#Gaz x Reader

[spurbleu]

ovulation with the 141

strangely, out of the four, i feel like soap would be the most educated. he grew up with sisters. helpful (in his own, clumsy way) with the blunt pains of menstruation. because at the end of the week, he knows he gets to have you as much as he wants you. you’re almost as horny as him. almost. relishes spending hours fucking like rabbits. not above cutting a night out short if you express you’re needy. a true gentleman- well, until he’s not.

gaz is also pretty keen on things like this. probably tracks it with you. and that man prepares. buys you a set of lingerie, aphrodisiac honey, tests new cologne, the works. sex is romantic with him, but if you’re asking to be treated a little unkind he’s very willing. definitely teases you about it, though. buries himself to the hilt for your third round as you float in a sensitive come down, whispering “so greedy, already need me again?” you’d get mad if it didn’t turn you on.

simon, frankly, doesn’t focus on the biology of ovulation, but welcomes the change in libido. especially likes that he can end and start his day burrowed in your cunt, and the sensitive alters to your body- how easy it is to have you. once he picks up on the patterns every month, he’ll always stick particularly close to you- hands on your lower back in the grocery store, wrapped on your waist at the bar, resting on your thigh during drives- slowly making their way to your waist band…sneaky bastard.

your beloved price does his best to keep up, he does, but he is not in his twenties anymore. approaching forty, his body doesn’t always align with his desires. however, he’s no man to keep a lady waiting and wanting, so he’ll place a thick palm over your gut and eat you out until your immobile. if you try and swat him away he’ll bite your inner thigh, reminding you that “you asked for this”. and when you look at him the way you do after, sex stupor drooling from your sore cunt and swollen lips, he places an order for viagra.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

It started with a look.

Not a word. Not a touch. Just a look you gave Soap across the training yard after a sparring match—sweat dripping down your face, gloves slung over your shoulder, shirt clinging to your skin in all the right places. You didn’t smirk. You didn’t wink. You just looked at him. Like you’d already decided what was going to happen.

And Soap? He was done. Toast. Brain emptied.

That night, he found you in the old supply room. No lights. Just shadows and oil-stained floorboards and the door clicking shut behind him.

“You followed me,” you said.

“You looked at me like I was supposed to.”

You didn’t say anything. Just walked toward him—calm, composed, lethal in every step. You shoved him against the wall, and before he could say another dumb word, your hand wrapped around his throat, thumb grazing his pulse.

“Still think you’re ready for this?”

He nodded, breath hitching.

You smirked. “Wrong answer.”

He didn’t get another warning. You kissed him like a threat. Bit his bottom lip until it bled. Tore his shirt open like you were hunting for weak spots.

He moaned. Gasped. Cursed under his breath. You dragged your nails down his chest, palmed him through his pants, leaned in close to his ear and whispered: “You’re gonna beg me to stop. And I won’t.”

And he did. Not because he wanted you to stop, but because the way you used him—handled him—was so overwhelming he couldn’t even think. You rode him like he was yours (because he was). Tied his hands with his own belt. Left marks with your teeth and smiled when he whimpered.

The next morning, he walked into the mess hall covered in bruises, hair a mess, shirt backward, and a dazed look on his face.

Gaz looked up. “Jesus, mate. You look like you lost a fight with a bear.”

Soap just sat down slowly. “…Wasn’t a fight.”

Ghost sipped his coffee, not looking up. “Told you.”

Price walked in moments later, glanced between them, then muttered, “I told you.”

Across the room, you walked in—fresh, calm, sipping coffee like you didn’t wreck a man within an inch of his sanity six hours ago.

Soap looked up, met your eyes, and grinned.

You just winked.

[ace-inthehole]

Bonus hybrid 141 x reader content I found in my drafts

Original part here

(Takes place during their courtship attempts)

You're human, so of course you wouldn't understand hybrid courtship rituals. Does this stop them? No. Absolutely not. Surely if they just kept trying it would get through to you.

Soap starts to just blatantly begin scenting you at every opportunity, but you being human can't smell his pheromones sticking to you like glue. You just think he's become more touchy, and can't figure out why all the other werewolf recruits start looking at you weird and avoiding you like the plague. Soap does however beam with pride when he sees the others respect his claim. Not that you know of course.

While Price still was pretty strict with what he gives you, precious gems, expensive knives and such, Gaz starts just giving you anything and everything he gets gets gets hands on. Pretty rocks and jewelry turn into every other pebble and wild flower he's laid his eyes on. Custom gun parts and coins somehow evolve into random pieces of cutlery (that may or may not have come from the mess hall) and whatever shiny metal scrap he finds on base. He hasn't stopped giving you the more "high quality" gifts of course, but you're also beginning to grow concerned at the sheer absurdity of the things he gives you. What are you supposed to do with his half eaten granola bar? Or the locker key he picked up somewhere that you don't even know to whom it belongs to? You don't know and he doesn't either, but the granola wrapper and the key are both shiny, so Gaz felt it counts.

Ghost was a little less gung ho about it, but it wasn't subtle. No, he was the most obvious out of all of them. He trails after you like a sad lost puppy wherever you go, lingering in your shadow. To the gym, the mess hall, the training fields, the bathroom... If any recruits saw him stand menacingly outside the bathroom door looking like a kicked puppy while waiting for you, no one said a thing.

(Sorry for lack of Price I'll make up for it I promise)

[toolewdarts]

HORNYYYY

I like to think about Kyle being the smartest one in the room sometimes. And I love to think about Kyle being the smartest one in the pub the night he meets you. Loud and laughing perched on a stool with a third vodka in your hand. You sit above the crowd, looking down.

He manages to intercept one of your friends on their way to the toilet, casually asking them what're they're celebrating tonight.

"Oh, the professor just got published. Again. We drag her out every time." 

It turns out you're a phd. Computer science and systems. Not his favorite, but he'll bite. He knows more than enough. And you, pretty thing, think you know it all. You're an asp, full of venom, coiling for a strike. Arrogant, cold. Buttoned up and sneering. You're smart, and you know it. You're smart, and you could shut anyone in this whole place down.

Anyone but him.

So, it starts with the wager.

"You'll ask me a question, and if I get it right, you'll drink. If I'm wrong, I'll drink." Your circle of friends oooh, and your lips press into a firm, unimpressed line.

When he gets the first one, you scoff.

"That was easy." 

"So, try harder. Are you really an expert in the field?" He's taunting you, but there's a pin prick of heat in your eyes, something telling him you like it, like this. The shade of embarrassment, the quick strike of embarrassment.

The second gets off just as well. You ask. He answers. You drink.

Again, and again, until you're vibrating with frustration. Until your friends have dispersed to different corners, different amusements.

"You think you're so smart."  You hiss, and he chuckles in a condescending way that makes your eyes widen, indignant.

But-

for a split second, it slips. Everything falls to the wayside and he finds what he knew was there all along.

I see you.

He digs deeper. Pushes you farther. Fans the flames.

"No, love. You think you're so smart. But we both know you've got a lot to learn, hm?" 

Later, when he has you underneath him in your bed, your legs pushed back, thighs framing your cunt like the prettiest picture he's ever seen, he leans over your body and grazes your cheek with his lips.

"Tell me, pretty." His thrusts are punishing, pushing you up the bed into where he's using the headboard as leverage. You want to come. You want to come so badly, the snake is back, gaze so full of rage he's surprised it's not red.

"Stop, either make me come or get-"

"No baby. You're not making the rules here. You're not smart enough, isn't that right?" He punches forward and you keen, curling up into his chest. He cradles your head close, kissing your ear. "Can't make the rules if you don't even know what's best." He's breaking you down, brick by brick, dismantling each and every layer until he finds the person tucked away in the rubble, the soft, scared girl in the center of it all.

