gloomwitchwrites

[gloomwitchwrites]

wip wednesday: a sneak peak to the opening chapter of The Bloody Devils. mdni

Flame. Gold. A flip of the wrist.

“How’d you do that?”

A flash of coin. Gone, again.

“Here, lassie. Watch.”

A teasing ploy. John has seen it countless times in countless brothels and on countless women. MacTavish’s charm is inescapable. The Catholic bastard.

The coin, golden and polished, gleams between MacTavish’s fingers. Shuffling them between finger and knuckle, MacTavish twists his wrist, opens his palm, revealing calloused skin and nothing else.

“Blimey,” whispers the raven-haired wench straddling MacTavish’s lap.

As she leans in, grasping his wrist to move his hand this way and that, peering at it like the coin will suddenly appear, MacTavish coyly unveils where the coin has gone.

“To your right, lassie.”

She turns, laughs, quickly snatching the coin to admire it. “Is it real?”

“Oh, aye,” croons MacTavish. “Plenty more, too.”

John glances away as MacTavish discreetly tugs at a loose string on her laced bodice. She’s too enraptured with the gold in her palm to notice how his hand descends to reach under her skirts.

“There’s more?”

She’s curious. And that’s exactly what MacTavish is after.

John pointedly ignores the way she angles her ample breasts in MacTavish’s direction. The tankard in front of him, filled to the brim with lukewarm mead, is far more interesting.

“Aye, lassie. Much more.” MacTavish tilts his head back, his smile flirty and open. “Want to earn a few?”

Her eyes brighten, eyebrows rising toward her hairline before relaxing into demure calmness. “How’d you suppose I do that?”

John nearly snorts into his tankard.

“Bloody terrible flirting,” mumbles Ghost.

The big brute of a man sits to John’s left, directly across from MacTavish. His cowl is down, jagged facial scars on display. The whores keep their distance from him, but their gazes are watchful. No one wants to go near him. Not until he offers up coin. It’s a bloody shame. The man is a solid wall of violence and intimidation, but beneath the gore and kill count, Ghost is just as hopelessly lost as the rest of them.

MacTavish leans in even further. Dangerously close. “If you let me stick my prick…right…here.” The whore squawks, nearly tumbling out of MacTavish’s lap.

“Oi. Hands off!” The chastisement is hardly a scold. She’s blushing fiercely as MacTavish admires his glossy finger.

“What ya say, lassie?”

As she opens her mouth to reply, an older woman wearing a garishly red gown approaches. There is fire in her eyes, a wrath that’ll come down tenfold if MacTavish doesn’t hand over the correct coin. The frayed sash about her waist does nothing to hide the rip or obvious stains, and the necklace she wears around her neck is loaded with fake gems. The sparkle is too bright. John would know. He’s seen the real thing in person.

The Madam sticks out her hand. “Ye not mount her nor stick your prick up her arse without coin crossing palm.”

When MacTavish remains unmoving, she makes a ‘give it here’ gesture with her fingers. “Pay up or I’ll set Moth on ya for a walloping.”

“Moth?” asks MacTavish.

The Madam jerks her head in the direction of the door. Ghost, John, and MacTavish all turn their heads. Beside the entry door, and sitting on a wooden stool far too small for him, is Moth. Bald. Thick, with ropey muscles. Mean black eyes like crawling water beetles. He grins, showing off his missing teeth.

“Fucking hell,” sighs Ghost, downing the rest of his mead in anticipation of a brawl.

MacTavish fishes out two more gold coins, dropping them into the Madam’s palm. She considers them, rubbing her thumb back and forth over the engravings.

“Hm,” she scoffs, pocketing them. “No more nonsense. Ya hear?”

MacTavish nods, his eyes a bit round.

Sniffing, the Madam turns away, snapping her fingers at the raven-haired whore previously in Johnny’s lap. “Come here, girl,” she snarls. As the woman approaches, the Madam seizes her arm, whispering at her harshly as they disappear into the back.

Ghost eyes the bottom of his empty tankard. “Keep fingers to yourself, Johnny.”

MacTavish flashes him a wicked grin. “I’m a proper gentleman.”

John snorts, sipping on his mead. It’s sweet with a hint of spice. Not watered down. Clearing his throat, John settles back in his chair, scratching at his neck. “Need a trim,” he mutters.

“And a fuck,” growls Ghost, his gaze following one of the barmaids.

“With a whore,” grumbles John. When Ghost’s gaze continues to linger, John lightly taps his arm. “She’ll get attached.”

Ghost grimaces but he tears his gaze away.

The entry door opens, bringing with it a cool rush of air and the heady scent of rain. The fourth member of their party, Gaz, steps through. Large droplets of water drip from the ends of his cloak. Tossing back his hood, he beams at them.

“Pissing like a drunkard out there,” he laughs, removing his cloak and shaking off the remnants of water. They fall on the rushes, meant to insulate and absorb spills and filth, but they slightly reek of old mead and something worse.

“Grabbed you a drink,” says John, nodding toward the tankard across from him.

Gaz drops down onto a stool, gulping the mead like it’s cool spring water.

“How are the horses?” asks John.

Gaz inclines his head, considering. “Tired. But full bellies and a night of rest will do them good.” He licks away some of the frothy residue from his upper lip. “Think I need that myself.”

In the light of the candles, John can almost mistake Gaz for his former lord. He’s the man’s bastard after all, but he looks more like his mother. A blessing, really. Makes it easier to hide.

“Going for a refill,” mumbles Ghost, dragging his tankard across the table as he stands.

[gloomwitchwrites]

just a she/they, their best friend, and the names of their BG3 multiplayer save files

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Fourteen

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (mdni): post-apocalypse au, swearing, birth control/abortion discussion, mild angst, kissing, possessive!Simon

Word Count: 5.1k

You seek out information to prevent a possible pregnancy. Where Simon went is revealed. Simon admits a truth to you before he leaves.

Chapter Thirteen // Chapter Fifteen

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“What happened to the stack of inquiries?”

Hannah ravenously shifts through stacks of papers next to the ancient fax machine. The fossil of a device beeps, whirs, and fires up again, sounding like it’s about to launch itself into space.

Eloise absently sips from her coffee cup. “Which ones?”

With a huff, Hannah snatches the new fax from the machine. Glancing at it, her eyes scan the page. A clipped laugh. “Fucking waste of paper.” Hannah crushes it into a ball, tossing it into the nearby recycling bin.

She pivots on her heel, addressing Eloise. “The ones you’ve been ignoring,” replies Hannah with clipped irritation.

“Oh,” muses Eloise. She slowly glances away from the document in her hand to peer at her coworker. “Those.”

“Yes. Those,” emphasizes Hannah.

Their bickering is simply background chatter. You’re unfocused. Confused. On the verge of fully disassociating.

Simon never came back. You awoke, tangled in his sheets, smelling of him, and yet the man was nowhere in sight. Not even a goddamn note. Where he went last night is still a mystery. All morning you’ve mulled it over in your head, considering every possible option. It’s a fruitless endeavor. Anxiety is your companion now, sitting sour in your stomach.

Simon’s absence isn’t the only thing nipping at you. What he said before he left still lingers—still repeats like a pounding drum.

I’d cherish the both of you.

An admission. A glimmer of emotion from a brute of a man. It’s fucking maddening, and so goddamn frustrating you’re not sure if you want to cry or scream. Yet it’s not even the worst of it. The matter of contention, of what happened, what he did or what you perceived him to have done, compounds like an insufferable weight.

Inquiries are important. Your job is important. But focus is flimsy and gone and slipping beneath your fingers with every battered word that Hannah and Eloise exchange. When they switch to French, you completely tune them out.

Birth control. Abortion. Of what you understand, which is little, they aren’t options for you. Or, perhaps they are, and Joann is withholding that little nugget. The anxiety worsens, pushing out of your stomach and into your chest.

What will happen if you become pregnant? Was there even enough of Simon’s cum to actually matter?

“Hm.” Eloise’s lips purse like she’s considering something.

“Hm?” mocks Hannah. “Hm? That’s all you have to say about it?” The fax machine starts up again. “I don’t have time for this!” Reaching behind the bulky beast, Hannah yanks the cord out of the outlet. It immediately shuts off, the whirring becoming a soft sigh as if it were human and not a machine.

 “Finally,” groans Hannah. “Some fucking peace.”

Eloise points the tip of her ball-point pen in Hannah’s direction. “Don’t let Arthur see that.”

“Arthur isn’t here,” snaps Hannah, waving her hand dismissively.

You only have so much time. It’s a short window to prevent fertilization and implantation. There are herbal remedies. Back home, that’s the option you went with to prevent pregnancy. If you could find the ingredients here, you could make a tea. Drink it down and cross your fingers.

Eloise huffs, shaking out the document as if it’s dirty.

No. You have to ask. You have to. There is protection in community. Hannah and Eloise have never made you feel out of place.

“Can I ask you something?” you blurt.

You flinch slightly at how loud and desperate you sound.

The two women glance in your direction, their features shifting into soft surprise and curiosity. Hannah opens her mouth to answer, but you continue on, knowing that you need to get this all out before you back down and give up.

“Not about this.” You gesture in the air vaguely, indicating the room. “It’s about something else.”

Eloise exhales with relief. “Oui.” She tosses the document over her head. “Gladly.” Hannah rolls her eyes at the gesture but says nothing.

A nervous itch sets in. You don’t realize you’ve been chewing on a fingernail until you taste the coppery bite of blood.

You drop your hand into your lap. “What are the rules around…birth control?”

