon shakes his head, completely exasperated. The eye roll is so apparent it’s like a shout.

In the moment he was pissed—livid. But now he’s over it, more annoyed and unamused than actually mad.

Turning on his heel, daughter still cradled in one arm, Simon returns to his recliner, settling back into the soft cushions to finish watching his rugby match.

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[midnightcrw]

Even though Simon is quite an intimidating man and most people are afraid of him, sometimes he's quite adorable, especially when he has a fever. With the blanket pulled up to his chin and the pillows all fluffed up, all you can see is his head while his nose is red from blowing it on tissues.

Though you would never admit out loud that you find him adorable like that, you think it's obvious from the way Simon looks at you with a deadpan expression on his face.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," you scold him lightly as you put both hands on your hips.

"Then don't treat me like a baby," his voice was hoarse because of his cold, and it sounded different because his nose was all stuffy.

And hearing him sound like that made you bite your lip, trying to stop yourself from cooing, which you definitely didn't succeed in doing.

"Get out," he coughed in between as he slowly turned away from you.

"But-"

"Out."

And that's when you immediately left your shared bedroom.

"Open your mouth."

"I never thought I would hear these words from you," Simon said with a raspy tone.

"Open!" He knew you were frustrated and that's why he now kept his mouth tightly shut, just to provoke you even more.

"Come on," you said as you pushed the spoon full of cough syrup towards his lips, but Simon just shook his head frantically as he dodged the spoon, causing some of the syrup to drip onto the sheets.

You let out a heavy sigh of annoyance while cursing inwardly as you stood up to get the wet wipes to clean up at least some of it, but not before you caught Simon grinning at you like an idiot.

"I saw that!" you yelled as you slammed the door shut.

"I wasn't even hiding it!" Simon tried to shout back, which ended in a coughing fit.

[lxvvie]

How do you think the 141 would react if their partner was playfully mad at them in the morning because they had a dream where he cheated on them?

Price - The one who shrugs it off with that chonky-cheek smile of his because this isn't the first time he's dealt with something like this. Yours just happened to be the tamest reaction.

Gaz - The one who jokes back on some, "I cheated with you, darling," type shit which makes you snort in response.

Soap - The one who's genuinely confused as to who he'd cheat on you with because... who would he cheat on you with? Plays it cool, though, and proceeds to show you in many ways why you're the ONLY one for him, bonnie. ❤️

Ghost - The one who fucks it all up by giving you sass and sarcasm which actually gets you angry, puts him in the doghouse, and earns him a spot on the couch that night. Ghost doesn't give a fuck, thinks it was the most hilarious shit ever (if his chuckle at your indignation was any indication), and brings you into the living room to sleep on the couch with him because it's you and him against the world. And the couch.

[hopelesslonelyghost]

Affection

poly!task force 141 x gn!reader

warnings// suggestive-ish, tooth-rotting fluff, a sliver of angst at the end, NOT BETA READ; apologies for any typos

word count: 364

i loooove tf 141 poly fics i just had to hop on. it’s pretty short but i would love to write more about them <3 this one’s short bc i wrote it on a whim bc my worms were worminggg

I think about how each of the members of the 141 are so different when it comes to showing their affection for you:

There’s John who loves to rest his palm against your cheek and softens when he sees you melt against the warmth of his hand. You love placing a quick kiss to his palm, hearing the way he purrs under your ministrations sending a shiver down your spine.

Then there’s Soap who loves to just yank you gently against him and wrap his arms tightly around you, giving you a good squeeze with those beefy arms of his while placing a soft kiss to your forehead. You squeeze him back, trying to reciprocate the same energy he gives you, tilting your head up enough to place your lips against his neck, living for the way goosebumps erupt on his skin when you do.

Then, of course, there’s Gaz who loves picking you up from the waist, twirling you around, making you giggle. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, gripping on his shoulders as you stare into each other’s eyes. Pulling him in by placing a hand on the back of his neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss. He always ends up pinning you against the wall, holding you there as the two of you reconnect after a long mission away from each other.

And last, but most definitely not least, is Simon who isn’t very comfortable with open expressions of affection, but shows it in the way of fleeting touches. Standing next to you during debriefs, pinkies softly brushing against each other, his way of saying ‘I’m here.’ Or sitting next to you at the mess hall, legs spread and his knee gently knocking against yours under the table. You think back on the time you got the ghost alone in the hall, looking both ways before standing on your tippy-toes, gripping his shoulders and tugging him down, placing a kiss onto his skull mask and whispering, “Please be safe.” just before he left on a solo op.

The four of them knowing without needing to say it, that you truly love them and cherish every moment you have with them. Soaking in each other, because you’re all painfully aware that tomorrow is never promised.

[rottingflowrs]

I just known soap would say some shit like this 😭

[porkcutletbowl44]

Sorry this got away from me, it literally ran, sprinted out of my head. I'm sorry. NSFW warning

Figure skating but make it Kyle's pursued dream where 141 fully supports him and his childhood sport; I mean look at him! That gorgeous face, lean body, slim and muscular, perfect for skating.

He recruits you, a pretty partner to compete together against the other rival countries. People love the chemistry of figure skating partners, the platonic looks, the hand placement, especially Kyle's because he's so beautiful and charming and his hand almost always shys above your ass in front of cameras where they can't see.

The rule is that it's always platonic, figure skaters don't really date or anything, because break ups ruin everything! They ruin the mood and the partnership!

It's not technically a relationship if there's nothing serious, right?

Kyle drags you to his changing room with Johnny, where Johnny — (and Kyle have you bent over, shoving their cocks in your cunt at the same time, or have you bent over Johnny gagging on his cock as Kyle takes out his frustration on your poor battered pussy after hours or teasing on the rink, you just couldn't get those jumps right, and Kyle couldn't get his balance to hold you up long enough. Every oopsie makes him manhandle you into a curved lift; hard cock prone on his thigh digging into your pussy through your suit)— helps you and Kyle change out of clothes and wash make up.

John is an excellent personal trainer, reminding you to smile during training so you don't forget to smile at the audience in competitions, always praising you so nicely— (and stealing your used thong from last night's show as you end your practice in an ankle hold spin so you can't see who keeps stealing them. Those were your favorite pair too :( you never get to see the lace peek out of his pocket when he has your knees up to your ears to make sure you're maintaining your flexibility), — he is always so sweet and aware of you and your feelings!

And it's all your fault for staying too late when Simon runs the Zamboni after everyone is gone! It's just you and him, all alone on the ice as he refreshes it for tomorrow's usage. Seriously! You were just — (begging him to take you downstairs where the freezer is, letting him fuck you silly on the floor. Gladly cleaning off his massive, girthy cock with your tongue and whimpering when he repeatedly slaps the flaring tip on your tongue so he can cum all over your lips and cheeks) — Making sure you got your moves right, and hoping to stay and chat to convince him to come to one of the shows, you just lost track of time :(

Man, what would you do without 141?

[i-am-hungry-24-7]

[Rambling Something in Few Sentences - Fluff version]

TF141*Reader. Different Seasons with different members, Same love and FLUFF 🫡💖pls come here if you want angst version :D

Gaz - Spring

“Hey Kyle, this shop got cherry blossom theme donuts!” He gets pulled to the bakery and comes out with 10 donuts in the paper bag.

“They have a Spring discount for chocolates, let’s buy some!” another 5 bags of white chocolates are added to the bag.

“New marshmallows for picnic? we can eat this on our picnic next week!”He watches you grab 3 different flavors and head to the counter.

“Didn’t you just tell me you’re on a diet yesterday?”

“What did you just say, Garrick?”

“Nothing, honey.”

Ghost - Summer

“the weather just makes the air humid and stinky”

“Two windmills are standing on a wind farm, One asks, “What’s your favorite type of music?””

“mmhmm”

“The other says, “I’m a big metal fan.” “

“Thank you baby, the room’s fucking dry now.”

“Good.” He doesn’t move his eyes from the pages, just pats your head that’s resting on his chest and keeps reading.