When he makes you come, you cry, and he wipes those big fat tears with his tongue.

Afterwards, he tugs you close, holding your wrists together, holding you still. Trapped. "I'll make the rules now professor,” he murmurs gently, “I'll decide what's best."

[pythonmoth]

cw: FLUFF. social anxiety. self-imposed exposure therapy (pls never do that!). cute and then not so cute, but cute again! panic attack. dissociation. reader is traumatized and inconsistent. implied sexual activity, nothing explicit. simon is a whiny little bitch. slightly styled text.

primary simon x f!reader. poly tf141.

word count: 4k

First | Last | Next

Having breakfast with Johnny, with the team, wasn’t something you realized you’ve been missing.

It fits right in your heart, filling a hole you didn’t know has been empty.

So many years have gone by and little things like this usually go ignored until you’re forced to be aware of them and their absence. Maybe it’s therapy; maybe it’s that you’ve gotten used to being alone after nine months, only relying on your brother for a few months and then being on your own, but breakfast with the people you’ve called your family for nearly ten years now, it’s something your body accepted as necessary once you got it back, only then understanding how much you’ve been missing it.

Once everybody’s tummy is filled with tea, coffee and good food, they take turns to shower, one by one leaving to get ready until it’s only Simon and you. He looks far more relaxed than the day before, his eyes warm as he nods when you talk, telling him about how you’ve been planning to remodel a little, maybe change the paint of the exterior or even add some flowers to your backyard. Now that you’re forced to stay home, there are things that you want to change so it looks prettier when you come back. 

You don’t miss the way his right cheek jumps, as if he’s trying not to grimace; you know it isn’t a happy memory for anybody, but you’re glad he isn’t trying to shut it down, and merely accepting it as it is. Same as you are.

“Do you know if Tommy is available? I might have to call him up, since I can’t reach everything on my own. He’s the closest one to a professional I know, anyway” you hum, your fingers entertained as they rip apart a sugar packet, your eyes not leaving it for a moment.

“My brother? I think so. I can ask him to contact you” Simon mumbles. You look up when you notice how unhappy he sounds. He’s… pouting.

“What?”

Simon frowns, seemingly unsure if he should speak up or not. In the end, just when you’re starting to overthink and overanalyze everything you’ve said and done to get him to look like his, he finally looks up.

“I’m… I am available. I could help you” he grunts. “I’ve helped him at work before and I can get it done as quickly as he can” Simon rushes, as if he couldn’t help it. “With the right tools, perhaps even faster”.

When you go quiet, he shuts up. You’re hyper aware of his eyes on you as you look down at the ruined sugar packet in your fingers, biting down on your lip. It’s not that you don’t know he helps Tommy sometimes, it just felt like a safer question.

In the back of your mind, you think back to something your therapist mentioned as a possibility, something that could help you with the PTSD, though she said it wasn’t time nor a good idea for you yet. That was five months ago and, really, neither of you mentioned it again. Maybe…

Exposure therapy. It should be okay.

After all, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s just Simon.

“Wait, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I can just call him and—”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay” you interrupt him, your eyes twinkling a little. “If you’re free… we could start today, buy a few things. Please?”

And so, when the morning comes to an end, Price, Gaz and Johnny say their goodbyes, only Gaz and Price coming over to kiss your cheek and pat your head. Johnny gives you a bright smile and a promise to come over later. Price makes sure you remember his number, just in case. Gaz cups your cheeks, kissing your forehead loudly before he walks out the door with Price.

Johnny kisses Simon briefly before they leave, Gaz playfully gagging behind them. You see him, however, getting nudged by Price, both of them looking quite content; surely, there was a conversation you weren’t part of. The sun is high up as the car disappears from sight, some part of your heart wishing they could stay longer, but this will be good.

You hope so, at least.

Then, it’s only Simon and you.

It takes you fifteen minutes to get ready, and another ten minutes for you to stop looking in the mirror, reminding yourself that you’re not going alone. You don’t have to double check behind you, you’ve nothing to fear. But, the reminder that is Simon who’s coming with you, brings an unwelcome feeling at the base of your spine.

It’s somewhat irrational, you’re aware. But it’s still scary, and it doesn’t make it less real.

Taking a deep breath, you nod to yourself in the mirror, and step back, hastily putting away your makeup and promising yourself you’re going to clean the few-weeks-old dust from it when you’re back.

Your guts flip when you realize the sun’s already coming down, and it makes you feel insane that you can’t even focus on things like that; why would you be unsure of how long you’ve spent spacing out? That’s something else to mention the therapist, maybe.

Simon’s waiting in the living room when you come down, his face relaxed and his eyes fixed on his phone. His leg betrays him, however, because you can tell he’s been waiting, anxious. When he hears you, Simon gets up, checking his pockets to make sure he has everything and gives you a thumbs up, gingerly walking towards you.

“You ready?” he asks, his expression inviting, as if giving you an out. He looks just as anxious as you feel, and that makes you feel a little better.

Reaching into your bag, you make sure you have your knife and the spare knife, before nodding at him. As you both make your way out and into the car, you also pat the left pocket of your jeans. 

Pocket knife is a must, sometimes.

Buying the paint isn’t nearly as boring as you thought it would be. 

Simon makes it his mission to keep you entertained, easily reading the anxiety in your body language; he talks.

He talks a lot. And quite easily, much to your surprise.

Simon tells you why the lighter painting is better, and why you shouldn’t go for the darker one in certain places of the house, and why grey is a hard no if you want your house to look good. The black surgical mask is almost funny with how much it moves over his mouth, but you focus on him, and soon enough, you’re less worried, talking more, smiling and laughing at his awful jokes.

Eventually, in the middle of one of Simon’s morbid comments —"Look, that ashtray would be a funny gift for Johnny, if you ask me. We could make him fit in there later. Do you think it would be cheaper if we tell them why we want it?"—, you find the perfect shade for the exterior of your house. Simon isn’t convinced, you can see it, but he doesn’t complain, only crossing his arms and tilting his head, as if calculating in his brain how much you’ll need. He’s been at your house many times, and knows it as well as you do.

Simon’s the one who asks for the paint and a few other tools, since you’re already aware he won’t let you carry it anyway. You hand Simon your credit card, and turn away, distracted with little light bulbs of soft white light that would look pretty good in your bedroom, so you don’t notice he doesn’t use your card to pay for it, but his instead. He doesn’t tell you either as he hands the plastic back to you and carries the bucket and the rest of the big tools to the car.

Just like a few days ago, you find yourself checking your surroundings, especially now that it’s dark. You keep the car locked as you check the back seats with your phone, making Simon wait a moment. After making sure it’s safe, you pat your left pocket to feel the knife there and quickly get inside, finally allowing him in as well. Maybe your therapist is right and you’re still jumpy, but it is dangerous out there anyway, and there’s nothing wrong with being paranoid careful.

The drive back home is pretty calm, your shoulders finally relaxing after nearly two hours of being on edge. Simon’s music blasts on the speakers, a little too loud to be safe, but you need the distraction, and the streets are pretty lonely at night so you only focus on it, mumbling the lyrics to yourself.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re home and carrying the little bag with tools, which is the only thing Simon will let you grab, and get inside. Not even bothering to turn back, you lock the door behind you and take your shoes off, letting Simon take the plastic bag from your hands so he can set everything by the back door.

“I’ll be up early. If you wanna help, make sure you’re up by 7am” Simon grumbles, yawning as he takes the mask off.

“I haven’t woken up at 7am in like… nine months. That’s too early”.

“Tough shit”.

With a happy feeling in your chest, you say goodnight and go up to your room, leaving Simon to get comfortable in the guest room. Neither of you mention it, but it’s implicit he won’t be staying in your room like he would if this were before. The stairs creak slightly when you pause, your hand over the handrail, looking down as he seems to hesitate before waving at you, making his way to the room.