The two women stare at you like grass is growing out of your ears. Eloise’s head is tilted slightly, as if she didn’t hear you correctly. Hannah is a dead fish, her mouth opening in a soft o. They exchange a look, the silence stretching. As it starts to become awkward, Hannah decides to answer.

“Have you not talked about this with your gynecologist?”

“My—” you stammer. “My what?”

“Do you know what a gynecologist is?” asks Hannah, clear concern on her face.

“Yes. Yes, I know. I just—no? I mean—” You press your palm to your forehead. You feel hot. Feverish. “Am I supposed to have one?”

“Are you supposed to have one?” repeats Hannah. “Did no one assign you one?”

“I—I don’t think so,” you reply honestly, but you don’t know. You have no clue about how any of this works.

Hannah, clearly no longer interested in the missing inquires or the ancient fax machine that looks like it’s smoking, comes over to your desk. “What about a g-p?”

“Like a general practitioner?”

Hannah nods.

“No?”

Eloise chimes in. She leans forward in her chair, placing her elbows on her desk. “Have you been to the hospital?”

You play with the end of your sleeve, glancing down into your lap. “I had exams done when I was brought here.”

“At the hospital?”

“No. They had me quarantined outside the wall.”

Hannah places her palm on the edge of your desk, her expression serious. “Have you not been registered with the hospital?” You shake your head. “Were you assigned a dentist?” Another shake. “Did your transitional advisor go over any of this with you?”

When you don’t reply right away, a sliver of anger creeps into Hannah’s features. It’s clear that this information bothers her.

“Why are you asking?” she asks softly.

You like to think the best of people, but all these years running on pure survival have altered the way you interact with others. While you trust Hannah, the voice of doubt is still present, lurking at the back of your mind.

“Well—”

“Wait,” she interrupts, holding up both hands. “Don’t answer that.” With a heavy sigh, Hannah rubs at her temples. “Okay. First thing. When did it happen?”

You blink. “When did what happen?”

“The sex,” answers Eloise, her tone blunt.

“There wasn’t—” You splutter. “I didn’t—”

Amusement creeps into the corners of Eloise’s eyes and mouth. Her lips form a knowing smile. Whether or not you and Simon actually had sex is irrelevant. He ejaculated on your clit, used it to rub it, to pull forth a blissful orgasm that had you so strung out that you didn’t notice his cum-coated fingers sliding into you at first.

They don’t need the details. They don’t need the meat of it.

“Yesterday,” you admit. “Last night,” you correct. “But it’s not what you think!”

A tone shift. Hannah is no longer irritated with your transitional advisor’s shitty professionalism. There is more to all this, and you’ve been given fucking scraps of the reality.

Hannah lightly taps your leg with the tip of her shoe. “Who was it.” She taps again. “Spill.”

Eloise wheels herself out from around her desk, scooting herself over on her chair. Rolling to a stop, she plants both arms on the tabletop, resting her chin in her hand. “Tell us about him.”

“I didn’t say it was a man,” you mutter.

Eloise snorts. “If it’s not a man, why are you asking about birth control?”

“Fair point,” you mutter.

“Oh!” Hannah perks up, clapping her hands together. “Was it the one who came here on your first day?”

Eloise sits up, her excitement palpable. “Lieutenant Riley?” She shivers with pleasure. “Is he big?”

Hannah guffaws. “He has to be.”

The two women giggle hysterically, slapping at each other as if the three of you are teenage girls at a weekend sleepover.

“Is that important?” you ask, bewildered.

“No,” replies Hannah, her smile softening just as Eloise replies, “Oui. It is.”

Hannah waves off Eloise. “The man has a bit of a reputation.”

A reputation? It’s possible. Not like you’ve really talked to anyone about him outside of communicating with him directly. An outsider’s perspective might be nice. Reflective. Shine some light on all your anxieties. Ease them a bit.

“Does he?” you question, voice a bit small.

Fuck. Is he an asshole? Certainly. The man did snatch you from your home. Kidnapped you if you’re being completely truthful with yourself. But “having a reputation” could mean fucking anything.

Eloise nods. “Many women have tried to tie him down. No one’s been successful. But,” and she points at you, “he likes you.”

You brush it off with a clipped laugh. “And how would you know that? Can you read his mind?”

Eloise shrugs. “How many times has he stopped by during your lunch break?”

Goddamn her.

You shrug, tugging on the lobe of your ear, glancing off to the side. “It’s only been a few times.”

Hannah blows raspberries. “Try nearly every day.”

“That is not true!” you exclaim.

“He did,” confirms Eloise. “I counted.”

Flabbergasted, you watch as Eloise pushes away from your desk in an exaggerated flourish. The wheels squeak as the chair spins her back. She picks up her planner, lifting it in the air like a victory trophy. Without momentum, she starts inching her way back.

“Get out of the fucking chair,” mutters Hannah, reaching for the planner.

Eloise snatches it away from Hannah’s grasp and swears at her in French. When Hannah scowls down at her, Eloise flashes you a bright smile. “See.”

You lean forward. See her notes in different colored pens. It doesn’t take you long to pick up on where she’s marked Simon’s appearances. They’re correct, and you know they are. There is no use denying the truth.

“We know it’s weird,” adds Hannah. “But we were both in on it!”

“That doesn’t make it less weird,” you reply dryly.

Hannah dismisses your comment with a wave of her hand. “Not the point. You’re asking about birth control.”

Eloise snaps the planner shut. “Did you let him finish inside you?”

“Eloise,” you breathe.

You have no idea what I almost let him do.

She waggles her finger. “Naughty girl.”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, covering your face with your hands, wanting to melt into the floor.

“We’re not here to judge,” Hannah says quickly. “We can talk about the other stuff later.”

Eloise hums in agreement. “Your transitional advisor is a bitch.”

Hannah rolls her eyes. “Eloise. That is not helpful.”

“You can tell him I said that,” she says with confidence.

“But it did happen last night?” asks Hannah.

“Yes,” you nod.

Hannah pushes off from your desk, heading for hers. “There’s still time. I’ll go to the pharmacy.”

“There’s a pharmacy?”

Hannah keeps talking, disregarding your question. “I’ll grab a few things. And something you can take now so you don’t have to try and negotiate out of a potential pregnancy later.”

Negotiate out of a pregnancy? The very idea of having no control stuns you to the spot. Cold creeps in, turning your blood to ice.

“Is abortion illegal then?”

Eloise and Hannah both stop in their tracks, looks of disgust plastered on their faces. “No,” they answer simultaneously.

“But there are…stipulations,” Hannah adds, opening a drawer in her desk. “It’s a bit,” she wiggles her fingers, “prickly.”

“How so?”

Hannah’s lips part slightly as she leans down to retrieve a small purse from the drawer. “If it’s not medically necessary, you need to be below a certain number of weeks. Or have a damn good excuse.”

There is no elaboration. Just a statement of fact. It’s more than what you had before, but the new information only causes further questions and deeper anxieties. Trapped. That’s what Joann wants—what the government wants. To have you contribute to the gene pool. To be breeding stock. They just dress it up and present it nicely to not scare anyone off.

Hannah retrieves her coat. “If Arthur comes back from his meeting while I’m gone, tell him I went to the bakery.”

“The bakery on the corner?” Eloise checks the time. “They’re closed.”

Hannah sighs dramatically. “Tell him I went to take a shit. I don’t really care, Eloise.”

The moment Hannah leaves, you find yourself spiraling again. Numb and unsure of what to do next, you simply sit at your desk, staring off into space. There are books to catalogue, to scan, to cross-check with the digital database, to print copies of those books and put them out into the library for people to check out.

So much to do. Yet you are stagnant like still water. Focus is fleeting. A sharp wind that snatches a precious item from your hands, shepherding it away forever.

You do not check the time. Do not do anything except wait for Hannah’s return. And when she does, she comes with a full bag. A mountain of stuff emerges from it, creating a mess on your desk. You nearly choke in surprise, startled by how much she’s brought with her.

“How the fuck did you get all this?” You pick up boxes of condoms, several reusable menstrual cups, and multiple boxes of emergency contraceptive.

Hannah beams with pride. “I have a medical exemption.” You glance up, ready to dig around, but Hannah continues on, clearly understanding how much you need this. “I have endometriosis. We’re lucky to still have the technology we do. The war destroyed a lot, but it didn’t erase everything.” Her happiness faulters slightly. “Treating endo isn’t a top priority. And since it can cause complications with pregnancy, infertility, and a host of other issues, I’ve been giving an exemption.”

“No adding to the gene pool for you?” you ask.

She shakes her head. “No.”

Though her tone has cooled, there is a sadness in her gaze, lingering just behind her irises. You recall the pamphlet you read about the different pillars. Genetic contribution is the first. The most important.

You gesture to one of the emergency contraceptives. “Which gets you this?”

Hannah laughs. “They literally cannot tell me no. It’s great!”

Eloise inclines her head. “She’s saved me a few times.”

You take it all in, looking over every box and container. “But, is that legal? Sharing this with me?”

“Technically, no,” winces Hannah. “But no one is policing it. There are…bigger issues. And while they want babies, they also don’t want an excessive amount.” She shrugs. “Resource distribution and all that.”

You pick up one of the emergency contraceptives. It’s simple. Plain. The packaging is minimal with only directions on it. No warnings. No dosage. Not like the packaging you’d see before the world collapsed. It’s also hard, like the exterior packaging can be sanitized and reused.

“Is it safe?” you ask hesitantly, placing the contraceptive down.