Soap - Autumn

“Finally finish cleaning these shite.” Johnny wipes off the sweat on his forehead and proudly looks at the leaves you two just swept into a huge pile.

“...”

“Bonnie?”

He jumps when he sees you staring at the pile of leaves, and suddenly start dashing and jumping into it with face down.

“damn Johnny this is fun!” Your muffled voice coming when you wiggle your limbs like a starfish makes him burst into laughter.

Fuck it, it won’t kill him to do this whole thing again. He thinks as he runs and slumps into the leaves beside you and drags you into his embrace, enjoying your warm body pressed against him and the pleasant giggles from you.

Price - Winter

“Best ways to warm yourself, number 1: shoving your sock feet into your husband’s sweater.” He chuckles when you tuck your feet under his sweater and rest them on his tummy.

“Best ways to warm yourself, number 2: rob your husband’s blanket.” He scoots closer to you on the couch when you wrap his blanket tightly around you two.

“Best ways to warm yourself, number 3: hug your husband like you’re a koala and steal his warmth.” You sitting on his lap and clinging to him like he’s a trunk makes his heart melt at your cuteness.

“Best ways to warm yourself, number 4” He scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom “Have a pretty partner and show your love to them on your bed.”

[meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender]

Summary: When the god of the Winter needed a messenger, he had chosen you. Yet your elders wanted you dead. But John Price, the god of the Winter, had other plans for his devotee. Eventual Poly 141.

A/N: Leaving this here, then backing away slowly. If you like, please comment and reblog. Special thanks to @itsagrimm for editing, even though you aren't into the type of writing. Thank you to @ethereal-night-fairy and @wildflower-and-honey for feeding my brain worms. I love you three and cannot thank y'all enough <3 Thank you, @saradika, for your beautiful dividers that I use in literally everything.

CW: (18+) Children begone! PIV smut, swearing, a Dyslexic wrote this, Religious Kinks, brief mention of suicide, brief mention of hypothetical pregnancy because what is John Price without a breeding kink? Voyeurism, exhibitionism, praise kink, elements of paranoia, and mindreader elements.

NO AI

Leave a comment and reblog!

You had been abandoned. Sent aimlessly into the east by your deceiving elders to find the oh-so-benevolent god of Winter. Your people had discarded you, and perhaps, you had now been forsaken by the Holy One. Under the new winter moon, you had no bearing in these strange woods. You were lost and without hope. Stumbling into a thicket, you paused, catching your breath. Once your village elders cut your binds and removed the blade from your still bleeding throat, you ran. You had three options now: find the Winter God John Price and beg for mercy, return home to your village to die by your elder’s blade, or finally, die by a frozen death.

 

Yanking down the sleeves of your dress, you shivered. Only a fool would think the thin lace would be enough to fight the cold. You hadn’t bothered to ask for a cape when you would be dead come dawn by the blade of your elders or the mercy of winter’s chill. Besides, if the elders thought it could help entice the winter god closer to you, you welcomed the possibility. The god liked fine things- the fragility of ice coating sleeping trees, the nuanced tendrils that composed a snowflake, the finespun embroidery on an altar cloth. Perhaps the gossamer lace of your gown would make you look as alluring as snow?

 

Your village worshiped the god of the East along with his three other seasonal counterparts. In the winter, the altar faced east for John. In the spring, it faced north for Kyle. In the summer, the altar faced west for Johnny, followed by facing south in the Autumn for the one they called Ghost. You traversed the mezzanine of the aged temple as if it was your birthing ground, dedicating yourself to the unknown and to what divine vexed within. 

 

A creature howled in the far distance, three more joining in the call. You wished you had a blade for protection, but the foolish  elders would not allow it after the last messenger sent to find the God of Winter killed himself. He died from fear of the gods with his body left for the animals starved for winter scraps according to the elders. The collapsed skull and bloodied rock meant otherwise. You would become like the warrior- murdered- if you didn’t keep moving.

 

At least you’d be dead if you stopped moving, and wasn’t that something to rejoice over for the elders? They wanted you gone the moment you opened your mouth, defending the holy temples in a burning righteousness against their infidelity. The elders mocked your faith, staging a spectacle to rejoice in their perceived standings with the holy gods, to enshroud their continued greed of village resources, and holy temple offerings while preventing you from stepping foot inside the sacred temple. 

 

All you wanted was to worship your gods in peace and for your village to know that peace. 

 

A branch snapped in the distance. Setting your foot down ever so quietly, you glared into the darkness of the night. In your chest, your lungs froze as if a tiny breath could lead starving beasts toward you, but your heart tapped a wild rhythm against your bones like a war drum urging warriors forward in battle. Between the bones of the trees, a figure raised from the ground. Dirt quaked in its path, fearing the disturbance as flashes of odd whites and black wove into a tall, hulking beast emerging like smoke. The vaporous monster inhaled. It was as if he sucked the forest in with his expanding breath, the conductor of the skeletal structure of the land. The one who assembled appendages of bone like armor and crown, marking his distinct otherness to any creature known before. Opening his eyes, bright gold light flared from its eye sockets, a perpetual fire, locked on burning you alive.

 

You ran. Barreling through the underbrush, thorns cut and tore at your dress, slowing you down. Pushing deeper into the woods, you dared not glimpse back at the monstrous shape. The gods, you prayed, would give one last indulgence by sparing your life. Dodging fallen trees and saplings, you heaved for a breath. Your toe caught on something sending you tumbling forward, down the hill, to be stopped by a mangled stump. There was little to be felt from the roar in your mind and blood careening to endure, to run, to survive.

 

Looking up, the terrifying haint peered down at you with its head tilted to the side, lazily biding his time hunting you. Fleeing, you made way towards the river that supplied the village with water. The monsters couldn’t cross the running water at the bottom of the ravine. Everybody knew that. Your breath created puffs of smoke with each gasp of air, streaming from your lips like a dragon’s purr.

 

Down at the river, you paused, cursing at your luck. The river was frozen over, but how deep the ice went was beyond you. You had to cross, fighting for a chance at life and to find John Price to appeal for assistance proving your claims. Taking a deep breath, you ventured on the ice, straining your ears for cracking and shifting sounds. Freedom sang like a siren from the other side of the waters with the promise of faith delivering you into her hands. On the other side was an assurance of one more day in your beloved temples with the beloved gods, of life, and of being free from the elders.

 

Without the freedom to roam the holy grounds of faith, what would be left for you?

 

You slipped with a screech, flailing until you caught your balance. Your hands trembled as breath fogged the air. Crossing was the only option, regardless of death prowling down to find you. The thought of the being sent shivers down your spine, and you squeezed your eyes shut as if it would banish the evil and push you across the waters.

 

“Stop!” A man bellowed like thunder echoing in the ravine. You jumped, slipping on the ice. With an assured crack, the ice broke, plunging you into the icy waters.

 

You gasped, choking on river water. Kicking to the surface, you were met with a ceiling of ice. You hit the ice with your hand to no prevail until the bubbles from your nose dissipated and a film of darkness descended upon your peripherals. In the gloom, eyes of golden fire shimmered at you, refracted by the ice, illuminated by the flash of lightning. 

It smelled like oak and spices as you inhaled. The bed you laid in was spacious, a soft luxury you sunk greedily into. Moments of time slowly returned to you as you stirred, until a tapestry unfolded, painting what had occurred in the woods to you. How you had survived drowning or hypothermia was beyond you, feeling none of it, now. Cocooned tightly in thick blankets, albeit naked as the day you were born, sleep still called in the comfort of the home. A warm crackle of a fireplace and the deep mutterings of men speaking filled your ears as you blinked. In your nest, you buried further in, savoring the needed heat with a sigh with your eyes peeking over the cover.

 

The two men, seated in the corner, had stopped conversing to stare at you. One was slim but muscular, with dark skin and shining brown eyes. He wore a grin both authentic and sly as if mischief personified, waiting for his time to strike and laugh at your mild misfortune. 