Out of habit, and maybe feeling a little anxious, you lock the door before taking your heavy jacket off. Getting ready to sleep alone feels a bit odd now that Gaz isn’t laying in your bed, but soon enough, you’re fresh and clean, and ready to sleep.

A loud crashing sound makes you jump up, face wrinkled from the pillow and heart pounding in your chest. You make your way downstairs, nearly tripping over your bare feet, one of the long knives in your hand as you try to focus on whatever is happening. The sun hits your face from the back door, watching as Simon hisses and holds the bucket of paint up, a big splash of colour all over your wooden floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” you grunt, using the knife to scratch your forehead.

Simon looks up, his eyes widening as he takes in your appearance. He didn’t think he’d ever be given the opportunity to see you so messy in the morning, but here you are. He clears his throat and starts scraping up the paint before it dries. “I didn’t seal it and I kinda dropped it. It’s fine, I’ll clean it quickly”. He falters a little when he sees the knife in your hand, a little amused. “Are you gonna stab me for messing with your floors?”

“Maybe. Don’t tempt me” you huff, your shoulders relaxing. “Be back in ten. Don’t you dare use the skyscraper ladder without me”.

“Mhm”.

“You’re gonna break your neck if you do”.

“Heard ya” Simon grumbles, his lips curling up. “I’ll wait for you”.

The tone in his words makes your heart tremble, but your face betrays nothing. Excited to work on your house, and hoping the little challenge you're putting yourself through doesn’t end badly, you rush to get ready.

The toughest part of painting with Simon is getting the job done.

Simon doesn’t move until the edges are perfectly done. He accidentally touched something he shouldn’t have? He’s gonna spend as long as necessary to get the paint off. You’re doing it gently, slowly, so he doesn’t take the brush from you? You’re taking too long! And if you let him do it himself, then why are you sitting there all pretty while he does it all? In the end, you give him an annoyed look and he calms down.

But then, when the edges are done, and you have to use the roller? Now that’s fun.

Since it’s easier, he lets you do it yourself, one of his hands on your lower back so you don’t trip —if your heart is trembling a little, that’s none of his business. Though you’re not entirely sure if it's anxiety, or excitement—. Simon’s smiling now, guiding you with a lot more patience, chuckling next to your ear when you accidentally get paint over your hands, and some tiny, little drops on his hair.

“I’ll make something to eat after we finish the first layer” Simon promises, guiding your arm with his warm hand; a simple caress from your elbow to your wrist as he points to the little places that are missing some love, as he calls it.

It doesn’t take you both long to finish the first layer, though it is more than you expected, since Simon kept coming back to perfect the edges and some little mistakes you couldn’t even notice, but you appreciate his enthusiasm, so even if it can be a little annoying, you don’t really complain.

Simon cooks something “simple” that allows you both to take two hours off, letting the paint dry properly. With both of you working together, his movements less sudden than they were the last morning —especially with the knife, which you can appreciate—, you end up just eating on your feet, both of you in the kitchen, not even using the plates and eating straight from the pot. 

Feeling lazy to clean up after this, you reach out for a single glass, lifting your eyebrow at him. Simon nods, taking it from you to pour some cold water for the two of you.

You can tell his eyes are fixed on the little mark your lip balm leaves on the glass and the way he drinks from the exact same place, but you’re easily distracted by food, so it doesn’t cross your mind to call him out for it. It’s something he used to do a lot back then, so you’re not surprised, but… it’s a little funny, honestly.

A few hours later, Simon’s on your ass again. The stupid edges are making both of your eyes twitch and your annoyance grows with each comment about how you’re doing it wrong. He isn’t even mean, but it’s so fucking annoying it makes your blood boil, your guts churning with murderous intent.

When he fucking whines that you’re not doing it as straight as it should be, you just can’t do it anymore. Your hand reaches down to the painting tray and, when your palm is dripping, you don’t give him a moment to understand what you’re doing before you place your hand right across his face, paint getting to his hair, his forehead, his nose and temples.

“Whom do you serve?”

Simon stares at you in shock.

You have exactly two seconds to run away when you see him reaching down for one of the brushes. 

He catches up to you in just a moment, the cold brush getting paint all over your old shirt, as if he were slashing a sword across your back. You shriek, still trying to get away, but Simon’s determined now, an arm wrapping around your waist to hold you against him. “You little shit” he grunts, amusement dripping from his voice as clearly as the paint does from the brush.

“Wait!” you yelp, laughing when Simon runs the cold paint across your face, forcing your lips close for a moment as the coarse bristles run over your cheeks.

“See? Better” he laughs, his hand splaying on your stomach before he finally lets go. Your skin tingles when his warmth slips away, but then you turn around to huff at him, and notice the bright, rare smile splitting Simon’s face in two, so you end up tackling him to the ground instead.

You’re rewarded with his flushing face, a loud bark of laughter coming from deep in his belly as he doesn’t even try to stop you. You scoop the dripping paint from your cheeks with your fingers and wipe your hands clean on his hair, his shirt. The paint seems to glow over his flushed cheeks.

A loud yelp of surprise echoes in your backyard when Simon easily flips you around, one of his hands pinning your wrists to the soft grass as he uses the brush to paint ridiculously big dots all over your shirt and arms. Your entire body shakes with amusement, laughing with no inhibitions, until you try to free your wrists from his grip.

And you c a n ’t mo ve.

Your mind fills with awful memories, with pain, fea r, salt wa ter, and pain. 

Pain. Pa in. One finger nail. Five fi ngerna ils.

Th r ee toe na il s.

You suddenly freeze, zoning out. You don’t even notice Simon’s holding you up, carrying you back inside as he mumbles, whispering soft promises. His hands are gentle and warm as he wipes the paint off your face, doing his best not to get much water on your skin, but you aren’t listening, your body is rock solid and your jaw is so tight he can’t even make sure you’re not biting down on your tongue.

When you wake up, you’re in your bed.

Your skin is clean, and there’s a soft towel under you that’s now a little dirty with paint; you’re still wearing the same clothes from this morning. It takes you a little moment to remember why you’re here, and look down at your wrists. 

Right.

The sound of water running from downstairs makes you get up, taking the towel off your bed. You set it over your chair by the desk and walk downstairs, your cheeks warm with embarrassment when you see him in the kitchen. The lights are low so you can’t really see his face, but you can see his slumping shoulders, the tension on his nape and the twitching of his mouth.

“Simon?”

He nearly drops the glass when he hears your voice, but he manages to catch it just in time, freezing as he stares up at you.

He’s still covered in paint, including the mark of your hand across his face. The sight of him looking so worried and still giving you those big puppy eyes behind all that completely dry paint…

“I’m sorry”.

Simon’s lips part, the words heavy on his tongue. His eyebrows seem unsure if they should be surprised or angry, because they jump and pinch together at the same time. He lets the glass aside and walks over to you, stopping just a few steps from you, his shoulders trembling.

“Sorry? You’re— sorry? What the hell are you even apologizing for? That was my fault. I scared you, again” he mumbles, tears welling up in his eyes, even if he desperately tries to stop it, swallowing thickly and shaking his head. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It slipped my mind and I fucked up”.

You reach up to touch his shoulder, but Simon steps back, flinching away from you. Your heart breaks, your lips parting in surprise, but Simon’s too gone with guilt that he doesn’t realize it. Distantly, you wonder if this is what he’s felt this whole time. You wonder how many times you’ve broken his heart by now.

“I’ll just— I’ll call Tommy tomorrow. I’ll tell him to help you with the rest, so you don’t have to be around me for now. That will be easier” Simon mumbles, mostly to himself, his eyes darting from one place to another, avoiding your eyes. “Just let me grab my stuff. I can leave in ten minutes. I won’t bother you, I promise, I—”

Taking a quick step forward, your arms wrap around his middle, closing your eyes as you navigate through the complicated feelings growing in your chest. A little bit of fear as you feel him so close again, the panic still not gone from your system, but the love makes you weak on the knees; even like that, you don’t let go of him, your arms tightening around him when you hear him breathe shakily.