“Yes,” affirms Hannah. “A few of the Safe Zones are designated for drug research and manufacturing. Each Zone has their thing.” She starts picking up the items you haven’t touched. “I’ll keep these in my desk. And we can talk about the rest another time.”

The overwhelming pressure in your body refuses to abate. Additional clarity did not bring comfort.

“It’s a lot to take in,” you agree, and you hate how defeated you sound. A bit pathetic. Small.

Eloise is at the electric kettle, heating water. Hannah dumps her coffee into the sink and rinses out the cup. “Especially when you’re coming in from the outside.” Hannah grabs a towel, wiping it out. “You’re doing well. Not everyone does.”

A small box sits in front of you. Emergency Contraceptive, it reads in bold, black lettering. You open it up. Tip it toward your palm. A plain white pill drops into your hand. You stare at it a moment, considering.

It’s a flicker of hesitation. A brief concern.

And then the doubt is gone. Blinks out.

You throw it back. Take a sip of water. Swallow it down. Run your tongue over your teeth.

“Are we going to your place tonight?” asks Hannah as she drops a fresh tea bag into her empty mug.

Shit. You forgot about that, too worried about Simon to remember that you have a whole fucking apartment to pack up. And a bed covered in glass. Scattered coneflowers on the floor.

“Yes,” you breathe, taking another sip of water. “Need help packing. Moving some boxes.”

The key to your new apartment sits heavy in your pocket. It’s supposed to be a fresh beginning. A chance to reset. But it’s nothing more than a nicer cage.

The rest of work is a blur. There are books and papers and filing and marking things off the checklist. All of it robotic. A rhythm. Simple tasks that are utterly brainless and leave you hollow.

Walking to your new place is just as weighty, the only beacon being Hannah and Eloise and their constantly happy chatter. It’s nice having someone. You have no friends. No family. You have these two women. And Simon.

Maybe.

“My neighbors are going at it again,” bemoans Hannah. “It’s at all hours.”

Eloise snickers. “You have rabbits in your walls.”

“Oh God,” cackles Hannah. “Can you—what the fuck.”

The abrupt change catches you off-guard. You’ve had your head down, gaze on your feet. Your head snaps up, every nerve alert and on edge. The front door of your apartment is propped open. No. Not propped. As you step closer, it’s entirely off it’s hinges. From it comes male voices, banging, and thuds that rattle the floor.

Eloise peers over your shoulder. “Could have told us you ordered movers.”

“I didn’t,” you murmur.

Frowning, Hannah takes the boldest step, striding forward like she’s about to chew out whoever is inside. She makes it to the frame, and then deflates, shoulders sagging as she takes in whatever she finds. It’s enough motivation. You and Eloise follow, coming to a halt as you draw up beside Hannah.

“Looks like you won’t need help moving anything,” says Hannah.

“No,” you agree, a bit breathless.

The apartment is completely furnished. You take a step inside. Then another. Kitchen cabinets sit open, revealing cups, plates, bowls, mugs, and various storage containers. In the living room is a sectional sofa, clearly secondhand but still in good condition. There are matching bookcases, the shelves empty and waiting to be filled. In front of the sectional is a plain wood coffee table with a rug beneath it.

“Is that a television?” you laugh, disbelieving.

As you head for it, a large shadow passes into your peripheral. You shift. Turn. Glance up. Heart fluttering with excitement.

“Excuse me.”

The voice is wrong. Not deep enough, and not British.

It’s not him.

You step to the side as one of the movers carries out a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. You track his movement, as do Eloise and Hannah. When he’s out the door, the two women scamper over, grasping your arms.

Hannah squeezes your forearm. “You didn’t order movers?”

“No,” you blurt. “I had no idea this was happening.”

The middle of Eloise’s brow pinches. “Who—” It softens, understanding arriving on its heels. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you gasp. “Oh, what?”

Eloise’s mouth upturns into a sharp smile. Mischievous. Wicked. She waggles her eyebrows.

Hannah reaches out and smacks her arm. “You don’t think—”

“I do.”

They both start jumping in sync, shaking you until the room starts to spin. “Knock it off,” you groan.

“It has to be,” giggles Hannah. “Who else?”

A retort forms on your tongue. You want to deny, to chase the thought away. This can’t be why Simon left and never came back. He’s about to leave. Surely he has other responsibilities.

“You must be the new neighbor!”

You, Eloise, and Hannah turn at the exact same time. A stout man with grey hair stands in the open doorway. He’s beaming, clearly excited about someone new in the building. From the way his gaze darts between the three of you, the man doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be addressing.

“I am,” you reply, extending your hand.

“I’m Marvin,” he exhales with relief, taking your offered palm. It’s a firm, warm handshake. “Glad to finally meet you. Met your husband already.”

“You—you met my husband?”

Marvin nods. “Big guy. Military. First met him when he was viewing the place.” He gestures at the room. “Was here all morning and afternoon with the movers. Just left actually.” Marvin inclines his head. “Surprised you missed him.”

Simon. He’s talking about Simon.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“I was at work,” you reply, playing along. “Brought my coworkers to show them the place.”

Hannah and Eloise blessedly feign ignorance, agreeing with firm nods.

“Lovely place,” says Hannah.

“Exquisite,” adds Eloise.

Marvin’s brow softens. “And all those flowers he brought in?” He whistles lowly. “That man loves you. It’s good to see that. Given the state of things.”

“It’s so nice,” sighs Hannah dreamily.

Eloise is still nodding her head. Hasn’t stopped since Marvin walked in. “True love,” she affirms.

You almost laugh out loud at how forced their sincerity sounds. They’re eating this up. Enjoying every second.

“It’s a bit small, though. For children.” As if realizing what he’s just said, Marvin clears his throat. “Excuse me. Didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “The marriage is…new.”

Marvin’s gaze grows distant as if recalling a fond memory. “Ah, young love.” Coming back to himself, Marvin clears his throat, tapping his chest. “I’ll get out of your hair.” He backs up, waving as he goes. “Tell your husband I said ‘hello.’”

You simply nod. Wave.

The second he’s gone; you nearly collapse to the floor. Eloise and Hannah slowly turn in your direction, their smiles knowing and ecstatic.

“Don’t,” you warn, but they’re already on you.

Dragging you over to the sofa, they force you down onto it, taking up spots on either side of you.

“Did you couple up without telling us?”

“You married Lieutenant Riley?”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“How big is it?”

“I bet it’s huge.”

“Stop,” you say sharply, cutting your arms through the air. “We are not married.”

Eloise arches an eyebrow. “But you slept with him.”

No, Eloise. I did not sleep with him. He ate me out, gave me multiple orgasms, and then finger fucked me with his cum.

“Simon and I are not a couple,” you reply, staying firm.

Hannah draws back. She lifts her hand, extending her fingers with each thing she counts off. “You’re not married. You’re not a couple. You’re not together.” She pauses, glancing around the furnished apartment. Her gaze shifts to the open bedroom door, and her expression melts into delight. “And yet he did all this?”

You follow her line of sight. All the coneflowers have been collected, returned to their vases. They cover the bedroom. Standing tall on the bedside tables. The dresser. The fucking floor.

“I understand if you don’t believe me,” you begin. “But he and I are not…anything.”

“You called him ‘Simon,’” observes Eloise, staring at her fingernails as if they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“First name basis means nothing,” you mutter. “And furthermore. He was my minder during my probationary period. We were forced to be together all the time.”

Hannah pats your hand like you’re an ignorant child in need of comfort. “This isn’t the behavior of someone forced to be around you. He wants to be around you.”

You have no idea what you’re saying, Hannah. He wants so much more.

Simon’s words from last night, the ones you’ve been repeating in your mind come crashing forward, shoving down down down your throat and imbedding in your lungs, willing you to say them aloud. To speak them into existence.

I’d cherish the both of you.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say dismissively. “He’s leaving tomorrow.”

Eloise and Hannah’s voice rise to the same heightened pitch. “He’s leaving tomorrow?”

You sink back into the sofa. Fuck, it’s so goddamn comfortable.

Hannah shifts and rests her arm along the top cushion. “Are you going to talk to him? Tell me you are.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” you groan, placing your hands over your face, sinking further.

Hannah grabs your wrist, yanking them away from your face. Her and Eloise peer down at you.

“Talk to him,” asserts Hannah. “Tomorrow. Before work.”

“We’ll lock you out of the building if you don’t,” adds Eloise.

They don’t know what happened, what you’re trying to process. It’s all thick and loud and suffocating. Not talking to Simon, avoiding him before he leaves, might actually be for the worse.

“I’ll talk to him.”

The sun sits low behind the wall, casting everything around you in long shadows.

It’s early—far too early, but you didn’t want to miss your chance. You fidget in the same spot, standing off to the side, keeping your head on a swivel. The military zone is just starting to awaken. Most of the soldiers walking by are in rumpled fatigues, clearly not ready to face the day. They rub at their eyes. Yawn. Turn their heads to linger on you far longer than you like.

But you’re the odd one here. A civilian now. No chaperone.

And you don’t dare venture further in. Don’t stop any of the men walking past. You already tried that, doing nothing more than being a distraction, getting in the way of the people you were simply trying to talk to.

Simon might not even be here in this area. He could already be on the other side of the wall. Could be in a vehicle. Could be traveling. Could be far away at this point.

You’ve missed him.

You did.

He wouldn’t wait for you. Wouldn’t want to talk after everything. This is silly. Pathetic. Desperation on display.

You kick at the dirt. Swallow. Lick your lips.