 

The other man was a bear. Thick, burly, legs with sizable thighs spread to consume room; it seemed all he did was call attention to himself. The cocky spread of his legs to the icy blues of his eyes; your neck burned as he smirked, having caught you staring.

 

“Hello, Fawn,” The bear rumbled, intentionally softening his voice and leaning down as if afraid to spook you like the little deer.

 

“Ghost found you,” injected the younger one. “It took him and Soap to pull you from the ice and bring you home. That was pretty stupid; getting on the ice like that. Haven’t people told you not to do that?”

 

Getting on the ice was stupid, but letting yourself get consumed and murdered by a beast was even worse. You had half a mind to tell the younger man your thoughts on the matter, but here you were, naked in a stranger's bed… alive. While grateful, you needed to leave. The task to find John and plead for his assistance in clearing the village of your awful elders still loomed, as did the precarious nature of being nude in a room of two strong men. 

 

“I’m looking for someone,” You mumbled. “I had no choice.”

 

“I know,” The older man hummed before speaking your name like a whisper of wind on your ear. 

 

The God of Winter . Your spine went straight before you bolted upright, clinging the blankets to your chest. These men were not men at all but your four holy gods. There was half a mind to shuck off the blankets and fall to your knees in reverence. You had offered prayers while bathing before; was this any different? As you shifted, apologized, and begged for pardons on the tip of your lips, John shook his head and stood.

 

“Gaz, go let Soap and Ghost know our fawn is all right,” John said, clasping Gaz on the shoulder. Gaz promptly left the room, closing the wooden door behind him, not before offering you one final comforting grin.

 

“I am sorry. I had to find you. The elders sent me to the woods to murder me. And… I didn’t know what else to do but to seek your help. I’m so sorry, please forgive me. The elders are murdering anyone who dares question them. Nobody believes me even though I have proof! The village will not survive the winter because of our elder’s theft from them and of the temple and I need your help. I have done nothing wrong except be loyal to you, John,” You rushed out in a single breath. “Please, help me. Help us .”

 

John set his hand on your cheek, running his thumb over your warming cheeks. A violent shiver sprung through your body, encouraging you closer to the god. You closed your eyes and nuzzled into his palm, lulled by the smell of spices and the alluringness of being physically held by him. Finally, you had removed the burden of secrecy and responsibility and John took it lightly with his hands soothing the ache from your skin with the glide of his fingers. 

 

“Love, you’re being too harsh. There is no reason to apologize,” He reassured you with a kiss on your forehead. “The fault lies with your elders. You have done all I have asked of you and more. Do not agonize yourself over the stubbornness of others. It will get you nowhere.”

 

You closed your mouth and held his wrist, keeping him to you. You thought of all your nights spent praying to the god of Winter when sleep evaded you. When you screamed or cried your prayers in agony, begging the divine god of winter to make himself known to you so that your faith was not in vain and your people could be free from the elders. 

 

But what of your people? What choice would they make? The old gods were worshiped only in tradition and the elders had slowly pushed your people further from the gods as the temple began to deteriorate. 

 

You were always dedicated to the divine in odd ways. Observant gifts of John’s favorite flowers and drinks were left on your homemade altar—prayers written on little papers in a box. Spare time spent tending to the aged temple and cleaning it, preparing it for worship. Devotion in wearing John’s favorite color as a ribbon around your wrist, bearing his color like a mark of ownership over you. 

 

It was… your stomach clenched as you remembered bathing in his favorite fragrances, the soap trailing between your breasts, water falling as gracefully as the curves of your skin, for his solstice day. Later that night, deciding to offer John an orgasm on a lust-induced whim. When you came down from your high, you swore you could feel the divine by your knees, looking down at the mess you had made, dribbling into the sheets. The idea of him voyeuring into your bedroom made you leak, reaching a bold hand down to part your lips for him to see your swollen clit.

 

“What you want from us, little Fawn,” John tilted his chin to look you in the eyes as his warm toned voice dipped between your thighs to make them clench. “Comes at a high cost for you.”

 

“And let my people suffer from the elder’s greed? Surely, you understand how harsh winter can be! And to let the gods lay waste when this is proof you still are near has to be blasphemy. I don’t want to die, but I’d rather try dying than be left bystanding in silence, rotting away-”

 

John took your neck in hand and hulled you to your feet. Your words died on your tongue as his nose pressed into your cheek. Chests pressed together, his human form radiated heat and softness protecting layers of muscle and power. You wondered briefly if his divine form would look more bear or beast, unleashing the thrum of calculated energy pulsing inside the god.

 

“Fawn, martyrdom is for suicidal fools. Not even the martyrs ask for their portion, they stumble upon it trying to uphold the will of the gods which threatens the portions and powers that be in your mortal world,” John shook your head ever so slightly, pressing closer until you gasped, looking up at him with wide eyes. Dark as ice, they pierced into you flickering from your eyes to your mouth, the urgency he held you with inching into territories you were unsure of but eager to explore. His eyes flickered down for a moment, and you shivered at your exposure, pressing your face into his neck as if to hide. “You will stay the night but come dawn, you must return home to live for us.” John instructed, pushing your hair from your neck. Leaning down, he nipped the bottom of your ear playfully, kissing along your neck.

 

You hummed, offering your neck to his lips. It didn’t matter if you had laid with a million other people before or none at all. You yearned for the assured solidity of the gods, and now you had it. They could have your body, the works of your hands, the words of your mouth, the paths of your feet. You only wanted to be near John, safe, nestled into his side, even if for a little while. To be welcomed into the god of winter’s bed for even a night? The idea made your thighs slickened with want, heat pooling in your stomach.

 

Everything in your bones wanted to please him, to let him have his fill of you, to honor him with the best of your skin and body. You’d get on your knees for him. Suck his cock until you are panting, with his cum on your tongue. You wanted to be good . You let out a little whine, a soft vibration in your throat. John chuckled, coming up from your throat to kiss you properly, all while moving you on the bed.

 

He kissed down your throat, gently touching your chest with the hints of friction making you squirm, tangling your fingers in his hair.

 

“I want you to soak my fingers and cock with this pretty cunt tonight, Fawn” John decidedly spoke. You eagerly nodded, humming as his hand squeezed the fat of your stomach. 

 

You opened your thighs as he descended between them, grinning as he knelt before you. You could have laughed at his eagerness if it wasn’t for the gentle, inquiring sweep of his finger through your folds, collecting your wetness. A sigh fell from your lips as he played with your cunt, a pleasant warmth filling your mind as your legs found a home on his shoulders, your hand on the back of his neck, scratching the short hairs there.

    

“Been thinkin’ about this pretty pussy since you showed her to me,” John growled, thumb swirling on your clit just as you had when you played yourself for him. Your knees bent, pushing your pelvis to catch the angle just right . “Offered me use of your body, a delicacy, to use as I please. Perfect little human for me to fuck whenever,” He growled before putting his mouth to work, sucking on your clit.

 

You keened, bucking your cunt into his face. John devoured you whole, feasted on you, your head in the clouds, floating with nothing to tether you but his mouth. The god of winter’s fingers prodded your entrance, slipping in with a slight stretch. His fucking hands, reaching depths you could never achieve on your own, made you moan, opening your eyes to watch him. From below your stomach, John was fully committed, eyes closed, grunting against your cunt.

 

John fought against your legs, drawing out the pulsing waves of pleasure until your ears were ringing, vision white, cresting into a beautiful brainless hum as your body went limp. 

 

“Fuck, John, I can’t,” You whimpered, pushing his forehead back. Your chest heaved, hands grasping for anything you could reach until he slid his hand in yours, anchoring you to him. He moved, and you closed your sticky thighs, clenching at the slick dribbling down. John reverently kissed your collarbone, hands brushing over your scalp, lulling you from the cloudy space.

 

His lips kissed along your neck and chest as his hands wandered along your hips and thighs, rough fingers tickling the sensitive skin of your ass. Your eyes opened, greeted by his gentle gaze as he hovered over you. His mouth had been pinkened by your cunt, hair mused by your thighs and hands. 