“I’m alright” you whisper, your fingers curling on his shirt, almost pleading. “Don’t leave”.

Simon’s heartbeat pounds against your ear, his arms still hovering over you, hesitant. And scared.

“Please”.

That’s all it takes for Simon to sink to his knees, gently bringing you down with him, his arms never restraining you, merely holding you close. His hands splay across your back, your sides. You grip onto him harder when you feel his tears running down your shoulders, shifting until you’re straddling his lap, his face buried in your chest as he cries in complete silence, your fingers lost in his hair.

“I love you. I’m sorry” he whispers, his voice muffled with your skin. You think he’s going to pull back, but his hands only curl slightly on your arms, your sides, one of your thighs, as if he were grounding himself.

As if he couldn’t believe you were holding him again.

The ball of feelings in your chest unravels until you’re able to slowly identify them as you both hold each other right there in the middle of the kitchen. His hands brush over your back, fingernails scratching softly over your skin, and you’re reminded of good memories, of better times; of the moment you realize you were in love with him, of the ridiculous moment he asked you to be together. Of the night Johnny joined you for the first time, of the instant you understood your own feelings, Johnny's, and Simon’s. 

You’re reminded of the night you saw Price and Simon share a fervent kiss before disappearing into the Captain’s room, more than once. And then when you saw Gaz and Price do the same over the years, even if they never freely spoke of it. 

The memories of that experimental kiss with Price, back in your first year with the team haunts your memory for a moment; both of you had paused after a while and grimaced. In the end, Price had given you his chocolate and you gave him your tea flavored mochi, the kiss forgotten and never spoken of again. 

At some point, your arms relax around Simon, but he doesn’t seem in the mood to pull away, even if his grip isn’t even too tight. It takes a little bit of nudging, a few whispered words, but he finally pulls back, his face puffy and slightly wet with tears, staring at you.

“Sleep with me?”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, it seems; his hesitation appears to be long gone as his arms easily hold you up, calmly throwing you over his shoulder. That would’ve broken the tender moment, if it weren’t for the warm hand over your back holding you still, and the shaky fingers gripping onto your thigh again as he walks up to your room.

Simon hesitates, but you kick back on your door, hurrying him up. Once inside, he sets you down, waiting by the door.

“Are you... expecting me to kick you out?”

“Yes”.

Your lips curl up, forever glad he never holds back with you, and motion him to get in. 

The anxiety doesn’t magically leave your body, and you’re still awfully terrified of him being able to just restrain you so easily again, but… progress.

It’s progress when he curses and rushes down to grab his clean clothes and a towel, asking you to let him take a shower after you’re done.

It’s progress when Simon lays in your bed, body stiff and hands shaky as he waits for you to turn the lights off.

It’s progress when you both awkwardly find a good position to sleep.

It’s progress when you wake up in the morning with his arms wrapped around you, your legs tangled, and one of your hands under his tshirt, warm against the bare skin of his back.

And it’s progress when you’re greeted with a small, sleepy smile from him before his eyes even focus properly on you.

henlo. how are we feeling? progress!!! progress!!! PROGRESS!!!

› buy me a coffee ♡

anyway, simon's autistic bc i am autistic and he's a whiny little bitch perfectionist!

if things go well, we have 8 chapters left :)

+18 people read here: yes, price and simon still fuck nasty from time to time. nobody gasped, nobody surprised.

taglist I: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen @hyunjaebaby @jillvalentinesrealwife @sodavrr @kneelforloki @vioxsoo @l4vstrr @leon-thot-kennedy @t3a-bag @dotmistbird @littlezarp @eclipsedcherry @codeseven @babydoll-143 @viennakarma @exitingmusic @lockofspades

[gloomwitchwrites]

Been absolutely feral for this idea but - request for a reader that matches their partner's freak. Is forward and horny. Throws them a pick up line, slaps their ass, whispers something filthy in their ear 😂 catch the boys off guard but quickly make them love it 🤭

Ty ty!

Ah! Anon, I love this. I love this idea. It's so fun. I think all of us are used to the guys being forward, but not necessarily their partners. This is a nice spin on it, and I'm here for it! Enjoy!!

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

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader) *Price is f!reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, dirty talk, established relationship, shenanigans, pick-up lines, implied sexual content

Word Count: 600

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

John Price (w/ f!reader)

“I want to bounce on it,” you announce.

John blinks and looks up. Bounce on it?” asks John over his tea mug.

You nod downward toward his dick, and John’s head tilts slightly.

“I mean—I want to sit on your face first. But then I’d like to bounce on it.”

John stares, and you’re not sure if he’s heard you correctly. But then he clears his throat, setting down his mug and the morning paper on the coffee table.

He reclines on his back, resting his head on a pillow. “Come here then,” he purrs, gesturing at his face.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Hey handsome.”

Kyle glances up from the stove, one hand clutching the handle of the pan in front of him. He looks around the kitchen as if there is someone else in the room.

“Me?” he asks, pointing at himself.

With a little swagger in your step, you saddle up beside him. Kyle beams, extending his unoccupied arm to accept you into his embrace. You slide your arm around his middle and place your hand on his chest, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Who else?” you reply with an alluring sweetness that has Kyle grinning like an idiot.

“You’re being awfully affectionate,” he muses, kissing your forehead before returning his attention to the pan.

You rub your hand against his chest, pressing in even closer. “Maybe I want something,” you murmur.

“Like what?” he laughs. “My wallet?”

“Like this,” you sigh, reaching down to gently cup him.

Kyle exhales deeply through his nostrils as you continue to rub back and forth, urging his dick toward hardness.

“I’m making dinner,” he breathes, eyelids fluttering slightly as you dip beneath the waistband of his grey sweatpants.

“You can still make dinner,” you reply softly as you slowly sink to your knees.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“There you are,” muses Johnny.

He strides forward, arms encircling you low at your waist, hands resting on your ass. You drape your arms around the back of his neck, bringing him even closer. A mischievous smile spreads across Johnny’s face.

He has no idea you’ve got the same thing on your mind.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss.

“Missed you, too,” you reply, going in for your own.

“You did?” he asks, an eagerness in his tone.

This time when you go in for a kiss, you slow it down, stretch it out. Lingering. Lingering more until he softens, the tip of his tongue teasing your bottom lip.

“I did,” you affirm, opening wider to allow him in.

Your hands descend, slide under his shirt, caressing bare skin. Johnny shivers, and then he’s grinning.

“What are you after?” he asks with a cheeky smirk.

You draw back slightly, giving him your best smile. Leaning in, you press your lips to his ear, whispering. “I want you. Naked. Right now.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” groans Johnny, taking a step back as he starts stripping.

You admire the reveal, salivating over every discarded piece of clothing.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Simon.”

“Yes, love?”

You cozy up beside your husband, casually draping your arm around him. Simon leans into your touch.

“Let’s pretend I’m a shark,” you begin.

He glances at you. “A shark?”

“And you’ve got some swimmers I need to swallow.”

Simon stares at you for a long second before he chuckles. “You—”

“I’m not a meteorologist but do you think I could expect a few inches tonight?”

Simon guffaws. “Bloody fucking hell.”

“So, anyway,” you sigh. “Wanna go fuck?”

He sighs, shakes his head, but you see the smile.

“Simon,” you sing-song.

“Get to the bedroom, love.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving

[thatorchiaxcherry]

I love him your honour

Gaz being tasked with watching his niece for a month while his sister is in hospital. He's honestly the best Uncle, but sometimes his niece just wants her mom to hold. Hence how you, his neighbor across the flat, suddenly finds yourself with a toddler snuggled in your arms after she fell and scraped her knee.