More eyes on you. More men walking past. A few pause, shifting in your direction, considering whether or not they should approach. Panic rises. The feral rabbit crouched in the tall grass scenting the deadly fox.

This is a terrible idea. A farce.

Best to go.

Best to flee.

Your limbs twist, muscles straining. The instinct flares, and everything your body has learned the last few years falls into place.

“You’re here.”

Gruff. Husky. Deep and British and surprised.

You turn in the direction of Simon’s voice, sighing with relief. You don’t even realize what you’re doing until after its happened. You push off from the ground, fling your arms around his neck, hold on to him tightly. There is no hesitation with Simon. His arms wrap around you, keeping you against his body. Comforting. Warm. Such strength. It grounds you, fills in all your hollow cracks.

A wave. And then a crash.

You pull back abruptly, and Simon surrenders, accepting your reluctance.

“I—” you begin. “I wanted—”

“Hush,” soothes Simon, but it’s not condescending.

“Please,” he begs.

“Listen,” he urges.

You give him the slightest nod, encouraging him to continue. Inside your chest, your heart hammers, nearly drowning in its intensity.

“I have to go. We’re leaving.” Simon shifts on his feet, head tilting slightly. “But I need to say this.”

Even with the balaclava covering his mouth, you notice the twitch of his muscles beneath the fabric. If the two of you weren’t out in the open, you’d ask him to remove it. To see his features one last time.

“There’s no excuse for what I did. You were—fuck,” he mutters, pausing.

You place your hand on his chest, flattening your palm. Simon’s responding sigh is heavy. Sweet. As if your touch is all he needs.

“For a moment, you were mine.” Mine is a growl. Primal possession. It clamps around your throat. Squeezing. Stealing breath and function, extracting your thoughts right out of your skull. “And I indulged in what I wanted. To see my cum inside you.”

You inhale sharply.

“It’s not an excuse,” he continues. “I know that.”

“Ghost!”

The two of you twist toward the voice. Johnny waves at Simon, his hand swinging in a “come here” gesture.

“Fucking hell,” mumbles Simon. “This isn’t—I was wrong for it. But I won’t deny how I feel. Or what I want.”

He doesn’t say it. Not aloud. It is unspoken. Dust. Particles in the air lingering between your bodies.

“Ghost!” Johnny shouts again. “We’re leaving.”

Simon briefly glances in Johnny’s direction, but it’s only seconds before his gaze returns to you. There is softness in it. Longing. Deep within yourself, you know he wants to say more, to take as much time as he needs. But time is not on his side. Or yours.

“Don’t hate me for this,” he murmurs, before grasping the back of your neck.

Your lips crash against his, the fabric of the balaclava scratching your skin. His grip is dominating, his actions a mark of ownership before his peers. Simon wants them to know. Wants them to see. And you don’t entirely mind. But it’s over far too soon, and when you drift apart, you whimper, already missing him.

You hate this. Hate him.

Tumultuous and raw, you’re being split open, organs expelled for the sheer joy of it. It’s not fair that he’s leaving, that you have to do this alone, that you can’t simply go home.

“What’s this?” he asks, voice soft. A gentleness you didn’t expect.

You present the coneflower. A little wilted. Slightly crushed.

“Wanted you to have a piece of me before you go,” you admit lamely.

“Oh, dove,” sighs Simon, gently taking it from your open palm, gazing on it with reverence.

Tucking it into the inside of his uniform, Simon presses his covered mouth to your forehead. He draws back slowly, teasing you with a playful touch beneath your chin.

A step backward. Then another.

“Don’t forget me,” he says.

Simon’s gaze remains on you. Unmoving even as he saunters away. He taps the place where the petals of the coneflower peek out. Just over his heart. You watch his retreat, watch him join Johnny, watch him disappear.

Only then do you release yourself, finally moving your feet, ushering yourself away from this place.

Only then do you notice.

Only then do you glimpse the familiar face of a certain sergeant.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Circling Stardust // CT-7567 Rex x Sera Fyst (ofc)

An off the books mission is the last thing Rex expects when Generals’ Kenobi and Skywalker hold a private meeting. The Senate doesn’t know. The Jedi Council is unaware. And even Kenobi and Skywalker are secretive about the specifics. Rex volunteers because it’s what he knows, and he’ll do anything for his General. But the moment he meets the woman accompanying him on this secret mission, everything Rex understands about the Jedi is upended. He starts to question his role in the universe, what it means to be a soldier of The Republic, and the life that might await him beyond the firing end of a blaster.

Overall Warnings: fake/pretend relationship, fake marriage, fluff, angst, ptsd, undercover missions, forbidden love, clone troopers speak Mando'a, sexual content, prophetic visions via the Force

Chapters (ongoing):

One (arriving 8/5) // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six // Seven // Eight // Nine // Ten // Eleven // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen // Fifteen // Sixteen // Seventeen // Eighteen // Nineteen // Twenty

ao3 // main masterlist

author's note: a huge thank you to @id-get-sleazy-for-ron-weasley for her work on designing the title and chapter banners, and for sitting on endless calls to help me edit this beast. my gratitude for you is infinite.

[gloomwitchwrites]

How do u feel about A/B/O dynamics?? Ever thought about writing with it included? With tf141 maybe?

Thanks for stopping by, anon! I appreciate you asking. I, personally, don't enjoy writing A/B/O dynamics. Not that I don't like it, I just don't find any excitement when it comes to writing it. I'm sorry if I've disappointed you with that!

But there are tons of writers in the CoD fandom who have! You'll certainly find something to enjoy!

~ Poppy

[gloomwitchwrites]

I swear to god u did a 141 what if imagine with the current husband trend. Did u do it 😭 I feel I am going crazy 💀

Like if u didn’t do it do u know who did. Im feeling like im going insane 😭

Writing is peak though fucking eats

I have not done the "current husband" trend for the Imagines series (yet.) I do have multiple asks for it, so I'll get around to it eventually. And I'm sure someone else has done it, though I'm not sure who.

(And thank you!)

~ Poppy

[gloomwitchwrites]

141 ... how are they reacting to a strip tease/lap dance from reader? 💃🪑

Well, howdy! I know this ask has been sitting in my inbox for a hot minute! But here I am, finally getting around to it (sorry for the drastic wait.) I had a lot of fun with this, especially taking the prompt in different directions. Hope you enjoy it! Thanks for dropping this into my inbox!!

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (mdni): cyberpunk au (Gaz), cult au (Ghost), piv penetration, undercover missions, truth or dare, strip clubs, brief alcohol, grinding, dry humping, brief angst, 141!reader (Price & Soap), virgin!reader (Ghost), mild dubcon (Ghost)

Word Count: 2.7k

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

John Price

“Have a gift for you. To finalize our agreement. Show of good faith.”

If John could spit in the man’s face, he would. Sitting on the opposite couch is a U.S. Congressman wearing a tailored suit and smarmy smile. The deal is done, and the person listening on the other side of John’s ear piece is already readying the infiltration team.

This congressman believes John’s an ally. That the two of them have made a solid deal. But there is no money. No weapons. There will be no exchange. This shit-stain of a man will be dragged out of here soon, and John’s part of the mission will be over.

“A gift?” questions John, swirling his whiskey around in the glass.

The man snaps his fingers, and a trio of women emerge from a side door. At first, John dismissively looks away, but as he glances back, he nearly drops his drink.

The congressman across from John isn’t the only target in this establishment. There are others scattered around in the pulsing club. You, John’s subordinate and teammate, should be out there, sitting in laps, flirting, pretending that you care about any of them just to absorb any and all information you can. But you’re not where you’re supposed to be, and based on the look on your face, you know this.

John shifts, placing his drink on the table in front of him. One of the women breaks off, heading toward him, but you’re faster, cutting her off and delicately kneeling beside him on the sofa.

“They’re gorgeous. Aren’t they?”

John inclines his head. “Stunning.”

One of them falls into the man’s lap, the two of them grinding on each other. John glances away from the spectacle, only to stiffen when you place your hand on his inner thigh. You’re far too close to his groin, but John can’t tell you to back off. It would be suspicious.

You twist slightly, and John sees the apology in your gaze. The two of you just need to pretend until the infiltration team arrives. Should only be a few more minutes.

“Give him a dance,” barks the congressman. He snaps at you, pointing at John. “I’m paying you.”

It takes every ounce of control for John not to launch himself across the table and break the man’s nose. While the anger flares, there is you, and your cooling touch. Firm. Palm flat. Pushing against his chest. Shoving him back against the sofa.

John’s focus on the man across from him wanes. Shifts to you. How you look utterly relaxed yet completely in control. A force to be reckoned with. You lift your leg and place your high heel on the sofa next to him, opening your legs, giving John a clear view.

You’ve been waxed, the glittery black thong you wear hardly covering your labia. John wants to reach out and cover you, to allow no one this view but him. A silly fucking notion since the two of you aren’t a thing. Only teammates.

But John is just a man. He won’t deny that, especially when your hips start to move, your cunt coming dangerous close to his face. John scents your natural musk, and that only sharpens his desire. He inhales, attempts to reroute the thoughts in his brain.

It doesn’t work.

Blood rushes to his dick, and John indulges, caressing the backs of your thighs as you turn around, bend at the waist, and shake your ass. The thong shifts, exposing your pussy. John inhales sharply, fingers digging into the backs of your thighs as he focuses in on your slickness.

The thoughts in his head are lecherous. He shouldn’t have them. Not for you. But it’s hard to resist, especially when you drop in his lap, ass grinding against his obvious erection. Yet you are ever the professional, pretending like you don’t notice the bulge.