 

Grabbing his hand, you kissed his palm before licking the fingers that had been inside of you moments before. Something was intoxicating about the way you tasted, strong and delicious. Taking his fingers in your mouth, you hummed, thinking about how much thicker his cock would feel. John swore, pushing his fingers against your tongue, stilling your control. You moaned, letting your eyes close and legs fall open. Holding his arm, you could feel how your tits were pressed together by your biceps, making you not only a sight but a spectacle .

 

“Want my cock that bad, little fawn?” John teased. Opening your eyes, you nodded, nudging him closer with your foot. Removing his fingers, he drug his hand down your centerline, leaving a cold trail of your spit down your body. He slowly entered you, grunting with his eyes glued to the way you sucked him in.

 

“Fuck, John,” You whimpered, panting at the fullness pressing you open. His thumb rubbed your clit, lulling you back to another orgasm. Spreading your legs, he placed a knee on the bed as he began to thrust, covering his cock in your frothy slick.

 

It was hot and so, so full as he reached parts of you that had you gasping for air and tearing up. There was no pinch, only a subtle burn from the stretch, soothed by his cooing in your ear and thumb working wonders on your clit. Shifting his hips, he fed you more of his cock, making your vision go frayed around the edges. If your brain could leak away, it would slowly leak out with the wetness of your cunt.

 

“Just like that, fawn,” John encouraged, making you clench around him. “My little offering to take as I want, letting me use you like a good girl,” John grunted as you clenched around him, his hands falling to your stomach and hip, selfishly grasping at the plush skin to pull and drag you off his cock with.

 

“I’m,” You whined, clawing at the god’s massive arms, rippling with movement. “Please, John! Feels so good, filled up,” You babbled, trying to run closer and further with each thrust.

 

His other hand laid over the base of your throat, curling possessively around, forcing your eyes to his, forehead to forehead, as he pressed and pressed into your cunt, stretching you wide and filling you perfectly.

 

“Pretty wet cunt, dripping for me,” John’s lips brushed your ear, moaning into it. He reached a hand to gently pinch your nipple, making you gasp. “Rub yourself for me. Let me see you soak my cock.”

 

You slid a hand between your thighs and rubbed your clit, spreading your lips wider, feeling fully exposed, unable to help the moan and the chasing buck of your hips, humping the tight heat pooling in your stomach.

 

“Cum, love. Cum for me.”

 

You listened, you always did, a perfect little offering for him to use. You fought to keep your eyes open as you came, body convulsing, to show him what he had made you into. But when your fingers became too sharp, the pleasant hum of blood in your head turning into a sharp ringing, you went limp, thighs covered in slick cum as John took his final thrusts. Ropes filled you as his hand lovingly smoothed over your lower stomach. He rested his forehead on yours, panting as he lazily kissed you, his cock twitching as you warmed him. 

 

“You okay?” John whispered from his place between your breasts as you scratched the back of his head.

 

“Sore,” You hissed as he slipped from you but was quickly scooped into his arms and laid across his chest. “M’tired,” You confessed, closing your eyes with a soft sigh.

 

You would be content to lie on his chest for the rest of time, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, wrapped in the warmth of his broad arms. Everything about you felt small compared to him; the way his hands engulfed yours, the way your calves had laid over his shoulder, the ripple of muscles and fat as he had fucked you. 

 

“I need to clean up,” You mumbled, fingers following the lines of his pectorals. 

 

“In a moment, darling. We’ll both clean up.” John kissed the top of your head, reaching for a glass of water for you to drink from before he took a few sips.

 

The god of Winter leaned down and kissed you so gently, soothing the aches with gentle hands against your thighs. Though, you felt it was more an excuse to touch your thighs more, but you didn’t mind. After cleaning up, you fell asleep swiftly, draped over his chest as his fingers traced dainty traces of snowflakes along your spine, tended to and protected. 

In the morning, you woke in your own bed, dressed in the robes of a high priestess, as someone pounded on your door. As you rose, you felt the phantom aches of the previous night between your thighs. Quickly hiding the robes, you caught the white scars of John’s handprint over your womb, etched like silver ice into your skin.

 

“One second!” You yelled, dressing. Once you were decent, you threw open your door and gawked.

 

“There’s been a war party! They burnt the elder’s homes and the wheat stores! We need help!” The man took you by the arm and pulled you into the fray of dark smoke against the blooming pink winter sky. It was snowing, melting into water that slid down your arm and into the frosted grounds.

[replaytech]

medic!reader has been on my mind a lot lately 😫 (femalemedic!reader x soap)

(if this has already been done, please let me know. i have a big fear of accidentally copying someone)

The minute you spot his mohawk and bright eyes in the infirmary, you know he’s up to something.

You sighed when his face stopped about a foot away from yours, “Johnny, you cannot keep-“

A chuckle escapes his lips, “How do you know that there isn’t something wrong with me?”

You level a flat look at him, “Enlighten me.”

Johnnys eyes avert from yours. He looks down at himself like he’s searching for an injury.

You can’t help the snort that escapes your lips, “You find it yet?”

He holds his hands out in front of himself, like he’s examining them, “Almost, lass.”

You’re in the middle of a sigh when he finally says, “My ankle.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow, “Your ankle?”

Soap nods like he’s being dead serious.

You shake your head and bite down your smile, “Go sit on the cot in the corner, i’ll be there in a second.”

As he begins walking towards the corner of the room, you swear you can hear whisper a celebratory, “yes.”

-

A few minutes later, you examine his uninjured foot, “Your ankle is completely fine, Johnny.”

His deep scottish voice rumbles out, “Then how do you explain the fact that it hurts, doll?”

“Your imagination.”

He laughs and goes to put his shoe back on and you can’t help but ask, “Why do you always come here?”

He looks at you almost lovingly, like you are the only person he’s seeing in the room right now, “Because you always manage to make me better, lass.”

You finally smile, “That’s awful convenient, considering you never have any real injuries.”

“I could go stub my toe and come right back?”

“If you do that, I’m handing you over to Elizabeth”, you say, referring to a medic who’s not exactly a fan favorite.

He puts his hand on his heart like the drama queen he is, “Now you wouldn’t betray me like that, would you lass?”

“You never know.”

“Then I better get going, huh?”

“Yes.”

Soap puts his hand on your shoulder, “I’ll be back, doll. Don’t worry.”

-

Two days later, he stays true to his word and walks into the infirmary.

“What is it this time, Johnny?”, you say with a laugh.

“You know bonnie, my wrist has been kinda givin’ me a hard time-“

“Shut up and sit down.”

“Yes mam.”

[luboy7rt]

 How Task Force 141 Would React to You Being Injured on the Field (GN - Teammate Reader Addition)

(Warning? Reader does pass out in one paragraph each, with no big details of any injury involved. Not much detail on the injury, just don't want to accidentally not warn someone of what is involved. So not many in-depth details on the injury :)

(Note:(GN - Reader. These can be seen as mostly platonic but can be seen as romantic and these are just my headcanons, feel free to disagree or agree, thank you) (INCLUDES: John Price, John 'Soap' MacTavish, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick and Simon 'Ghost' Riley)

Jonathan (John) Price:

- John is quick in dragging you off to a safe point, firmly placing you in a nice nook to ensure no stray bullets hit you. He does protect you, barking out orders for you to cover the wound and apply pressure as he focuses on killing the remaining enemies and makes sure the area is safe before helping you.

- Once it is ‘safe’ enough, he drops on one knee, questioning how you were ‘feeling’, scale of pain, how many injuries, just gives you a hell of a lot of questions to answer as he pulls out his small medical kit.

- He does basic procedures to ensure the wound wasn't fatal, disinfects and bandages as quickly and efficiently as he could as there might be enemies still around.

- He would question if you could stand, if not he has no problems helping you walk, looping his arm either over your shoulders or around your waist to pull you along to the evac point.

- You might owe him a drink, or two. He makes a ‘joke’ about it as you two walk (he isn't joking despite it coming off as one. You will end up paying for a round).