Gaz promising he'll pay you to babysit his niece when he's called away to base suddenly. He comes home to find his niece happily coloring on the floor with a bowl of homemade mac n' cheese beside her as she tells you how her Uncle is a superhero who fights bad guys. And you have the sweetest smile on your face as you help her pick out colors for the cape she's drawn him in.

Gaz suddenly finds himself in a co-parenting situation with you. You take his niece in the morning while he has to go to PT and briefings, and he takes over in the evenings when you have to start your shift at the store. There's a two hour window where you're both together.

Gaz who slips into comfortable conversation each time as you help him make dinner. It's domestic, warm, and it makes Gaz's heart squeeze each time. It feels like he has his own little family. You, him, and his niece. All settled at the table. All helping clean up after. All settled on the couch until you have to leave.

Gaz finds a hole in his chest when his sister comes to pick her little girl up. Because now how is he supposed to get you to come over to help with dinner and the dishes? Sure, he could ask but you were just neighbors. He didn't even know if you felt something for him more than friendliness and care for his niece.

Gaz comes home one evening and glances at your door. The longing in his chest nearly suffocating as he rummages through his bag for his keys. He doesn't have the usual texts from you, and he'd pretty sure the evenings he'd cherished were now gone.

Gaz whose heart nearly leaps out of his chest when he hears a knock on his door. He all but trips over himself to answer and trying to compose himself so he doesn't look so desperate.

Gaz opened the door to find Deliveroo person handing him a bag of take out. A little note was taped to the side, and it's from you. 'Had to pull a double shift, thought you might be too tired to cook. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Gaz who feels his heart flutter as he realizes maybe there is something more to your little evening meals. And he's already making plans for tomorrow night.

[cherie-doll]

could you please write a story like the reader is engaged to the cod men and they introduce themselves with their man's last name. like "good morning I'm y/n riley" like that? thank you so much if you decide to write this? YOU DA BESTT

Introducing Yourself With Their Last Name

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Makarov, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

❥ Price knew that soon you'd be switching out your last name for his... soon. But he hadn't thought it over as much, hadn't ever let it slip from his lips nor tried calling it out to hear how it would sound. Unlike him, you had taken to writing it out, whispering it secretly; obsessing over it like some schoolgirl. You couldn't help but want to tease him a little, you let it fall from your lips one day when meeting some of his friends. You felt his gaze on you, felt the warmth of his smile after the initial surprise. He calls you by his last name every chance he gets. "Just practicing" he says.

❥ Simon's reaction was hard to grasp underneath the balaclava he wore to your outing together; he hadn't expected to meet someone he used to work with. He had briefly introduced the man to you, leaving it up to you to tell him your name. But he hadn't expected to hear you say his last name. It was the first time he had heard your name and his put together. And it was like something clicked. He tried it out himself. It sounded so right, so smooth. He chuckled. How come he hadn't realized it before? It was only natural it not only sounded but also felt perfect. He couldn't wait for the day it became your last name officially.

❥ Soap would be saying your name with his last name ever since you accepted his proposal. But you had only laughed then, until you decided to be a little more serious and say it in front of others. He hadn't ever heard it from you, didn't expect you to confidently call yourself by his surname. He was shocked for a moment before quickly picking his jaw up off the floor and wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him and smiling brightly at who you had introduced yourself to. It had him in high spirits for the rest of the day. Now he wanted to hear it more often, trying to find another opportunity for you to introduce yourself just so he could hear it again.

❥ Kyle had been hinting at wanting you to use his last name for a while now. He knew he'd only have to wait a little longer for it to be in paper on the document, but he wanted to hear it. This time, he was obsessing over it, practicing writing it out and trying to get you to say it. "C'mon... it'd be nice to get used to it" he would literally almost beg you. You didn't know how badly he wanted it, until you decided to give in. You didn't tell him, no warning beforehand when you blurted it out when introducing yourself to someone new. It was so blunt and sudden to him, you could see him gaping at you from the corner of your eye. The only way you could get him to stop was sliding your hand into his, interlocking fingers.

❥ Roach was rather shy about wanting to ask you, afraid of having you think he was trying to rush things with something small like this. He could only gaze at you with those softened eyes that were only for you. His eyes would glaze, get that faraway look as he imagined you standing at the altar, accepting his last name as yours. He flinched hearing his last name, he had zoned out when you were busy talking to someone. It took him a moment to catch onto the fact that you had just introduced yourself with his last name. And it brightened his day, he leaned into you a little, smiling like an idiot as he kept replaying that moment. The familiar fuzzy feeling when you're in love arising and fluttering in his chest.

❥ Alejandro wished for more than anything else for you to use his last name. He still left it up to you and your customs whether you would adopt his last name or not, never did he want to pressure you into changing it if you didn't want to. The subject wasn't talked about much and he assumed you wouldn't use his last name, it was only a name after all. But you stunned him when he heard you saying it proudly. Oh, he was overjoyed, never wanting you to stop saying it every chance you got.

❥ Rudy didn't want you to feel obligated to part with your last name if you truly didn't want to. To some it may feel like erasing a part of you, and he didn't want you to bend just for him. However, you didn't mind. You gave him quite the surprise when you openly used his last name, in a good way of course. He didn't know what to say, but he felt a surge of love the moment you said it. Anytime you said it, whether in public or only between you two, the reaction was the same, still feeling soft on the inside.

❥ Phillip had joked all the time ever since proposing to you about when you'd change your last name for his. "Aren't ya excited you'll be Graves soon?". He brings it up as often as he can just to make you flustered or tease you. Although it was mostly jokingly, he did await for the day you would officially be seen as his in the eyes of others. But you still got a reaction out of him, when he overheard you using his last name. He was proud of the name he had made of himself, and was pleased to know you had found it worthy to use it for yourself.

❥ Makarov always put his name on things that belong to him. Ever since he was a child, he liked labeling his things, people must know to who it belongs to. He had a similar view of this matter too, wanting you to use his surname. Not that he viewed you as an object, nor a thing to be possessed and owned. He cared for you immensely, and knew you would be untouchable in the eyes of others if you had the name of someone they would have to think twice before messing with. Still, there was a ripple within him when he heard you introducing yourself with his surname. He didn't smile smugly, instead affectionately.

❥ Keegan hadn't put much thought to it. He didn't see what was wrong with his last name for you not to take it, but also didn't want to make you go through the paperwork of changing it if it was too much of a hassle. But you liked it, had a nice ring to it. When he heard it aloud, he had just walked into the room where you were talking with your friend over the phone. You had said that from now on you'd use Keegan's last name. You didn't notice him leaning against the doorframe, smiling smugly as he crossed his arms and observed you. He liked hearing it, especially from you. Now he couldn't wait to say it too.

❥ König had been dozing off at a function, already wanting to leave after sitting for a few minutes and feeling bored. He really wasn't one for sitting in idleness and dabbling in meaningless conversations. Slumping on the couch, he felt his eyelids become heavy and was ready to ignore everyone else until he heard his last name in that oh so familiar voice of yours. He sat up straight, fixing his posture like when a teacher called out his name at school. He had caught just enough of your conversation to know you were using his surname to refer to yourself. Although he sat motionless, he felt his heart beat faster, content on the inside at hearing that. It kept him awake for the rest of the function.

❥ Horangi had grown up with his father's last name, his mother's different because it was common to not change your surname even after marriage. He assumed you'd do the same. You kept thinking about whether you'd change it or not, after all the decision was yours, no pressure at all. You pondered quite a bit and decided to test his reaction. You started introducing yourself with his surname whenever you met new people. His reaction was funny at first, it was like he didn't understand. Until, he caught on and would have to look away to hide the smile that was playing on his lips from being seen. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all.