John sends up a silent prayer that the rest of the team isn’t watching this on the cameras.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Finding anything to your taste?”

Gaz tilts his head in the direction of the voice. It’s more robotic than human, the inflections on certain words a bit stagnant as it attempts to replicate human expression. What stands behind the counter appears to be a woman, but as Gaz peers closer, the smaller details emerge under the neon glow.

An odd shine. Thin lines beneath the skin pulsing electric blue as the android’s artificial nervous system sends out signals. The eyes aren’t entirely right either. A shade of purple found in plenty of ocular cosmetic changes, but with the faintest glow.

Gaz’s gaze shifts back to the dancing holograms. Bright, flashing words appear around their writhing bodies, attempting to entice customers to spend their few credits.

Try our newest models!

Now more human!

Feels like the real thing!

Gaz’s eyes narrow. “The sign outside advertised humans.”

The android inclines its head. “We have humans.” Turning, it motions toward the menu.

“Those are modified,” corrects Gaz. “And the other half are sex robots.”

“Unmodified humans are uncommon.”

Gaz leans against the bar top. A paired couple walk by, their laughing hardly audibly over the pounding music. “But you have them,” he says, and it’s no question.

The attendant inclines its head. “We do. For our wealthy clients.”

“I have money.”

The android remains perfectly still as its eyes shift, the pupils dilating and expanding quickly. A scan. Probably checking his pockets.

Slowly, it reaches under the counter, producing a small handheld device. Gaz extends his arm, lining the scanner’s light up with the chip in his arm. A ping, and a few moments later, a happy beep comes from the device.

“Room twenty,” says the android. “Up those stairs. Down the hall. First left.” Returning the scanner to its dock, the android hands Gaz a small key card. “Hold this up to the door. Wait for her arrival.”

Gaz takes the key card without a “thank you.”

He passes the main bar where people linger, ordering fluorescent drinks and smoking sticks that give off iridescent smoke. Gaz ignores them, ushering himself up the stairs and to the door the android indicated. The lock on the keypad turns from red to green when Gaz holds up the key card.

As he steps inside, the lights come up. They aren’t bright, just a soft glow. Merely for ambiance. Just inside and to the right is another door that leads into a full lavatory with toilet, sink, and shower. To the left are a series of shelves with different sex toys, condoms, quick-result STD tests, and some personal cleansing wipes. Beneath it is a rubbish shoot, a mini-fridge full of beverages and items for temperature play.

Before him is a large bed with dark sheets encased on three sides by huge windows that overlook the city. The bright advertisements and neon signs on the various skyscrapers provide enough light to see by.

Gaz finds the control panel, darkening the window tint to dim the light but also obscure others from peering inside. Tapping a few more buttons, he finds what he’s looking for. Gaz extends his time, maxing it out. If she’s not fully human—if she’s modified—he can ask for a refund. But if she isn’t, then Gaz can have the whole night.

Time hardly keeps him waiting.

The door beeps, and you appear, dressed in a sheer, flowy robe that hides nothing. Gaz’s mouth instantly waters, fingers itching to touch you.

“Hi,” you breathe, smile warm.

“Hi,” he replies, a little breathless himself.

You softly shut the door behind you. Reaching out, you lightly tap at the control panel, the screen shifting with each press of your finger.

“I have to address a few things first,” you say, pausing your tapping. You turn toward him. “There is a mandatory physical. Where I inspect you. Check for…possible bumps. Rashes. Things like that.”

Gaz nods.

“Standard procedure,” you murmur.

“I understand.”

“The other is an s-t-d screening. If you don’t want to use protection, you have to do it. Otherwise—”

“I’ll take it.”

You lightly bite on your bottom lip, and Gaz inwardly groans. “I have to administer it.”

“Course.”

Grabbing one of the unopened tests, you also reveal a small panel. From it, you grab a set of sterilized gloves. They take cleanliness seriously, which is more than most establishments like this.

“You’ll need to remove your clothes. Sit on the edge of the bed. Legs spread.” Clinical, but your voice is sweet.

There is no objection from him. Gaz removes his clothes one at a time, stripping until he’s down to his boxer briefs. Only then does he pause, glancing up. You give him an encouraging nod. Gaz hooks his thumbs beneath the band, shoves them to his ankles. Kicks them to the side. When he straightens his spine, he notices the way your eyes drop to his dick. How they widen with surprise, and then appreciation.

Gaz eases onto the edge of the bed, hands placed firmly atop it, legs spread. You approach, dropping to your knees between his legs.

“I’m going to touch you now. Is that okay?”

Gaz nods. “Yes.”

You are gentle, and that alone sends blood rushing to his dick. Even as you inspect him, he’s starting to harden, but you don’t appear to mind. And from his position, Gaz can observe you, look for any signs that the android downstairs was deceptive.

But there is nothing.

Your movements are fluid and human. Natural. No stiffness in your muscles. No twitching or slight jerk of the interior wiring. No glowing eyes or glowing veins. No metal imbedded in the skin. You are perfectly human. Perfectly normal.

Which is what Gaz wants. To feel human for once. To pretend that his modifications aren’t there, that the military didn’t do so against his consent.

“I’ll do the swab now.”

The swab is the worst part, but it’s over quickly. You stick the swab into the tube and swirl it around, waiting thirty seconds before discarding the swab and adding a few drops of the test liquid onto the strip.

A minute later, and the results are in. “You’re clean.”

Gaz shifts back on the bed, scooting toward the pillows. You smile demurely, and reach up to undo the filmy robe.

“Wait,” says Gaz, holding up his hand. You pause, a slight concern in your eye. “Go slow. I want to admire you.”

This time, you appear embarrassed, almost like no one has ever asked this of you before. But you do. Achingly so. Your fingers are ghosts across your body. Gaz’s gaze follows every movement, admiring the delicate way you reveal yourself.

It’s inches of skin at a time. A glimpse here and there. A breath.

Gaz’s dick is rock hard. Throbbing. He can’t help it. Can’t help fisting the base, watching with pleasure as your gaze feasts on his self-pleasure.

With every inch of skin revealed, the more Gaz understands that you’re unmodified. And Gaz can forget, pretend that you are simply two people enjoying an evening together.

The fabric parts. Falls to the floor. You place your hands on the bed, then your knees. Crawling. Crawling up his body. Swaying your hips. You bring his hand between your legs, and Gaz’s fingers part your wetness.

No. There is no waiting.

Gaz seizes your hips, and brings you down on him.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“You’re up.”

“Taking the piss, you are.”

“Go on!”

Johnny takes a long swig of his beer. It’s lukewarm, but it goes down easy. Kyle is grinning, those pearly whites trained on you.

“Dare,” you reply boldly.

Kyle’s grin widens. A slow shift, and Johnny sees Kyle’s amusement for what it is.

“I dare you…” Mischief. Kyle is up to something. “To give Soap a lap dance.”

Price stares, gaze growing distant. Simon chuckles, low and husky. Johnny remains perfectly still, not daring to reveal the glee he feels. Kyle knows how much Johnny likes you—certainly heard him jerk off enough over it.

You knock back the rest of your drink and snatch Simon’s cigarette out of his mouth. A quick puff and you pop it right back between Simon’s lips.

“Fine,” you state, popping up from your chair, sauntering over like a honeyed vixen.

Startled, Johnny leans back, the feet of his chair coming off the floor. “You—”

With a wicked smile, you straddle his lap, grinding down on him before pushing back up. Another roll of the hips, and Johnny’s cheeks go pink. Just over your shoulder, the rest of the team is in shock, their mouths hanging open as you gyrate your ass against Johnny’s groin. And what a beautiful bonnie ass it is. His focus shifts, and he absorbs every movement, imprinting this on his brain forever.

When you completely bend forward, shaking your hips, Johnny loses it. All the blood in his body rushes to his dick, and his brain short-circuits.

“Fucking hell,” murmurs Simon, the shock melting into appreciation.

Price coughs. “Jesus,” he blurts, face bright red as he glances away.

Kyle laughs, covering his mouth as you stand up, grab Johnny’s face, and shove it between your breasts. Johnny groans. The vibrations of your giggle greet him.

“It’s what you’ve always dreamed about, Soap!”

Johnny breaks away from your breasts long enough to smile—and breathe.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“You fear me.” Ghost’s voice is husky, like your hesitation excites him.

“We all fear you. You are Father’s fist. His executioner. His arm of justice. All cower at your feet.”

Ghost’s gaze roams over your body. “Except you.”

With a sharp inhale, you fall to your knees, admonished that you did not give your new husband his due. But before your knees hit the floor, Ghost grasps your arms, hauling you back to your feet.

“Congregation’s not here,” murmurs Ghost.

“It’s what you’re owed.”

Ghost draws you in close. “Yes. When you weren’t my wife.”

Only hours ago, you belonged to no one except Father. He who shepherded all of you from the Wastes—from the fraught civilization formed there. Guided you to a new refuge with the promise of a future Eden. The Floods will not drown you.

And you, following every order, did as you were asked. Ghost, Father’s most faithfully violent servant, deserved a reward for his loyalty. Ghost could have asked Father for anything, yet he asked for you.

“We are not equals,” you whisper.

“No,” agrees Ghost. “We’re not.” He drops his hands, takes a step back, and sits on the edge of your marriage bed.

The room itself isn’t exactly spacious. The bed is small and plain, just large enough to fit the two of you. This is your new life now. No longer will your curl up on the floor amongst the rest of the congregation. You will have your own bed. A pillow. A husband to keep you warm and safe.