- He does take good care of you, ensuring you weren't in much pain, as he settles you into the evac helicopter, calling for a medic over comms when he could.

- He'd pat your shoulder or head and stay hovering near you until you get back to base, his eyes always coming back to check up on you.

- Depending on how much experience you have in the field, how many injuries you have had in the past, and how bad the injury was, if you were new to the team, he's a bit more ‘eh’ the medics know how to do their jobs but I'll stay nearby. If you are someone that has been on the team longer, he's sat by your side, rubbing your shoulder with one hand or the back of your neck, talking to you, questioning how you were. 

- If it's a ‘small’ injury, he's more relaxed, allowing the medics to do their jobs and not being that overbearing. 

- If it's a bigger injury? Good luck escaping his view, his eyes are on your wound while it gets psyched up, ensuring everything goes smoothly while holding your forearm firmly in his grasp. His eyes would go from your injury to your face to see if it was affecting you badly or not. He forces himself to shut up, his jaw subtly clenched trying to let the medics do their job but he has to bite back comments of worry.

- If you pass out? He looks a bit surprised, his reflexes acting quickly catch you, his hand on your lower stomach and shoulder as he moves you to sit back in the helicopter, ends up sitting next to you the whole flight to keep you in place, he stays strong despite the silent worry in his eyes.

John (Johnny) ‘Soap’ MacTavish:

- He's antsy when you get injured in front of him, he swiftly deals with the enemy soldier that caused it, dropping down to your level and taking you into his arms. He asks ‘are you okay’ in many different ways, along with ‘where are yer hurt?’ a few times.

- His hands find your wound to apply pressure, or quickly bandage it, unable to clean it in the fast-paced situation, as enemy soldiers were still around, his main focus was simply getting the bleeding to stop and he would clean and bandage you up better later.

- He'd put his body between yours and the enemy soldiers, trying to block you from getting injured more while also firing back, trying to complete his job but also ensure you are protected.

- He would mutter to himself, as if to keep himself on track on what he had to do first, like a subtle ‘check-list’ on what to do, deal with this group of enemy soldiers, clean and re-patch your wound, run the hell to evac point. 

- He would gently brush his thumbs over your eyes if you cried due to the pain of your injury, quietly murmuring a bit of praise to keep you awake and aware before helping you up. He keeps a tight grip on you while his eyes check on you every few minutes before returning to look around his surroundings. His hand firmly on your back, rubbing slowly as his other hand held his sniper.

- If you needed him to carry you, he would. He would either throw you over his shoulder so he could rush to the evac point or hold you a bit more gently as tightly holds you.

- Once in the evac helicopter, he would let the medics do their job, him sorta being on autopilot as he watches over you. His hand going from the top of your head, to your shoulder, to gripping your forearm, to simply just grabbing at you. You were always in his grip, as if he was making sure you were still around and alright.

- If you pass out? He goes a bit pale, putting you down and yelling for a medic quickly, shaking you to try and wake you up. If you wake up, great, he’ll slowly calm down as he ensures you're safe within the evac helicopter. If you don't? He panics a bit, despite being trained not to, he can't help it when he knows a person so well, his own teammate. He ends up sleeping out next to you, his head on yours as the evac helicopter flies back to base, the medic having had patched you up and Soap there for support. But it wasn't known if he stayed with you for your own comfort or his own comfort.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick:

- He stumbles after you, trying to make quick work to check if you were okay, tugging you down to hide behind a bit of stone. He loses all the confidence he had moments prior as he watched your pained face.

- He would quickly bandage your wound, going into simply just repeating what has been drilled into his mind over the years. He is quite quiet during this, going on his comms unit to request for a medic and backup. 

- His eyes softening and he lets out a quiet sigh of relief if you are awake and aware, he grips your shoulders, while keeping a firm eye out for any enemies about. He smiles at you softly as he crouched down right in front of you, giving a brief side hug before going back to protecting you until backup arrives.

- Kyle pulls you up gently when backup arrives, sneaking you out of harms way while trusting the others to handle the few remaining enemies about. He would give you a soft look while murmuring encouraging words, he doesn't want you to pass out on him, so he was really just rambling to try and catch your attention.

- Promises to buy you a snack, or a round, or any drink you want as long as you don't pass out (he ends up buying you anything even if you do pass out).

- If you do pass out, the look of ‘are you kidding me? I said not to’ Kyle had as he caught you, his arm around the back of your waist, to keep you leaning into him instead of landing on the floor. Kyle ends up dragging/carrying you to the helicopter.

- He sits next to you as a medic does their work, looking at the ceiling as he breathed out, he was sure that was maybe the most ‘scare’ he ever had in his career as he cared about you, you being his teammate, he spent about all his time with you and the other Task Force 141 members, his thoughts went to a horrid place. Thinking about what he would ever do if he lost you or any other member he was close with.. he felt ill at just thinking that. But when his eyes went to you, his eyes softened and he relaxed, shaking those thoughts away as he was simply glad you were alright.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley:

- Ghost ends up killing the enemies who injuried you himself, having snuck you to a ‘safe’ hidden place in the battlefield before doing so. Having tossed his medical kit at you for you to care for your own injuries as He went off to deal with the dangers that still lurked around every corner.

- He comes back after about twenty minutes, silently watching you (if you managed to actually patch yourself up, he's more relaxed, calls you a idiot if you were too injured to patch yourself up) But Ghost leaned down to clean your wound then patch it up for you. Murmuring half- ‘insults’ but it was only out of care due to the fact he wasn't to sure on what to do with himself other than killing those who harmed you.

- There is indeed an awkward silence between the two of you as he patched you up, awkward eye contact, even more awkward touching. Ghost would quietly grunt at you. Shifting to help you up, if you stumble he sighs. Ends up just fireman carrying you or dragging you off, speaking calmly over his comms unit to get a evac helicopter on route.

- His hand would squeeze your shoulder, he wasn't one to like affection that much, but it was sorta like he was trying to keep both of you calm, he just wasn't sure how to show you..? He wanted you to know you could Indeed rely on him.

- If you pass out.. he forgets to catch you. You hit the floor hard as he made a silent ‘shit’ face under his mask, as he had been walking in front of you, having had not noticed until he heard the thud. He silently drags/carries you to evac point. He doesn't let a soul know he allowed you to fall.. he doesn't even inform you once you wake up. No one will ever know of this error.

- He keeps his hand firmly on you as he brings you to a medic, and watches their every movement, there was no room for error patching up one of his teammates.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Ghost: I cut my finger Y/N: I can kiss it so it'll get better Ghost: That works? Y/N: Yeah my mum used to do it when I was little *later* Ghost: I need you to punch me in the mouth Roach: Fucking finally

[gloomwitchwrites]

You introduce your husband as your "boyfriend" to annoy them.

Anon! This prompt has me screaming! I really enjoyed writing for this one because it's such a fun idea. Sure, our 141 boys might be a little mad that they aren't being called by their proper title, but you know they'll just love punishing you for it.

I went a little different with this one. Instead of introductions, I made it so that reader is constantly referring to them as "boyfriend" in public settings. Depending on the situation, introductions wouldn't make sense if it was with friends, family, or coworkers because they would likely already know that they're "husband" and not "boyfriend." So i changed it up a bit in that way!

Some of these fall into spicy territory without being descriptive.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, non-descriptive mentions of sex, fade to black, brief dirty talk

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon shakes his head and you roll your eyes.

“We can ask someone for help,” you suggest, scanning the massive wall of televisions.

Simon grunts and crosses his arms. “No.”

Sometimes Simon’s stubbornness is cute—even sexy—but right now you’re just annoyed with him. It makes you want to stir up trouble, to cause a little chaos just for the fun of it. Pouting, you turn, eyes narrowing to find an associate of the electronics store. When you spot one near the HDMI cables, you take off, not caring if Simon follows.

“Excuse me.”

The man’s head perks up. “How can I help you?”