❥ Nikto wanted you to take his surname, he had been thinking about it for quite a while now. He dedicated time to carefully think about how it'd sound. You remembered him suggesting you practice how to write it; no context given. You were confused at first, not knowing why he would tell you to write his last name, but you did it anyways. Not long passed before you were able to catch on. You liked his surname and decided to practice saying it, making sure not to butcher the pronunciation. It made him satisfied to hear you not only adopt it but also start using it in front of others. He called you all sorts of sweet things for it.

[spurbleu]

141 x reader. cw. dubcon very much on the verge of noncon, implied drugging

price and kyle who, under the maple light of the underground pub scene, sniff you out. sweating over the jostled, unkempt desire to be seen. hands flirting between your drink and your hair.

it’s like you’re asking for it.

kyle, the more outrageous of the two, places a hand on your lower back. you jolt, but his eyes are the stove to your butter. orders you a drink. slides it in place of your empty glass.

“my husband and I thought you were gorgeous, darlin.”

you stare. glance past him to find a new pair of brick shoulders. a harsh, formidable jaw. blue eyes that you cannot read.

you down the drink. it tastes like brown sugar and leaving with the two men who gave you an out.

syrupy blinks. weak knees. cotton mouth that drools when you watch the brick man drive. lucid body that melts further into the stove man and his wandering hands. you cannot bring yourself to care about their real names.

you really should have.

as you’re about to find out, they’re not married. the strange, two men at the gate call them Price and Gaz. The larger of the two carries you into the house that looks a lot different than yours.

vicid, tired muscles. they lie you down. panic is a small, quiet bird in your chest. there, but not loud. it’s long until the morning, so she doesn’t sing. not yet.

she flutters when you watch stove…Gaz and a man with a mohawk play a hand game to decide who “works you open”.

Price and the one with the skull mask fiddle with their belts.

the liquor solidifies over your vocal cords, and your left dumb and mute. when you open your mouth, a pathetic croak grabs their attentions.

their eyes eat you before their teeth do.

[beautifulsweetschaos]

This is so fucking good

𝐀𝐱 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟖 - 𝐅𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/Fem Reader Zombie apocalypse AU (all parts here)

Watching the biters shuffle out of view, you can’t help but picture that uncomfortable image: the lifeless bodies of your friends, strewn around the soggy camp as a gruesome feast for the undead.

That’s what you’d surely find right now, if you could somehow teleport yourself to the middle of the brand new red zone. They were just left there to be torn apart. A decoy in death, distracting the biters for miles so their murderer could get away. Barbaric.

“I gotta piss.”

You gape at Gaz when he starts to shuffle out of the overhang, not a full minute after the last biter disappeared through the trees. 

“There’s biters!”

“Eh. They’re not as bad as people make out.” He leaps effortlessly down from the ledge, onto the damp leaves below. 

He may think they’re slow and stupid, but you’ve personally witnessed just how fast they can move when they’ve picked up a trail of blood. Perturbed, you’ve just sucked in a breath to argue, when you witness him shoot a quick glance at you over his shoulder, with a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.

Prick. Baiting you as usual. 

“Enjoy your fucking piss,” you call after him, and mentally add, hope you get your dick bitten off. 

He doesn’t even attempt to get out of eyesight, just puts his back to you and unzips in front of the nearest tree. Of course he makes you listen to the disgusting spatter of urine on the forest floor. Of course he’s that kind of person.  

Averting your eyes, you attempt to gather yourself together and take stock of your various aches and itches. Specifically, you need to check how your new boots held up to the journey overnight. They were remarkably comfortable, so if you’re lucky, you made a smart swap the other day. 

Gratified to find them perfectly intact, your eyes wander further up your body, and your shriek of horror bursts out so abruptly, it makes birds take flight from the trees.

“Fuck, what is it?” Gaz demands, whipping around and yanking at his zipper.

“What is this?” you half scream, half choke at him, clawing your coat off.

The concern on his face quickly drops away to boredom, once he realizes the source of your distress. “A fucking winter coat, that you won’t survive without.”

Throwing the horrible thing onto the ledge past your feet, you jam your hand into the dark crevice of rock and close your fist around a decently sized stone. “That. Is. Nick’s.”

“Got no use for it now. It’s not got any blood on it, if that’s what you’re–”

The impact of a well-placed rock thudding against his shoulder cuts him off real fast, as he’s knocked back a startled step. 

Blazing, furious eyes lock on yours, but you simply don’t have it in yourself to give a fuck. Quickly you grab a bunch of smaller rocks as backup, and sit there breathing fast, silently daring him to come after you. It’ll only take a second for your hand to whip around again and pellet him with pain. 

“That is not,” you growl through your teeth, “what I’m fucking worried about.”

He knows you have the high ground. He hasn’t moved a step towards you since you threw the rock, hasn’t looked anywhere but your face. You’re in the superior position, but you have a limited supply of rocks. Meanwhile his weapons are all up here with you, but you doubt you could get your hands on any of them before he found a way to settle the score. 

“Last will and testament,” he finally says, jerking his chin towards the crumpled brown coat. “Gave it to you. Told me so.”

The rocks in your hand shift around, as you grind them together in fury. “Did he, Gaz? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Said it was the least he could do for being such a disgusting sicko, wanking over you every chance he got.”

“Unlike you,” you sneer, your voice dripping with hatred. 

“Fucking hell. You finished tossing your toys out the pram? We’ve got to get going.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

He belatedly does up the button on his pants. “You really think you’re in a position to be going off on your own?”

“I’ll take my chances with the biters.”

“You won’t last the week,” he assures you evenly, hands on his hips.

The week. This is your last day not bleeding, and then you’ll be cramping and vulnerable, and you need someone to watch your back. Someone to find water, set up shelter, tend to your wounds. It’s slow, cruel suicide to have your period alone in the woods. You just can’t burn the bridge just yet. 

“I don’t want to wear that coat,” you finally admit, relinquishing your handful of pebbles back into the dirt. 

Your eyes drop to his face again, soft this time. Communicating how scared you feel, how innocent and helpless you are. It’s just one thing, your precious little blinky eyes tell him. Come on, Gaz, can’t you give in on this one thing? 

His face turns cold at your attempted manipulation, shifting his shoulder as if it hurts. “Go piss, woman.”

---------------------------------------

It’s like that for the rest of the morning. You don’t talk, and he doesn’t talk. You just ignore your half damp clothes, and trod on for hours. 

The food is nice. Without Doran’s usual rations, and with a burning hatred of Gaz, you quite happily munch away at a decent chunk of what you brought. That’s what puts you in good spirits. That, and stopping to brush your teeth. Clean teeth and a full belly is really all it takes sometimes. 

Until you start to actually pay attention.

“Why are we going north?” you demand suddenly, feet stumbling to a halt. 

“Because that’s the fastest way to get somewhere cold,” Gaz replies over his shoulder, not bothering to stop and explain. 

“Are you… kidding?”

You stare slack-jawed at Gaz’s retreating back, mentally scrambling to comprehend how many hours you just lost, going for so long in the opposite direction of where you’re supposed to be headed. 

It’ll take two days to make up for it. Two days on your period, when extra walking might be the difference between life and death, especially if it means skirting around the bloody camp. 

And Gaz won’t stop walking. 

“Why the fuck would you want to go north for the winter?” you ask, having to run to catch up to him. 

“Biters are made of flesh. What do you think happens to them when it drops below freezing?”

You scowl at the ground as you walk, considering. “They… freeze?”

“Safest place to be is up north. We’re just lucky the weather’s changing.”

Lucky, yeah, right. Switching the threat of biters for the inevitability of losing all your fingers to frostbite sounds fucking genius. 