“Take it off.” The gruff command is a vice to your muscles, seizing all control. “Slowly,” corrects Ghost as you go to remove your veil.

It is customary for a bride to be completely covered during the ceremony. A symbol of your essence shifting to another. That you alone belong to Ghost. That his gaze is all you’ll know from this moment on.

But it’s only that. A symbol. Ceremonial.

And it’s time to shed it.

The veil, gauzy and red, comes off first. Like liquid blood, the fabric flows with the removal, wilting to the floor in silence. Ghost remains unmoving, yet his gaze shifts, following the movements of your arms, the curl of your fingers, and the surrender of the flimsy material.

The collar holding up the dress is next. Buttons snap. Draw down. Revealing breasts and stomach. You’re within arm’s reach, and Ghost extends a hand, lightly cupping one breast and then the other. Fabric catches around your hips. You curl your fingers around the filmy material, slowly easing it over your hips and down to your feet. It’s a delicate reveal, like opening a fragile gift.

As you straighten, Ghost delves between your legs, fingers parting you. You gasp, reach out and grasp his shoulders. His mouth meets your nipple, and then you’re straddling him, rocking your hips, grinding down for even greater pressure.

“Mine,” murmurs Ghost. “Mine.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

Salutations, my liege

For 141 what if series..

...may i ask something silly— perhaps.. having a steamy flirt texting with them, and when they asked for a scandalous picture, reader send a rickroll-

...im sorry-

Absolutely you can! Yes, it's a bit naughty, but it's mostly silliness, and making the guys stress for no reason. Because, why not?

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

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (mdni): swearing, dirty talk, sexting, humor, pranks & shenanigans, established relationship

Word Count: 1.1k

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

John Price

John is at work. But that doesn’t stop him. The texts come in one after the other.

Do you know how hard I am?

Been thinking about you all day.

Can hardly wait for later.

You take my cock so well.

You reply back with equal steam, describing all the ways you want him to fuck you. No detail is left unsaid. It is a lecherous image you paint for him. But fuck is it fun. The man will come home pent up, pouncing on you the moment he’s through the door.

The next text from John comes a full minute later.

Send me a picture.

Send a picture? You could. The potential of his coworkers seeing it over his shoulder isn’t something you’re particularly interested in though. Then again, telling John how horny you are isn’t enough. He might be on you the second he comes home, but you could do with a little roughness. A bit of punishment. Making John turned on and frustrated is always a sure bet you’ll receive what you want.

Opening YouTube, you find the song you’re looking for. A catchy song from the 80’s that’s now a viral trend.

Get ready, big boy, you reply.

You snap a quick, teasing photo. Sending it off.

I’m fucking ready, replies John instantly.

A swoosh, and the link is sent.

You wait. Laugh into your hand. A full minute passes. Then another. Finally, a text comes in.

Send the real thing or I’m coming home early.

You lock your phone, and set it aside, grinning madly as you wait for John to pull into the drive.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Separation has never stopped you. Simon might be elsewhere, but the two of you find time to indulge in every horny urge.

I’m gonna suck your cock until you look like an empty Capri Sun.

You laugh at yourself for texting him that, but as much as he seems aloof, Simon has a wicked sense of humor.

His response is immediate. You can try.

You snort, fingers poised to type out a return message, but the three little bubbles appear on his side.

Lube up the dildo. Suck it off. Send me a video.

You nearly choke on your own salvia. The idea of that is fucking salacious. And as much as you’d like to, you’re also feeling a bit lazy. You’re cozied up on the sofa, covered by a fluffy blanket. Instead of indulging him, you can be a bit of a shit, poking his buttons because it amuses him as much as it amuses you.

The video you do record is easy enough. It looks like you’re about to do the exact thing Simon wants, but with just a quick edit, the screen fades to black, and a certain 80’s hit appears in its place.

It’s hilarious. Sensational. Gold star to you!

You send it off, locking your phone, deciding that you’ll veg out to some mindless television and go to bed at a decent time for once. Simon doesn’t respond to your text, which is odd, but not unusual.

It’s not until after you’ve made yourself dinner that you find out why.

“You never sent me the video.”

Simon’s voice comes from nowhere. You scream, drop your bowl of pasta, and spin around, wielding the fork like a weapon.

“Where the fuck did you come from?”

Simon shrugs. “I have my ways.”

“Simon,” you warn.

His mouth stretches into the faintest hint of a smirk. “And I thought I’d come for the real thing.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny is a dog. Hungry. Wanton. If he could, he’d probably live in your skin. Which is why he’s always texting you, sending dirty messages.

Touch yourself. Show me.

You could show him. Snap a few pictures of you pleasing yourself and send them off in intervals to prolong the teasing. It would work him up. Work you up. But there is a better option. An option that’ll drive Johnny crazy—that’ll make him more desperate for what he’s asking for.

You want a picture, you text out.

Aye. Course I do.

Not like he’s gone without. The two of you have exchanged countless photos, and it’s entirely likely that most of the photos saved to his phone are of you. Naughty ones, specifically. Johnny enjoys having them for when he’s gone for long periods of time. A little treat for him, but more like masturbation material.

It’s easy to manipulate a few files, find a GIF online of what you’re looking for. Via text won’t work. You opt for email. It may confuse him, but knowing Johnny, he’ll just be happy you’re sending a naked photo. Not that it is.

It isn’t. It’s you trolling him because he’s always doing it to you.

The email is sent off with a swoosh. You patiently wait, expecting him to reply back with a snarky response.

But when your phone starts to buzz, the screen showing not a phone call but a video chat, you know Johnny means business.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

My dick is so hard.

You taking it when I come home?

Want to see you bounce on it.

You’re grinning like an idiot as Kyle’s texts come in. Kyle doesn’t usually engage in phone sex or dirty talk over text. This is a bit of a treat, and you’re enjoying it, sending back messages that are just as filthy. Kyle isn’t shy about sex, but sometimes it’s nice to see him squirm.

Send a picture. I wanna see you.

He’s too sweet for his own good. And while you’d oblige him otherwise, you also see an opportunity. Why not poke at him a bit. Have some silly fun. What you send him is not a nude.

And Kyle’s response is not a text but a phone call.

You answer. Put it on speaker.

“Did you just send me a Josh Hutcherson fan cam vid set to a cover of Flo Rida’s ‘Whistle?’”

“Didn’t know you were so hip, Kyle.”

“I’m on social media,” he mumbles. He clears his throat. “I still want that photo.”

“Hm. Yeah. Sure thing,” you reply nonchalantly. Kyle says your name with a sternness that excites you. “Have to go!” you say with a bit too much cheer.

Without waiting for his reply, you end the call, and tucking the phone underneath the pillow as it begins to buzz again.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi Poppy! I have a kind of ultra-specific request for a headcanon or imagine, whatever you want to do. It's a little silly.

So here's the thing: i have this habit/condition/idk where i sit up in my sleep. Sometimes i wake up and lay back down but sometimes i just sleep sitting up (my sister has said its the creepiest thing she's ever seen).

I'm just wondering: how would the 141 react to seeing their partner sleeping sitting up Dracula-style?

I'm not giggling over your condition but I am over how the 141 would react to this. Because, if you were in a relationship with them, they'd probably already be aware of this, but if you hadn't told?

Price has literally no idea that you do this. Man is dead to the world while he's asleep.

Soap will chronically call you "Dracula" as a new pet name. Tells everyone that you're a vampire. Takes video evidence.

Gaz would be concerned enough that he'd want to sit down and talk with you about it in the morning like "omg do you know you do this????"

Ghost mutters "fucking weirdo" before turning over and going back to sleep.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[gloomwitchwrites]

Second Act // Chapter Six

Metal Band Task Force 141 x Backup Singer Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: swearing, oral sex, piv penetration, multiple creampie, unprotected sex, breeding, dirty talk, praise, Ghost x Reader dynamic, Ghoap x Reader dynamic

Word Count: 3.1k

Flashback to the first night with Simon. Johnny interrupts. The duo becomes a trio.

Chapter Five // Chapter Seven

ao3 // main masterlist // second act masterlist

THEN

“Simon.”

“What?”

“My real name,” he says. “It’s Simon.”

“Oh.” You swallow. Lick your lips. “Hello, Simon.”

His mouth stretches into an amused smile. “Hello,” he croons.

You stare into each other’s eyes, and you’re unable to look away. Simon is searching for something, and whatever it is, you’re willing to give it to him. Like a hazy mist that lingers low over the ground, you’re clouded, enveloped in curiosity and the receding buzz of the alcohol.

Shifting closer, Simon cups your cheek, just like he did at The Foundry. He leans in, and there is an ask in that movement. A question.

Say yes, it says.

His eyelids grow heavy, those pale eyelashes reflecting the light from the tableside lamp like tiny halos. You lean in, and then you’re kissing him, accepting the silent question. It’s hard to resist with the way he gazes at you.

One kiss becomes two becomes three becomes infinite. Small and innocent at first. Gentle things that develop into deeper strokes. Wanton. Honey-laced. Dipped in sugar. Simon’s hand on your cheek shifts to the back of your neck, and that one touch changes everything. From sweetness to possession.

His fingers drag against your skin, and you gasp against his mouth.

But it is Simon who draws back, creating the faintest hint of distance. With the faintest touch, he teases another kiss, and then reclines, legs spreading wide as he drapes an arm over the back of the sofa. Simon grabs his thigh, squeezing, patting the same spot in open invitation.