You gesture behind you, your hand smacking into Simon’s chest. “My boyfriend—”

“Boyfriend?” growls Simon, but you ignore him.

“—can’t decide on a television.”

Simon is not your boyfriend. He’s your husband. But he’s being stubborn, not making a decision, and you want out of this store.

Shifting, you place one hand on Simon’s large bicep, grinning like you haven’t done anything at all. Simon’s hand immediately grabs your ass, squeezing hard. A warning. One that you ignore.

“I can help with that,” replies the associate. You glance at the man’s nametag. Jim.

“Thank you so much, Jim.” You lean against Simon, giving Jim your best smile. “Getting this guy to commit to anything is so hard sometimes, ya know?”

Jim makes a noncommittal noise as he walks toward the wall of televisions. You start to follow but Simon’s hold on your ass tightens, keeping you pressed against him. Simon leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

You elbow Simon in the side but it’s not hard. He lets go, keeping close to you as the two of you follow Jim over to the televisions. Standing back, you watch with glee as Simon is forced to talk to Jim. You stay out of it, but notice Simon’s gaze switching to you every so often.

You already know what he’s thinking. He’ll likely want to punish you, and sometimes those punishments are so sweet.

Once Simon selects something and the two of you are at the car, there is no safety net. Simon shuts the trunk and then you’re pressed against the car, your body trapped between it and Simon’s massive form.

“Boyfriend?” he accuses.

You shrug. “What do you mean?”

The growl in Simon’s throat comes out a groan. “Get in the car.” He lightly slaps your ass as you open the passenger door.

As you start to slide in, Simon’s hand returns, this time slipping under your skirt to find your thin, lace underwear. He tugs sharply, ripping the fabric.

“Simon!”

He stuffs the underwear into his pocket. “You don’t need these.” You feel your face growing hot.

Simon shuts your car door and walks around the driver’s side, hopping in. He reaches out, placing one large hand on your bare thigh. It roams upward, squeezing, sending a shiver of lust up your body to make your head spin. “When we get home, I’m fucking that boyfriend nonsense right out of you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“I’m so sorry, but this isn’t what my boyfriend ordered.”

Kyle frowns and glances up from his phone’s screen. That’s your voice he hears, but the term of address isn’t right.

Boyfriend. Not husband, as it fucking should be.

Kyle glances in your direction but you’re not looking at him. You’re smiling sweetly at the barista behind the counter.

“It should be hot. Not iced. I might have messed up. I’m so sorry. I can pay for another.” You raise your hands in a placating gesture but the barista doesn’t appear fazed at all.

“No biggie. Keep that one. Won’t take me more than a minute or two.”

“Thank you so much.” You glance at Kyle, and your smirk tells him all he needs to know.

You’re being a tease. You’re doing this on purpose. The drink order is wrong, and you’re using this as an excuse to poke at him.

Kyle locks his phone and casually slides it into his pocket. Do you think you’re going to annoy him by doing this? Maybe. The little smirk on your face tells him that’s entirely what you have in mind.

But the joke is on you. Doesn’t matter if you refer to him as “boyfriend,” because all it’ll earn you is a punishment.

As the barista slides the new drink across the counter to you, you thank them profusely. “Thank you so much. My boyfriend will really appreciate it.”

The barista only nods and turns back to the espresso machine.

As you approach with the coffee, Kyle gentle removes the drink from your grasp.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, amused.

You shake your head like you have no idea what he’s on about. “What?”

Kyle laughs and snags the other drink from your hand. With shock on your face, he strides up to the counter. “Can you set these aside for us? Be right back.”

They only nod and continue working. Kyle snags your wrist and drags you to the little hallway that curves out around. There are a few private corners in there, and the hallway itself opens up into the nearby bookstore.

Kyle checks the handle on the unisex bathroom. Finding it unlocked, he draws you inside.

“Kyle,” you hiss, but he’s not having any of it.

Kyle engages the lock and presses you up against the door.

“You owe me an apology,” he says.

“For what?” Kyle tuts, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “Get on your knees,” he murmurs, undoing his belt buckle with the other hand. “Apologize with that gorgeous mouth of yours.”

John Price

John leans back in his chair, agitation irritating his spine.

House hunting isn’t something he’s particularly excited about. He is happy that it’s with you, his wife, but the tediousness of it all is exhausting to him. John would rather have you select a few places to tour and then be done with it all. Money isn’t the issue. He just wants you to find a place you like and the two of you can go from there.

He’d live in a tent if that’s what you want.

“My boyfriend isn’t all that picky.”

Boyfriend? John is tugged from his inner musings by your voice and that term of address. Boyfriend. Why the fuck would you call him that? John isn’t your boyfriend. He’s your goddamn husband.

You reach out, planting a hand on his thigh. You squeeze softly as you always do when you’re trying to reassure him, but John frowns down at it, and then looks up at you. You’re not looking at him. You’re staring at the realtor, completely ignoring him.

John licks his lips, considering whether to correct you or not, or leaving it up to a simple mistake, but you do it again.

This time, John didn’t mishear you.

Your hand squeezes his thigh again and Price rests his hand over yours. His fingers enclose your palm and he holds firm. You glance at him and John shoots you his best warning look. You don’t even react. Don’t event blink.

No. He’s going to correct you. He is absolutely fucking correcting you.

The realtor pivots the computer monitor. “I think any boyfriend would agree that these are excellent selections.”

That’s fucking it.

Price shoots up from his seat, keeping a tight grip on your hand. “I need to speak with my—” John pauses, swallowing down his annoyance. “Girlfriend. Privately.”

The realtor shrugs, smiling, but John is already turning around, dragging you out the door. Outside, the stuffy, summer air does nothing to soothe his annoyance.

“Boyfriend? Fucking boyfriend?” John crosses his arms over his chest, looming over you.

You shrug. “What’s the problem?”

“Behave yourself,” he says, lowering his voice.

“Or what?” you ask in mock innocence.

So, this is what you want. John understands the moment the words leave your mouth. You’re fucking teasing him. Fine. He’ll make you learn.

“We are gonna go back in, thank the kind woman for her time, and then we’re leaving.”

“No. I want to stay.”

John leans in but he notices the way you glance away from him and back, clearly flustered. “Good girls don’t play games.”

“Funny,” you reply, head tilting slightly. “That as my boyfriend you have any authority over me.”

John pivots, blocking the view of the front door from you. “I will bend you over that bench so fast, wife.”

“You won’t,” you stammer.

John arches an eyebrow and you visibly swallow. “Want to test me?”

You pout, and then playfully shove him in the chest. “You’re terrible.”

As you turn for the door, John grabs your waist pulling you close. “You started it.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“My boyfriend and I are redesigning our bathroom.”

Johnny’s attention splits. The associate showing him floor tiles is a distant thing. He might be talking about the newest ones on the market, but Johnny is no longer interested.

Did he just hear you right? Did you just call him boyfriend?

“That’s wonderful,” comes a reply, and Johnny notes an older woman talking to you near the laminate flooring that mimics wood. “Where is he?”

“Over there,” you wave at him, a smug smile on your face.

Boyfriend? Johnny is your fucking husband.

“Sir?” prompts the hardware store associate. “What do you think of these?”

Johnny grunts. “Fine. We’ll come back.” He waves the man off and starts for you even as you continuously refer to him as your boyfriend.

You’re doing it on purpose. You’re doing it to annoy him.

And it’s fucking working.

Johnny saddles up beside you, snaking his arm around your waist, pulling you taut against him.

“This is the boyfriend,” you begin, smiling.

“Husband,” corrects Johnny, flashing the same devious grin. He holds up his left hand, showing off the simple gold band. “Happily married to this one.”

The older woman’s eyes round.

“She likes to joke,” continues Johnny. “Come on, love. Better get home.”

Johnny easily guides you away. He leans down, whispering. “You little terror.”

“Bite me,” you reply.

“Oh. I will. Everywhere. When we get home.”

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[midnightcrw]

Rival! CEO! Simon, who is extremely competitive and can't accept defeat if someone is better than him.