You’re going to have to get away from him, or change his mind. There are no sanctuary cities in the north, so he’s leading you away to certain death, on some insane theory about frozen corpses. And every step you take in the wrong direction is a step away from the safety Doran was always so sure about. 

Gaz stops suddenly, forcing you to come to a halt as well so you won’t smack into his pack. 

“What?” you whisper, peering around his body. 

“Marsh lands.”

Gaz tests the ground in front of him, his boot sinking a few centimeters into the damp grass. 

Great. Wet feet.

“Walk in my footprints,” he mutters, beginning to trudge through the squelching mass of underbrush. 

You wrinkle your nose in distaste. “What? Why?”

But he’s already begun the trek, not sparing you a backwards glance as he makes his way through the swampy land. 

“I don’t think we should get our feet wet,” you call over at him irritatedly.

“You won’t.”

Somehow, he’s right. Most of the time he weaves around and manages to find the high ground as you go, and the only things you have to worry about are his stupidly long strides, and the occasionally strong suck of mud on your boots. 

It’s exhausting.

In no time, your thighs are burning with the strain. The only options you have are to press on, or to beg him for a break, and both of them seem so impossible that you just get more and more upset at the situation. 

Long step after long step, you dutifully plop your feet down in his stupid footprints, and the uneven land continues to run your energy to the ground. 

Shluck, shluck, shluck.

“Gaz,” you huff finally, stopping to rest your hands on your hips. “Stop taking such big steps.”

He doesn’t stop. The prick keeps going at the same relentless pace, bow notched in his hand and scanning the trees for movement. 

So fuck him.

You start walking at your own pace, well outside of his impossible footsteps. 

And like a total piece of shit, he hears your change in stride and turns to glare at you. 

You give him the same look right back, imagining plunging that arrow straight into his chest with your bare hands. 

“I need you to stay in my footsteps.”

“Why?” 

He glances pointedly down at your independent footprints. “Because you walk like a woman.”

“I don’t think anybody will care if they think a biter is following you.” The idea of Gaz being pursued by the undead is so comforting, you can’t help but smile coldly to yourself. 

“I said you walk like a woman, not a biter.”

“And I, actually, don’t give a fuck.”

Your breath catches as you watch his eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw tick up and down. It’s not fear that’s rushing through you, it’s relief. It’s so nice to be able to cuss someone out for once. Someone who deserves it, more than anyone else you’ve ever met out here. You can say what you want, because it really doesn’t matter if he likes you or not — you’re fucked regardless. 

Gaz silently secures the bow over his shoulder, and takes a step towards you. It’s an effort to hold your ground without flinching.

“Are you hoping to be carried?” he asks sarcastically, but with a real threat of something worse, laced into the words.

You open your mouth to retort back something just as ridiculous, but then you think better of it, in a flash of divine inspiration. 

“Yes. Carry me, I’m tired.”

The bluff is set up so perfectly, because you both know there’s no way he can walk with you in his arms for more than a minute. He was banking on your aversion to touching him, and your pride, but he doesn’t know you, and he guessed wrong.

Gaz stares at you, and you look steadily back at him, raising your eyebrow in challenge.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps up to your body, leans down, and scoops your thigh up onto his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” you shriek, finding yourself suddenly half upside down, with his arm wedged between your legs, and one of your sleeves secured tightly in his hand. 

He shuffles your weight across his shoulders with a grunt. “Fireman’s carry. It’s the most efficient way to carry a fallen comrade. Or in this case, an insubordinate one.”

“I’m not being insubordinate, because you are not in charge of me.”

The earth rises and falls uncomfortably with every step he takes, jarring your bones and churning your stomach. 

“I admit,” he drawls, “not having you scheming of ways to kill me behind my back is a nice change, even if you are heavier than you look.”

Prick, prick, prick. 

There has to be something you can do. Some way to get back at him. In your anger, you scan the side of his pack for a weapon. There are only empty loops and a few carabiners visible, and the swaying handle of the ax that’s secured on the far side.

The ax. 

You’ve only got one hand free, but he can’t see what you’re doing with the other one. Every step he takes shifts your body slightly, and you swing your arm around to reach for the handle.

Sway. Sway. Sway.

Each time, it’s a hair away from your fingertips. Even when you start to strain, and risk Gaz guessing your plans, you can’t get a hold of it. You merely get the tease of the textured rubber handle brushing your fingers before it’s gone again. 

Step. Step. Step.

It’s infuriating to be so close to a weapon, and so helpless to reach it. Your attempts grow fewer and farther between, and you’re forced to content yourself with simply planning the murder in your own mind. You run it through so many times, you can practically hear the crunch of bones, the gush of blood while Gaz’s vile life drains away to nothing. 

Sway. Reach. Step. Step. 

Surely he’ll be losing his breath soon. He’s got to be hiding the exertion of carrying you out of pure spite, moderating his huffs of air to conceal what a toll it’s taking on him. You’re reduced to watching his ass shift and move with every step he takes, and only because it’s right below your face. 

He doesn’t even stink, this close to his armpit. Prick. 

Step. Step. 

Freeze.

Your name gets muttered suddenly, urgently.

“What?” you whisper back.

“Get me the ax,” he breathes, so quietly.

“Why?”

“Get me the fucking ax.”

“I can’t reach it.”

“Try.”

You glare helplessly at his ass. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last hour?”

“…Fuck.”

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Ghost wasn’t even looking for you two. He just needed to grab a goddamn med kit. That’s it. A simple in-and-out trip to the supply closet.

But the moment he opened the door, he knew.

Grunting. Breathing. Whispers. The thud of something hitting metal.

He paused in the doorway, completely still, staring into the dim room as his brain registered what he was seeing.

Soap. Shirt halfway off. Neck covered in bite marks. Mouth open in some silent, stunned expression of praise the lord and ruin me more. Hands gripping the edge of a crate like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

And you? Pressed against him. One hand buried in his hair, the other dragging slowly down his back, nails scratching like you were claiming territory.

You didn’t even look away when Ghost appeared. You just kept your body flush with Soap’s, breath brushing against his ear as you looked directly at Ghost and said,

“Occupied.”

Soap finally realized they weren’t alone, eyes wide as he choked out, “*Ghost—fuck—*this isn’t—”

Ghost held up a hand. “Nope.”

Just turned around and closed the door without another word. Stood in the hallway for a moment. Processing.

Then muttered, “They’re gonna burn this place to the ground and call it foreplay.”

He walked away. Found Gaz.

“Don’t go in the supply closet.”

Gaz blinked. “Why not?”

“They’re in there.”

Gaz paused. “Doing what?”

Ghost didn’t stop walking. “Pick a verb.”

[secretlysimpash]

Going home with Gaz and sleeping with him, unaware that he has roommates. After a long, loud, and very tiring night, you stumble out of his bedroom disheveled and wearing nothing but one of his shirts. He wasn't in bed, but he left a note telling you to help yourself to whatever.

You make it out to the kitchen and freeze when you see a guy with a mohawk, a blonde guy with scars scored all across his pale skin, and a big, burly guy with a perfect beard and dad bod. All three...Shirtless.

Mohawk guy grins and nods to you...Greeting you by name in a thick Scottish accent, to your shock.

"How do you know my name...?"

"Hard not to after Kyle said it about fifty fuckin' times last night." The blonde grumbles under his breath.

[mrmilomoo]

Omg … please can we get cock hypothesis posts for our two wonderful Sargents ? Your headcanons are SO yummy

Kyle Gaz Garrick cock hypothesis

18+ MDNI

Gaz cock head-cannons:

Now this is a cock you are going to want to suck if given the opportunity.

Go figure the prettiest member of TF 141 also has the prettiest member.

I have no doubt that he’s the most hygienic by far as well. You’ll never have to worry about cheese dick (aka smegma) with this man. (Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for all the members of 141.)

Most likely to shave his happy trail and pubic hair when he’s able to. The thirst traps disguised as physique checks Kyle regularly posts to his socials may or may not be the motive behind the crime.

He honestly might be cut, I just get that vibe, but he also might not be. It’s a coin flip for me… (Heads means he’s cut, tails means he’s uncut… IT’S TAILS!)

So, as fate would have it, Kyle is uncut. (It’s a good day to be a foreskin enthusiast.)

It’s about average in thickness with a diameter of 4 cm and a circumference of about 12.5 cm.

But he is well above average in length at 17 cm when hard. King of gently brushing the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs and cooing condescending shit like “remember to breath through your nose,” “come on now, be good and swallow around me,” and “poor thing… just too big for your pretty little mouth, innit?” as he’s actively choking you with his cock and listening to the sound of your gag reflex fighting for your life.

Only member of the 141 who’s capable of getting laid on a regular basis. Has abandoned the 141 at a pub to take a bird home on multiple occasions. (Johnny never fails to ask Kyle if he can cum come with them.)

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

A/N: I’m glad you’ve enjoyed them! I will definitely write one for Johnny in the near future. I’m still contemplating a few important details, but I can ensure you it’s as thick and hairy as the rest of him.

[ghostbusters6]

reader biting COD men( 141+König)

THIS WILL BE NSFW MDNI !

Warnings: this drabble mentions sex and spanking!!!! MDNI!!!!

(Jonny "soap " McTavish)

Sfw> first time reader bit him he thought reader was weird but reader kept doing it while they were cuddling cooking just talking would bite his shoulder arm bicep just little soft bites.

Nsfw> When reader and soap are having yk reader will bite His shoulder to quiet there moans. If readers close to soaps neck they will bite his neck soap thinks its hot when reader bites but u can tell when reader and soap yk he's covered in bite marks and um let's say reader isn't really quiet:)

(Simon "ghost" Riley)

Sfw> happened when ghost and reader were cuddling ghost was about to fall asleep but felt teeth sink into his pec yup reader wanted a snack scolded reader like a little kid for biting but reader did stop nope! Ghost muscles are just so biteable . If readers laying in his lap they will chew on his fingers lightly.

Nsfw> ghost took the habit of biting when he's about to cum( SAFE SEX PEOPLE!)will bite readers shoulder or cheek makes reader giggle slightly has a habit of sinking his teeth into readers thighs when he's down there;)

(captain john "price")

Sfw> kinda just thought it was a little quirk didn't really think anything of it didn't hurt him so who is he to stop his little baby to sink there teeth into him. Reader slightly feels bad and will kiss the spots they bit.

Nsfw> price doesn't like when u bite him when he's fucking into u so he will just shove his digits into readers mouth and command reader to suck them. When readers sucking his fingers reader thinks its a bright idea to bite his fingers yup no reader ended up over His knee price likes spanking reader

(Kyle "gaz " Garrick)

Sfw> thought it was adorable that reader would just decided to take a little bite of him always made the joke of " damn I taste that good ya ?". Would bite reader to see what all the hype was about he kinda liked it so now him and reader bite each other

Nsfw> gaz loves giving readers Hickeys not just little bruises like there purple big hard to cover up and always dose it just about below readers jaw so nothing can cover it up. Reader hates it but he always makes the Hickey's when he's made reader cum like 5 times so there so fucked out of it they don't notice.

(König)

Sfw> this is why he calls reader puppy reader lovessss to bite him he's just easy so big so many spots König Carry's reader almost all the time cuz reader asks so he can't say no to thoses puppy eye ? Reader likes to bite his neck shoulders just anywhere reader feels like it König pinch's readers cheeks when they bite to hard

Nsfw> reader likes to nip at Königs tip makes him blush and flustered makes reader giggle never dose reader hurt him never how could u hurt the big puppy! König gets back at reader by biting there nipples or thighs.

First time writing nsfw hope y'all like it thank u @kittygonap for the idea ily sweetie!! Banner credits to @tinylilacbun IM SO SO SORRY I FORGOT GAZ 😭

[darkbunnylove]

Poly141 Reacting to reader tidying and decorating their balcony

It wasn’t really their strong suit, decorating around the house. If it weren’t for you, the apartment would have stayed all cool walls and clean lines. Nice enough, but missing something. Just a place to crash between missions. But you made it a home.

Now that winter has finally passed and the days have grown warmer and longer, you decided to do something small, something sweet, for the ones you love. You cleaned off the balcony, swept away the last of the cold season, brought out the little round table and chairs again, this time with soft pillows on each seat. You planted herbs, repotted flowers, gave the lemon tree some fresh soil.

By the time you were done, it looked like a little dream tucked above the city. Sunlight on wood, scent of lemon blossom, a place to sit and just be. And when each of them came home, they saw what you had done. And oh—they felt it in their chest.

Soap stepped onto the balcony, eyes soft, mouth parted, knees going a little weak at the sight. Colorful flowers lined the edges. The sharp, fresh scent of herbs lingered in the air. And there you were you—standing there with a little pot in your gloved hands, smiling at him like it was nothing. “You did all this alone?” he asked, voice soft and full of awe. You barely nodded before he was across the space, grabbing your face for a kiss so full of love it left you almost breathless.

“Bonnie… it looks like my mum’s garden back home,” he grinned, running a thumb over your cheek as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real. God, how did he even deserve you?

Later that night, he brought out a tiny hand-written sign and stuck it in the lemon tree pot. It read: “Bonnie’s Garden — Grown with Love.”

Gaz entered your shared apartment, a box of solar-powered fairy lights in hand and a quiet excitement in his step, only to pause when he saw the balcony through the open curtains. Eyes sparkling, he stepped closer, blinking like he needed a second to take it all in. You’d already done it.

“Was gonna surprise you,” he said, a little sheepish but smiling, and you immediately knew he loved every bit of it. He kissed you gently, then took your hand and guided you to one of the chairs.

Without another word, he disappeared inside, only to return a minute later with a little speaker tucked under one arm and your favorite cold drink in his hand. He pressed play on a playlist, handed you the glass, and leaned back in his seat as the golden evening air warmed both your faces. “I’m not sure I’ll ever top this, you know,” he grinned, his voice full of admiration, as he laced his fingers with yours. “You’ve set the bar mad high, babe.”

You found Ghost standing a little awkwardly in your apartment, still in full tac gear, boots dirty from the day. He hadn’t stepped out onto the balcony, just stood there, brows drawn together, like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to. So you smiled, walked inside, and physically tugged him outside by the arm until he followed.

There was a flicker of warmth in those honey-brown eyes, as he scanned the space. You knew he noticed it all. The way the floorboards had been scrubbed clean, the faint scent of soil still in the air, the pillow on the chair nearest the door, slightly creased like you’d tested it yourself. “Nice. Real nice,” he hummed softly.

He reached out and pulled you into his lap, one hand at your waist, the other resting on your thigh, tracing slow, absentminded circles. He pressed a kiss to your scalp, then spoke quietly, “Thank you, love.”

You smelled Price’s familiar aftershave and felt his strong arms wrap around you before you even saw him. You were quietly watering the mint and basil when he stepped onto the balcony on his own, full-on heart boner at the sight of his little bird creating something so beautiful.

He spun you around slowly, smiling softly before pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. “Look at you, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “I leave for half a day and you turn the place into a dream.”

He looked around to take it all in, but his gaze soon settled on you again, full of appreciation. He reached up to brush a smudge of dirt from your cheek. “We’ll have to sit out here tomorrow morning,” he added, glancing toward the chairs. “Cup of tea, bit of quiet, you in my lap. Perfect start to the day.”

[abbeyprofen]

To the 141 writers thank you, you guys are genuinely helping with my depression. Kisses pookies 💋💋💋💋

Keep those beautiful brains and bodies fueled!