Your core clenches. A new desire crawls forward, nails digging in, dragging you toward a singular mindset. He is offering, providing an opening. And why not take it? Why not find out what it would feel like to have him deep inside, stretching you deliciously.

It’s only a night. You don’t need to give him forever.

“Come here,” he purrs.

“But your face,” you blurt. “And your stomach.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “So?”

“You took a hit.”

“Think I care?”

Clearly not.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you admit lamely.

Simon’s smile stretches, clearly amused by your concern for him. “You won’t hurt me. Promise.” He adjusts his hips. Your gaze drops, noticing the obvious bulge. “Come here.”

It’s easy to move, your muscles primed and ready. You shift from the table to his lap, planting your knees on either side of his thighs, straddling him. Simon, unable to resist, immediately grabs for you. A squeeze of your thighs. Hips. A quick spank to your right butt cheek. The strike shocks you, sending you forward into him.

Simon has victory in his smile, in the way he returns to kissing you, as if knowing you’ll do whatever he wants. Whatever he says. And fuck it, you will. Sex is sex is sex. If you’re willing, and he’s willing, what else is there to discuss?

Draping your arms behind his neck, you give yourself to the moment, stealing as many kisses as you can for yourself. Simon tastes of the cigarette he just smoked and the faintest hint of whiskey. Your hips involuntarily rock back-and-forth, imitating what the two of you would be doing if there were no clothes between you.

Simon is the one that breaks the kiss. That puts a pause to all this.

“Need to know what you taste like,” he rasps, eyelids heavy with lust.

You slide your hand out from around his neck, tracing his bottom lip with your thumb. “You have my permission to find out.”

Desire flashes in his eyes. One moment you’re in his lap and the next you’re on your feet, legs wobbly as Simon forces you to standing. He leads you to the bedroom, bringing you to a stop in front of the large bed. His hands are ghosts over your body, taking you all in.

“Take it off,” he commands, voice dripping with authority.

It is easy to comply. To shed your clothes without a second thought. Simon stays perfectly still. Only his eyes move, following your every movement, observing silently as you strip down to nothing.

“On your back,” he breathes, and your pussy involuntarily clenches around nothing.

He’s not inside you. Not yet. But you desperately want him to be.

You step back, bump into the bed, drop down, bouncing slightly on the edge. Using your elbows, you recline, propping yourself up for a clear view but laying horizontal as Simon instructed. He goes down to his knees, his hands rubbing up and down your thighs in slow strokes, easing them wider, draping a leg over each shoulder.

His hands slide under your ass. With a quick tug, he brings your pussy to his mouth. You expect him to tease, to toy with you a bit. But Simon is hungry, and he has no patience for waiting. Sloppy, yes, but fuck it’s good.

His tongue is an electric shock to your senses, stroking every nerve. Your arousal snaps to attention, building quickly toward an orgasm. You are unable to stop it. Unable to do anything really. This man desperately wants to get you off, and he’s not shy about it.

Messy. Simon is messy. But it’s divine.

With a groan, your body shudders, limbs shaking, muscles tensing. Your thighs draw inward, encasing Simon’s head. Yet he’s uncaring of the fact that your legs are attempting to crush him. Simon continues to lap at your clit through your orgasm, prolonging the delirium, shoving you quickly toward overstimulation.

It could be one. Could be many. You’re not really sure. All you know is that Simon pushes up from between your legs, eases you further onto the bed. The rush from the orgasm still clings to you—still has you in it’s grasp as Simon guides your knees toward your chest.

You’re bent in, pressed into the bed. Simon eases his cock inside you, the two of you watching together as he bottoms out.

“Fucking hell,” he groans.

Locked into a mating press, Simon drives into you repeatedly. The bed squeaks and shakes beneath you, hitting the wall in a steady thump thump thump.

The hazy fog your orgasm put you under starts to fade. Reality comes creeping in again. Shifting beneath your bones. Expanding. Filling you in the same way Simon’s cock does.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe. “Please. Don’t stop.”

A muscle in Simon’s neck pulses. His jaw is clenched. All his focus is on where your bodies meet. Where his cock drives in and out of you. It’s a nice sight. You won’t lie. Being able to watch seems almost sinful.

The thought makes you shiver. Makes your pussy clench.

“Fuck,” barks Simon, his eyes closing momentarily. “Gonna come inside you.”

A protest starts to form on your tongue; to tell him you’re not on birth control. Lust is distracting. It’s ability to tug you in another direction astounding. Moments. Simon is moments away from finishing. And you’re speechless, unable to say the words that will stop him.

Too late. It’s far too late.

Simon thrusts forward, grinding his hips against you, sealing your bodies together. The hot burst of cum fills your pussy.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. It’s fine.

Because it is. You can stop at the pharmacy in the morning. Grab a morning after pill. You and Simon can fuck all night, and then you’ll leave before the sun rises. Pop a plan b, and move on with your life.

It’s just sex. That’s all.

With a pleased groan, Simon slowly pulls out. “Christ. That’s a lovely sight.”

You’re overly slick between your thighs. Part of you wants to draw inward, to close your legs and hide yourself from him, but Simon’s rapt attention is focused on your pussy. On where his cum pools. Where it leaks out. He’s admiring his work.

Simons hands return to your thighs, massaging the aching muscles, guiding your legs back to the bed and away from your chest. A tension radiates through your legs, a slight resistance that comes with staying in a singular position for too long.

“You sore?” he asks.

“Yes. How’d you know?”

Simon stretches out beside you, draping an arm over your waist. “You made a face.”

“I made a face?” you deadpan, and Simon chuckles, burying his face against your back.

You match his laugh, the two of you falling into giggles. A warmth spreads outward from your chest, flowing into limbs, fingers, and toes. It’s a gentle vibration. Like a comforting heartbeat.

“Could draw you a bath,” offers Simon.

“After one round?” you tease. “That’s all I get?”

Simon pushes himself up on his elbow to stare down at you. “Think I don’t have the stamina?”

You arch an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“You fucking devil,” he croons, wrapping his hand around the front of your throat.

With a bit of pressure, Simon holds you in place, coming in for a deliciously possessive kiss. The heat in your body intensifies, becoming an inferno again. It’s quick to consume, to draw you in. It folds you like butter into croissant dough, transforming you until you cannot separate yourself from your own lust.

You push back; hands splayed wide on Simon’s chest. It momentarily startles him, lips parting in surprise as you force him onto his back. This time, you take control, throwing your leg over his waist, sitting on his lower stomach, rubbing your ass against his quickly hardening cock.

“Think you can handle it?”

Simon’s gaze is lethal. Predatory. A dare.

Reaching behind you, you cup his balls, and lightly squeeze. He chokes. Groans. Eyelids fluttering as your nails graze over his engorged length.

“Can you?” you reply, almost mocking.

He is hard in your hand. Throbbing.

All it takes is an arch of your back and the extension of your thighs. You guide him to you. Sink down slowly. You both moan at the exact same time. Your hand on his chest flexes, fingers curling in, nails scratching against his sweaty skin.

You rock up. Down. Repeat. Lean forward. Find another angle.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

You find a pace you enjoy, moving up and down his cock, focusing only on yourself. There is no shame in it. You boldly ride him, taking whatever you want. And Simon is more than happy to oblige. His hands are everywhere. Grasping. When he palms a breast and urges the nipple to a stiff peak, your movements stutter, sending you forward.

Sitting up slightly, Simon laps at your nipple. The tip of his tongue can reach, but the angle is all wrong. You draw back a bit. Allow him room. With a growl, Simon sits up a bit more, his mouth coming down on your breast as you bounce on him.

You’re utterly lost in your actions. Uncaring of everything except for this man between your thighs. Each shift your lower body takes all your energy. All your effort. The friction is immense, dragging you downward into its depth.

Clawing.

Clawing.

Claw—

“What’s this?”

The thick, Scottish accent snaps you out of your trance. Your pussy squeezes around Simon’s cock even as your hips flex up to throw yourself off of him and hide. Simon refuses this. His hands are on you, forcing you down, keeping you fully seated on his dick.

“Johnny,” drawls Simon as if the interruption doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

“Bringing a woman into our bed without telling me?” He leans against the doorframe. “Thought we always shared.” He places his hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“You were busy,” sighs Simon. His attention returns to you, his hand caressing over your stomach. “And this one caught my eye.”

You’re completely exposed, unable to hide anything from Johnny. The two of you haven’t met but you recognize him from their show the other night at The Foundry. The bassist who held the crowd’s attention. All high energy, keeping the crowd in line with hand movements and no words. A true entertainer.

“This open?” he asks, nodding in your direction.

Simon affectionately taps the sides of your thighs. “Up to her.” You shift your attention to Simon. “What do you think, love? Should Johnny join us?”

Should he? You’ve been with two at once. It’s an opportunity. A chance to explore something new about yourself. You might enjoy it. Might not. But you won’t know unless you try.

“He can join,” you answer, glancing over your shoulder at Johnny.

Johnny’s smile is stunning. Pushing off from the doorframe, he saunters over, coming to a stop beside the bed. He glances between the two of you, his gaze lingering where your bodies meet. It’s a slow caress. A slow sweep upward.

“Keep riding him,” instructs Johnny, unblinking.

You swallow. Nearly choke.

But you do as he says, returning to that previous rhythm. Simon’s fingers dig into your thighs, his chest heaving slightly as you move up and down his cock.

“Good,” he praises, as if you shouldn’t have stopped in the first place.

Johnny reaches out, grasping the back of Simon’s head, fingers threading through his blond hair. A tug, and Simon grunts, throat arching.

“How she feel?”