Rival! CEO! Simon, who will see you as a rival once he finds out that you were the one who made much more profit than him and started to become more popular with your company.

Rival! CEO! Simon, who usually wears all-black suits with a black button-up, looking more than intimidating in it.

Rival! CEO! Simon, who only on occasions wears black pinstriped suits and a white button-up without a tie.

Rival! CEO! Simon, who leaves a few buttons unbuttoned just for your eyes to focus on.

Rival! CEO! Simon, whose fingers are adorned with all kinds of rings, making you stare at his veiny hands a little too long.

Rival! CEO! Simon, who hates your guts and would prefer to never see you again.

Rival! CEO! Simon, who swore he didn't like you, feels his pants tighten every time he sees you biting your lip during a conversation.

Rival! CEO! Simon, who, despite swearing he hates you, bends you over his desk after meeting with you.

Rival! CEO! Simon, who can't deny that he loves the feeling of your walls clenching around him as he pounds into you.

[lxvvie]

Gaz and Soap pulling you into a cuddle pile, needing your reassurance after a particularly grueling deployment left them questioning. One of your hands is home in Soap's hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp. He leans into your touch. The other cups Kyle's cheek and rests there, and your soldier turns slightly to brush his lips against your palm. To feel you.

Comfort. Intimacy. Solace. Gaz and Soap find these in you, from the jokes you crack to lighten the mood to the smile you give them, bright, guiltless, and not weighed down in blood.

You give them peace. They give you themselves in return.

[nuitnotions]

Task Force 141 ; Call Me Mr Sandman

It grates at him, the way you slink out of bed at ungodly hours of the night to sit up alone in the living room so as not to disturb him. Little do you know that the cold sheets and vacancy of your side of the bed will always wake him. A plan is in order and he is eager to execute it and have you back in his arms to walk you hand in hand to the land of dreams.

{ flufff ; gn reader }

john price worries, and deeply so. insomnia is no stranger to him, he’s been around that very block a good number of times but in his line of work, sleep deprivation walks you straight into the coffin. he had to twart it and quickly and fucking hell, if he could just recall how. if he could just hand you the antidote and tuck you into the fold of his arm beneath the covers, it would be the Hail Mary. but he can’t and he doesn’t and so he takes up his mind’s attempt at the next best thing.

the white noise machine is obnoxious at first and you try to tell him what a waste of money it is considering you could just find the damn noise on YouTube and play it from the tv but he shushes you softly and asks you to just give it a try, little love, please? and you can’t deny him, it hurts to do so anyways when he’s doing so for your sake. for the dark rings surrounding your eyes. for the headache that has your head feeling hollowed out. for the snappish irritation that coats you like an oily bubble from days of exhaustion.

so you lay there, facing john and trying very hard to not mind the machine humming on your bedside table as you two talk softly with one another. it’s mindless chatter, talk of your earlier day and recounts of your days apart when he’s deployed and then just the silliness that wriggles beneath your skin as the hours dwindles on and you start to feel like a school child staying up way past their bedtime.

it’s inevitable. john’s eyes growing heavy as his words become more spaced out until his mumblings are entirely nonsensical and replaced by his snoring, head falling further on his pillow in your direction and you cannot help but smile. the poor man tries so desperately to fight his body clock in order to see you through to sleep but he cannot be blamed. you shuffle quietly closer and kiss at the corner of his mouth with a whisper good night before you’re turning over, already swinging your leg out to get out of bed. but that damned machine is immediately in your eyesight and the guilt sprouts from a seed in the pit of your stomach until it’s the size of a watermelon.

the poor man is trying, trying so hard to keep you in bed when you should be and here you are, ready to annul those efforts by simply reverting back to your usual habits. so you let out a sigh and retract your leg back under the covers and you glare at the machine for but a second before you’re turning over and nestling into john. your heart all but splinters at the way even unconsciously, his body responds to your warmth and touch, opening up his chest for you to crawl into and nestle there.

it’s not antidotal to your insomnia but it settles that restless energy in your head that speaks of you being a bother to him and his sleep. there’s a new set of eyes, opening up to the word, within you, head tilted back to look up at your significant other. you realise then that you are master of self implosion, unnecessary punishment to a cause beyond your control. and this very man, this man snoring away with his fingers splayed across your back, has been trying to steer you to that reflection in the mirror for a good while now. so you snuggle as close to him as possible and close your eyes. sleep may escape you but this love a breath away from you certainly won’t.

kyle garrick pads out of your shared bedroom in sock clad feet, two jumpers thrown across his forearm and sleep tucking itself away at the edges of his lashes. it’s the droopy look he gives you as he blinks slowly that causes the network of fissures spreading across the warmth of your body. a quick glance at the clock mounted above the kitchen’s arch tells you that it’s nearing 4am and everything within you sags. kyle comes to stand beside your head at the backrest of the couch, bending at the waist to kiss your temple and he murmurs in a soft voice, “let’s go for a drive.”

you protest adamantly, getting up to steer him back to bed with bracketing apologies to each of your protests, hands on his shoulders meant to shove him lovingly back. of course, kyle does not miss the opportunity to point out the irony, something about it just about bordering hypocrisy and you scowl up at him. you’re so utterly mistaken to think you’d win this argument, with kyle pulling you a step closer, laying imploring kisses to your lips and before you know it, he’s slipping the jumper over your head. it’s too tender, the cracks within have seeped out enough heat but the strong hands with slender fingers that tug the sleeves down and fix the collar of his jumper are molding molten gold into those very cracks.

he leads you down to the basement parking with your hand in his, thumb stroking at your skin in a slow and gentle movement that mimics the flow of a cradle rocking. you begin to ache as he opens the car door for you, only closing it after he kisses your cheek. you have bare seconds to yourself in the car as he crosses in front of it and your eyes track him as he does and your heart is stuck in a prayer of his name that doesn’t dull out even as he slips into the leather of the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

it’s quiet, the world. so much so that you almost flinch at the rumble of the engine and the shift of gears as your boyfriend pulls away, the nose of the car breaching reality in its amble to dawn. you’re tense for a good 9 minutes, back too straight and muscles tight as you take in the roads kyle leads the car down. you don’t even notice how on edge you are until his warm palm leaves the center console to find its perch on your thigh, fingers massaging at the muscle there. you hear the movements for the words they press into your skin. i’ve got you, it’s okay.

the tears slip down the side of your face silently and you are torn between brushing them away and calling kyle’s attention to the movement or leaning back and closing your eyes to their existence. you opt for the latter, a sigh breaks through your parted jaw and you let your head cradle into the headrest. you feels his eyes on you briefly, but the fight has left your body and you keep them closed. “stop trying to deal with it alone.” his reprimand is stern and still manages to feel like the stroke to your hair when he hugs you to his chest. so you turn your head in his direction and peer at him through wet lashes. there is a lot to say but you manage the most important of it,

“i love you.” he looks at you for as long as he deems safe before he turns back to the road ahead, the hand on your thigh flips over in a request. your own palm meets his and you curl your fingers with the last of your strength into him as you close your eyes again. the radio is off and you much prefer it, the quiet and warm atmosphere along with the drone of the vehicle is enough to settle your bones into the leather. the echo of your words finds you in the voice you prefer it in and smile softly at the insistence in it, the cadence meant to embed the meaning of the words into you viscerally.

it’s a little less than an hour of sleep that you manage, but you’re so thankful for it. you wake up in a neighboring town, so much green breaking in the bleary light of dawn it snatches at the breath halfway up your throat. you scramble up in your seat and peer around at the narrow road kyle is driving down between a number of hills. he smiles at you from the corner of his eye, says something about the sunrise and you feel that prayer in your heart become so fervent, that you swear you can hear it in the speakers of the car. it sings of your love, it sings of a fate you will twist the fabric of thread yourself to tie the two of you together if it came down to it.

john mactavish acts with sundown. there are candles lit around the bedroom, the curtains are drawn and the bed itself looks like your linen closet may have thrown up on it. “all to set the mood, hon”, he tells you with his hands on your shoulders as he steers you into the room after your shower. goodness, the man had even gone as far as picking out your favorite pair of pjs, fresh out of the dryer to make it that little mile more comfier. your heart is in knots of adoration and anticipation and you’d hate to tell him that your heart rate might act against his plans to have you at complete and utter ease. so you say nothing, falling into the cloud of blankets and pillows.

you’re watching him with wide eyes, smile excited as he shuffles through the three soft covers in his hand. there’s a furrow to his brows as he reads the titles to himself, repeating each of them as if they will whisper the secrets of their content to him if he calls on them long enough. you’re torn. between staying snuggled away in your personalized cloud and throwing yourself at your boyfriend to litter his face with the kisses that burn at your lips. you settle for a third option; waiting for him to choose his challenger and tuck himself against you so you can smother him in the love that bubbles from you like a shaken bottle of champagne.

johnny had been pouting at you all week, sitting across the breakfast table from you with sad puppy eyes that took two measly attempts from you the morning prior to get him to talk before he was whining at you. expressing the absolute heartache of walking up alone, your side of the bed, so unbearably cold and untouched. it was enough that you had gotten up from your chair to sit astride his lap, pulling his head to your chest as you cooed your apologies into his ear, kissing at his neck. the two of you had a good talk then, you finally explaining your fears of being a disturbance to his sleep if you stayed in bed and him smack at your buttocks in indignation.

johnny had come to a clear conviction that morning, and no one could say that the man had issues in execution. he had spent a good portion of the day putting his money where his mouth is, maneuvering by you with fast and determined steps, murmuring little excuse me’s and leaving quick kisses to your cheek with his arms full. there had been a better part of two hours where the bedroom door had been closed and you had been barred from entry. your boyfriend then returned to you as you sat on the couch with a shitty reality show to entertain you, standing at your feet and smiling down at you.

“where’ye keep those books of yours, baby?” that had been an adventure on its own, walking johnny through your trove, breaking down the genres and tropes and plot lines as he nodded and assessed the covers with a level of scrutiny that betrayed his line of thinking. you pushed to the balls of your feet and laid a kiss to his lips before you left him to his dissection. and from that, you spy three titles johnny had managed to narrow it down to.

he taps one against the flat of his palm twice and sets the other two aside before his eyes flick up at you and they’re bright and brilliant in that blue of them as they speak of his pride in all that he has arranged for this and having finally come to the crux of it as he crawls into bed beside you. johnny wriggles this way and that before those large arms are pulling you flush against his chest and he cracks open the book in his right hand while his left is laid against your stomach. he asks you softly if you’re comfortable and upon your nod, he announces the title and author.

the deep, gruff of his voice reads the story to you, and it’s not only in your ears, but against your cheek and hand, echoing into the marrow of your bones and fucking hell, this man could have chosen to read the terms and conditions you’re prone to ignore and accept anyway across the web and you’d still be entranced. maybe it’s the very abundant feelings you have for him, maybe it’s the accent and just sheer attraction to his voice, but your body is a stringed instrument that his intonations pluck at lovingly. johnny gets to chapter 4 as you start to feel the droop of your eyes, a heaviness that feels so nostalgic that you almost want the word to pause for you to indulge in it.

his voice grows distant, your attention the finicky flame of candle on a windy night and you want to thank him, want to love on him for this coaxing into dreamland and even more so, you want to grab him at the hand and pull him into your dreams because you are so very certain that your reality before these dozing moments will make any imagination of your subconscious so utterly bleak.

simon riley takes on a two birds, one stone approach to your frustrations. it’s so typical of him that you offer him a soft laugh when he finally divulges his plan to you, shaking your head against his bicep with loving amusement. teas. or more specifically, tea blending. he tells you, of which he has already stocked up for and done the needed research for. you do not doubt him for a second, because the man is meticulous to a fault. for goodness’ sake, simon has even completed a course on it.

you ask if you’re allowed to watch as he gets to work on setting up his station as the sun begins to sink and he pulls out the barstool for you in invitation. you’re easily transfixed at the sight of it all; your shared kitchen becoming a pop-up apothecary that is fronted by a behemoth of a man that dons a skull mask on his days of work. it’s enough to draw another titter out of you as you rest your chin on your hand. simon only arches an eyebrow at you briefly before he gets swept up in his work again.

the floral and herbal notes are a burst to your senses and it’s comical to watch simon measure out his determined dosages of each, the tea vials an unlikely sight in hands you are well and truly acquainted with. you ask soft questions, watch as he notes down his measurements for the chamomile, lavender and lemon peel, loops and run-on letters that only he will ever be able to decipher. he gets the kettle boiling only as he stirs through his dry blend and funnels it into the infuser and he briefly mentions to you the careful deliberation on his decided temperature for the tea.

he settled on 95°C, he tells you, the tea being a herbal one with the flourish of refreshing lemon. simon does not walk you through his decided measurements however, he shushes you and brushes a hand over your hair as he sets your favorite mug in front of you as the kettle clicks off and he allows it the allocated time to steep. your boyfriend folds himself down to lean his weight on the kitchen counter after having tidied up after himself, grunting at you to stay seated as it was his mess to see to. a generous phrasing, considering how steady those hands are, how particular he is about his work. now, he simply looks at you, slow blinks as he takes you in and you grow self-conscious at the way those dark eyes linger on the dark circles beneath your own and the wane of your cheeks.

you drop your gaze to the quartz of the countertop instead, forefinger tracing a vein of it in order to appear more casual than you feel. the silence presses upon the both of you with the weight of mist against your skin. clammy and all consuming and you wonder if you projected your insecurity so far into the atmosphere that it now rains down on the both of you in heavy contrast to the steam coming off of the tea kettle not even half a meter from the two of you. the smell hits you sharply, the earthy, floral notes of chamomile laces itself into the crisp and clean of lavender with a tail of twang from the lemon peel. you can’t deny that your muscles prickle as they begin to loosen at the second inhalation of the scent.

“a great deal of tea blending is scenting. it’s the first impression of your blend.” he tells you when he notes the subtle shift in your body, a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he straightens and grabs the kettle to fill both of your cups. it’s a very pale amber, like bleak sunlight just as the dawn cracks at the seam of the earth and you can’t help but smile at the irony of it. you wait for the last drop from the spout before you gather the mug into your palms and look up at simon, thank him as you stretch over to kiss at his cheekbone. when you pull away and fall back into your seat, he remains quiet for a while.

finally, he responds with “i miss you during the night. but i don’t blame you.” your frown is an automatic response to the clench of your breath, seized by your ribs at his words and you shutter against the warmth of his attempts. attempts to coax you back into your shared bed, to keep you there, at rest with him. you open a mouth to apologize to him, to offer words that had melded to the roof of your mouth for much too long. you don’t get to free them though, because simon drags the barstool beside you even closer so that his thighs bracket you and he can drape himself across you like a security blanket.

“no apologies. might as well just snatch unwarranted blame then.” the words are crass in the same way that they are affectionate. equal measures of both and purely a blend of simon. so you nod, you lean back into him and you finally take slow sips of your tea. it’s good and it engulfs your body in a serenity that you has no belief of it being capable of. you hum quietly in approval, slouching further into the strength of your boyfriend and mutter halfheartedly that your weight against him is a consequences of his own goodwill. he only clicks his tongue and drags your chair further into him.

you drink a second cup as the two of you migrate to the couch, simon stretched out for your comfort as you curl into him like a kitten discovering its mother’s milk for the first time. the pair of you don’t talk much, it’s an easy silence as he feathers your hair between his fingers and stares at the ceiling. it’s when your eyelids grow heavier in weight that you lift your head at him and request one last move. you barely get the words out before he’s sitting up with you still tucked into his chest. you’re under the covers and in his arms with a content sigh barely two minutes later and the cotton fluff of sleep almost has you delirious but just before it claims you, you manage to speak the words that burned the back of your teeth for hours,

“i missed you too.”