Simon’s exhalation is quick. Sharp. “Fucking stunning,” he replies, not looking away from you.

“Tits are bonnie, aye?”

“They are.”

“Could use a good lick.” Simon is already sitting up, already bringing your nipple into his mouth by the time the words leave Johnny’s mouth. “The other needs a bit of love, too.” Simon shifts his mouth to the other nipple.

You gasp. Muscles clenching. The pleasure is an electric shock that sizzles through your veins. Boils your blood. Turns your bones to goo. You’re not holding yourself up anymore. Simon is that support, even as you come undone in his lap.

Johnny’s hand returns to Simon’s hair. He tugs—hard. With a grunt, Simon is yanked backward, and then Johnny’s mouth is on his, the two men making out before your very eyes.

“Come inside her,” croons Johnny. “Know you want to.”

His lips return, and Simon takes control. With a hardened pressure on your hips, Simon fucks up into you, forcing you down onto him at the same time. It’s brutal and unrelenting. You claw at his chest, nails leaving red slashes behind where they snag his skin.

Your mouth hangs open, all your words evaporating. There is nothing in your lungs. Nothing for you to cling to.

Simon releases his control, gasping against Johnny’s lips. His cum fills you again, and you welcome it.

“That’s a good lad,” murmurs Johnny, teasing Simon’s bottom lip with his tongue.

Boneless and weary, you flatten your palms against Simon’s chest. Sweat clings to your skin. The air stinks of sex.

“Your turn.”

And it’s Simon’s voice commanding. Instructing. There is no lustful submission in his gaze, only fierce determination and desire.

Bringing a woman into your bed and not telling me?

Their dynamic is deeper, and it is you that’s the stranger.

Johnny draws away from Simon, turning his attention to you. That mischievous smirk tells you enough.

“Present her to me.”

Simon chuckles. “Fucking gladly.”

Grabbing your shoulders, Simon bends you forward. As your hips draw up, his cock slides out along with some of his cum.

Your pussy is exposed. Dripping. Presented just as Johnny asked. He settles over Simon’s thighs, knees planting on either side.

“Fucking beautiful,” croons Johnny, his large hands grabbing hips and ass.

His cock pokes at your entrance, teasing before he bottoms out with a singular thrust. The movement jerks you forward. Simon seizes the back of your neck, arching it, bringing his lips to yours. His kiss is savage. It is teeth and tongue until you taste a bit of coppery blood in your mouth. All the while, Johnny is fucking your pussy like he owns it and not Simon.

The room fills with your pathetic little whines, Johnny’s grunts, the slick slap of skin against skin. Fingers find your clit. Stroking. Teasing. An orgasm roars forth, knocking you over the head, making you dizzy.

And still, Johnny fucks you through it. Fucks you harder. Grunting and guttural, speaking in Gaelic.

“You like Johnny fucking you?” asks Simon, but it’s hardly a question.

All you manage is a nod.

“You want him to keep fucking you?”

Another nod.

“And me? Do you want me to fuck you too, love?” When you nod again, Simon tuts, shaking his head. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” you groan aloud, cunt clenching down around Johnny’s cock.

The man’s thrusts have become erratic. Likely nearing his end. And in your position, there is nowhere for you to go. Not forward. Not back. Not away. You’re staunchly held in place by these two men. You’re at their mercy. Johnny is setting the pace—setting the rhythm. And Simon is beneath you, enjoying the show, kissing you at his leisure.

Simon grasps your face with his hand, fingers pressing into your cheeks, puffing them out slightly. Instinct has you grasping his wrist, attempting to pull but finding no ground.

“You’re doing good, love. Taking Johnny’s cock.” Simon’s lips brush against your temple. “Wonder what the three of us will taste like.”

Johnny’s fingers dig in harder. You’ll be tender in the morning. Beyond sore. You know you will be. Walking out of here will be a fucking struggle.

Simon’s gaze flicks briefly up to Johnny’s face. “He’s about to come, love.”

Within the next breath, Johnny is holding you close, and his release follows. You’ve hardly registered it’s happened. You’re too stunned—to strung out.

Using his grip on your face, Simon forces you to look back, to watch as Johnny shifts back on the bed to admire his work. With a gleeful smile, he dives in, flattening his tongue against your pussy. He swipes it over your sex, picking up all the cum that’s leaking from you. Johnny holds it in his mouth, and then spits it out onto Simon’s cock.

The mixture sits there on the tip. Hovering. Tips. Rolls down.

Johnny fists the base. Pumps. Swallows Simon’s cock down, the cum mixture disappearing.

“Watch,” whispers Simon, but it’s not like you have the option.

You’re fucking transfixed. Enraptured.

“Tell me again,” murmurs Simon. “Do you want Johnny here?”

There isn’t a moment’s hesitation.

“Yes.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

How many message/request do u usually recive per day?? Does sometimes feels like too much?? Cause whenever i got an idea for a prompt i start wondering if u have lots to deal with already.

Great question, anon!

I receive anywhere between 2-20 messages/requests in my inbox a day. Daily average is somewhere in the middle, about 8-10.

Sometimes it can feel overwhelming, so I usually only check my inbox once a week (Sunday) to organize it. I still see what comes in (from email notifications) and I move selected prompts into my drafts when I dig through the accumulation. That doesn't mean every message or request I receive is saved. I try to answer general questions and people just dropping in to share their appreciation. I'm also deleting spam, repeat requests, requests/asks that are demanding or problematic, requests with topics I don't write for (like SH), or deleting requests from ageless/blank blogs (unless I know them personally.)

While I do have a lot to deal with, don't let that deter you from submitting. My inbox is open. Messages are always welcome!

~ Poppy

[gloomwitchwrites]

Ever thought of write maybe a short fic on what happen at the end of "Frozen Ground"?? Like a possible future with Din happily settled with her? I know it's a complete work, but it really growed in me, it was so overly sweet!! Their relation was adorable to read~

This question was more like me coping with the fact it's an already finish fic and showing how much i loved it!! Thanks Poppy sharing such beautiful fics!! Always a pleasure and honor to read~

Thank you, anon. That's really sweet of you!

I know moving on can be bittersweet! (Especially if it's something we really enjoy.) And while Frozen Ground is complete and won't have a continuation, I think it's entirely fair to believe that Din settled down with her, and the two of them lived happily and in peace. The ending, as I left it, is a happy one.

~ Poppy

[gloomwitchwrites]

Just read the "Just the tip" imagine of Nik, and i absolutely love it!! I adore the way u write him<3

hehe I'm cheesing big over here

[gloomwitchwrites]

any thoughts on 141 reacting to a surprise party you’ve thrown them?? which ones are excited and which ones are turning right around and walking back to the car?😭

Gaz: The right amount of excited. He’s pleasantly surprised, happy to have his friends and family all in once place. You’re certainly getting a big kiss from him and a warm hug.

Ghost: Reluctantly participates. Slightly dying inside. Will wear the pointy “birthday boy” hat covered in glitter but don’t you dare take any photos of him in it.

Soap: Overly excited. It’s like a puppy being taken to the dog park for the first time. Pure chaos. High energy. Having the time of his life.

Price: Turns around and walks right back to the car. Has to be dragged back. Stays for the cake.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[gloomwitchwrites]

You know the “Let me see what you have?” “A KNIFE” meme? What if it was the 141 with their kids?

"What do you have there?"

"A KNIFE"

Soap, Gaz, Price: NO!

Ghost: hehe, nice

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi Poppy!!<333 How you doing?? I have no idea how i ended up on the maternity side of tiktok, but seems like there's a trend, where pregnant woman ask their partner if they can help them shave, how do you think 141 would react???

Soap is picking up that shaving cream and razor without a second thought. You don’t need to ask twice. He’s ready, willing, and able. Plus, it’s just an excuse to stare at one of his favorite things about you. He’ll do it all. Bikini line. Legs. You name it.

Gaz is saying yes because he’s a healthy, wonderful boyfriend/husband who wants to take care of you all the time. While getting to see you naked is always a plus, he uses this time for intimacy, to do something for you, to spend a bit of time together.

Ghost doesn’t need to be asked. Why? He’s already doing it for you. There’s been a routine between the two of you where he’s the one who shaves your body. He enjoys doing it, and that doesn’t change during pregnancy. Draw yourself a bath and indulge. Lift that leg and hang it over the side of the tub. He’ll handle the rest.

Price thinks it’s strange that you’re asking him instead of spending his money to have someone else do it, but he’s not complaining. He makes no promises on being thorough but he’ll try his best. While he does a good job overall, there are certainly some missed spots where he thought he’d might accidentally cut you.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[gloomwitchwrites]

Oh how about you trying to sleep on the couch after an argument with the 141 men. How would they react?

Honestly? Not well.

Ghost is grabbing a pillow and a blanket that is far too small for him to sleep on the floor next to you. It’ll be the most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen that you forget that you’re mad at him.

Soap is just as pathetic but in a different way. He’ll stare at you from afar with those beautiful blue puppy eyes. As you continue to ignore him, he’ll creep closer and closer until he’s eventually laying on top of you, asking if you’re still angry with him.

Gaz respects your need for space but doesn’t believe in going to bed angry, or sleeping apart for that matter. He’ll drag out the air mattress, make far too much noise, and then set up beside you, grunting and groaning and tossing and turning and sighing until you give in.

Price puts his foot down about you sleeping on the couch after an argument. Think you’re going to sleep alone? Think again. You won’t even make it to the couch. That man will toss you over his shoulder or drag you back to bed if he has to.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist