#TF 141

[tiredkatzz]

Gonna try my luck on tumblr again with cod fanart? I feel like nobody who follows me on my other platforms cares for my interest in cod so maybe I'll get new people here? Hello? Pls

This is all I've got so far cause I have no push to draw more fanart when nobody cares about it haha

[the-fbi-agent-in-ur-phone]

Gaz is giving "I'm not a gynecologist, but I know a cunt when I see" one in this pic 🤣

[gloomwitchwrites]

Oml 😭 you’re stories continue to make my day, thank you so much! I was wondering if I can just get some domestic fluff with the task force 141

You're so sweet! Thank you!! I can absolutely write some domestic fluff. I've been working on Dog with No Teeth and some more suggestive prompts, and this is such a great break from it. Expect softness and gentle!141.

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

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, married life, softness, kissing

Word Count: 800

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

John Price

John wakes before you. He always does. It’s engrained in him—like clockwork.

In the soft rays of the early morning sun, John drinks his tea while reading over the weekend chore list you’ve made. It hangs on the fridge, clipped to the metal by a homemade magnet your youngest made in primary school. You have it in your head that you’re going to get up at a decent time and knock it all out.

It’s cute that you think so.

Especially since you’ve run yourself ragged all week, falling into bed completely knackered that you’re snoring in your sleep.

What you need is some rest, not an early morning full of activity. It’s the weekend. You belong on the porch with a blanket and book. With you in his lap, using him as a bed.

John finishes his tea and rinses out the mug, placing it in the dishwasher. He’ll make himself another once he wakes the children. Slipping into the bedroom, John goes for your alarm clock, turning it off. You deserve to sleep in. John can handle the work while you have some peace.

The littles won’t bother you. He’ll make sure you get some needed rest.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Can you try this?”

Johnny comes around the kitchen island, leaning against the countertop as you scoop up some of the fluffy whipped cream. You present the spoon, an eager excitement glittering in your gaze.

Johnny opens his mouth, allowing you to guide the spoon inside. The tips of your fingers gently brush the underside of his chin. Closing his lips around it, you drag the spoon out slowly. The whipped cream melts on his tongue. It’s perfectly sweet.

“How is it?” you ask. “I’m a little worried it’s too sweet. Might overpower the lemon curd.”

“It’s perfect,” he purrs.

“Really?”

Johnny scrapes a bit of whipped cream off the top of the mixing bowl. Popping his finger into his mouth, Johnny sighs with contentment. Your smile grows, and Johnny can’t help but adore just how beautiful you are like this. It’s his favorite version of you.

As you reach for the lemon curd, Johnny grabs your hips, pulling you against him. A small giggle escapes you and Johnny loves the sound. Lowering his head, he teases the tip of your nose with his own until you’re flustered and wiggling. Only then does he close the distance for a kiss.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

It’s a Sunday afternoon. You and Simon have nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Peace and rest and simple pleasures only.

You’re snuggled up on the sofa, sinking against the cushions with a book in your hand. On the television, a trashy reality show plays at low volume. You’re not watching it, but it’s not for you.

Simon is curled up next to you, sprawled out and using your thigh as a pillow. A blanket is draped over him and covering your legs. He has one arm tucked behind your back and the other is resting across you, his large hand gently massaging the thigh he’s not resting his head on.

He’s watching the television, but his eyelids are heavy, chest moving in slow, shallow breaths. Sleep is creeping up on him.

Reaching out with one hand, you thread your fingers through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp. Simon sighs, snuggling a bit closer. Switching from his scalp, you move to his neck, and then his upper back, using your nails to tease his skin. You keep a languid place, moving back and forth across his skin.

There’s nothing better than this quiet moment with your husband. Shared. Simple. Perfect.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Do you want some music?”

“I’d love that.”

Kyle walks over to the record player, fingers skimming over the collection of vinyl records. He reaches out to select one, and pauses.

“Just pick something,” you laugh, grabbing the dish soap.

“I will,” he chuckles softly, drumming his fingers against his bottom lip as he decides on which.

You roll your eyes, putting the stopper in the skin.

“Here we are,” says Kyle. As you start filling the sink with hot water, a jazzy number fills the room. Kyle grooves over to the vacuum, and you realize you’re grinning. Bopping his head and shaking his shoulders, Kyle switches on the hoover.

It’s routine then, the two of you moving around each other as you do your weekly cleaning. When you start dusting the ceiling fan, Kyle creeps up on you, hands falling on your waist.

“What?” you laugh, turning toward him, only to laugh harder as Kyle starts dancing up on you. “Stop,” you snort, playfully smacking at him.

“Dance with me,” he smiles, wiggling his eyebrows. Kyle offers you his hand, and you take it, the two of you coming together into a slow sway that makes you tingle everywhere.

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 @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie @tiredmetalenthusiast @sporadicpizzainternet @tessakate @mistresssolana

[vanillarosekiss]

john price p!links

i. soft and slow with price ii. rough fuck iii. face riding him (gif) iv. early morning sideways sex v. breeding kink with john

Tag list 𖠋: @punkkture @slut-lmao @sebastianstans-slut @ilikeoldmen @g1rlfa1lure0 @queenoflaflames @tmartin0918 @kkloubee @goldie-221 @patricksoulmate @writingandsins @mxnee777 @bittersweetfig @mlthree @cupidswan @siphon07 @decaffeinateddelusionbread

[the-fbi-agent-in-ur-phone]

This is the shit Soap sends to the team at hours the Lord (and Price) does not approve of

In pigeon society, this is a symbol of wealth.

[goatgoesmbe]

f!reader

Reader who always wear a mask, and was more secretive than Ghost who had no problem showing his face to the team once in a while.

And just like with Ghost, the others joked about you being ugly, which you similarly replied with confidence that's not the case.

When you were tired of keep getting questions about the mask, you'd respond with a joke.

Putting on your best act, you sighed with a solemn look, telling a story about how you used to be obsessed with Shrek and had him tattooed on your face, which you were ashamed of now.

"..Are you serious?" Kyle asked.

You simply shrugged "I guess you'll never know".

And they could never guess whether you were lying or not, being known as the master of psychological warfare and often sent for espionage because of your skill with people, manipulation.

And acting.

What they didn't know is that, you gained that skill from your previous job, when you were a big deal in the entertainment industry. A professional actress that started in many movies and got into a really big scandal that got you hiding.

And somehow ended up here.

That was the reason as to why you needed to hide your face, your identity. Not even your captain knows about it, only Laswell who knew a bit of your story.

Lounging around in the recroom, you silently observed the others arguing about a certain movie to watch before it somehow ended with them fanboying for a certain actress who played the main character.

You.

"Ah swear, Ah saw this porn where the lass looked just like her. Had folk arguin’ if it was really her or just a doppelganger… haud on, where is it—" You heard Johnny rambled as he fumbled with his phone.

You shifted in your seat and hid a smille.

Oh yeah, that side gig you took a long time ago.. almost forgot about that

Dropping this idea before class so i wont forget abt it UPDATE : yes, im def writing this

[partiallysame]

Being Price’s lil wife

-Task force 141 knew Price was married. Man wore his ring religiously, always putting it back on the second they were in the helicopter/plane/whatever after each mission

-He’d come to work with a lunch packed with a cute lil heart note

-To be honest they all assumed you were the same age as Price (old) He always said he’d been “married for years” (3)

-They never knew your name, Price only ever referred to you as The Missus

-Gaz swore Price had a photo of you in his wallet (he did) but they never knew what you looked like untilllllllll

-You called your husband simply to complain. The AC had gone out and the repair man wouldn't be able to get there for a couple days. No no this simply would not do, his perfect lil lady could not be uncomfortable in her own home he wouldn’t have it but fuck he’s out of the country for a few more days. His team however is not and while stupid, they do know how to do maintenance work (why? Just because.)

-He called his team for a very important mission. Gave them the address, accompanied with “I don’t want to hear a fucking thing about you causing any trouble or being disrespectful to the Missus you hear?” The boys were absolutely giddy to finally see the ever so important Missus.

-The second you opened the door Soap was apologizing for having the wrong house and oh so politely asked if you knew where the Price household was. This had to be the wrong one because there you stood, pretty young thing, big doe eyes. Standing in just a big shirt ending at the very tops of your thighs, lashes batting at the three soldiers standing at your door.

-“You’ve got the right place. John told me you were coming, please come in.” You had to hold in a giggle, watching all of their eyes go wide. Gaz immediately looking at the sky, the floor, anywhere but the wife of his captain that he was just undressing with his eyes.

-When you turned to guide them into the house they all saw PRICE printed on the back of the large tshirt just barely covering your ass (this is your own home pants are never required and its hot as hell without the ac). Now it was Ghost’s turn to look anywhere but at you.

-As they worked you’d bring them water or snacks. They now understood why Price kept you hidden from them. The perfect lil housewife. The woman of all of their dreams already taken.

-When they were finished they went to the kitchen to inform you they were done only to find a full meal set on the table waiting for them but worst of all? There you were reaching up to the top cabinet. On your tippy toes, your shirt (Price’s shirt) riding up enough to expose the bottom of your ass and lacey pink panties. Soap had to bite his knuckle to keep from groaning. Ghost grabbing the tops of his teammates heads, turning them away from the incredible sight in front of them.

-Price was right to keep you hidden from them

-They might just have to sneak in and break something every time Price was out of town if it meant this is what they got to see.

Price's lil wife Masterlist

[yenhan]

TF141 & International student neighbor on the verge of a crisis

Next - Drabble

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

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

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

And then there were your neighbors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jettreccomendsfics]

anna i’m so in love with you

your writing skill??! hello

AAAAAAAH

Foaming at the mouth

༉‧₊˚. Simon Riley ruining reader cw// ᴍᴅɴɪ, simon riley being a big meanie, choking, rough sex, creampies, throat fucking, nipple play, mentions of breeding, simon being a bit disgusting

𐙚 Simon Riley knew that he was big, big in every possible sense. a huge mass of a man that wore a skull mask to hide his rugged scarred face from the world and it was only natural for people to get intimidated by him. And being in the military on top of it he wasn't exactly shaped to be a gentle soul but he always tried to be very gentle with especially you, to his pretty little dove.

But here he was, pounding mercilessly into your swollen little cunt. His thrusts made the wooden bed frame slam into the wall and he was certain that it will only take a couple more thrusts for it to break completely.

He tore his gaze away from the frame and looked down at his dumbed out girlfriend. His thick tatted arm choking your pretty neck while his hips maintained their ruthless rhythm to let his thick mushroom tip graze on your cervix,

"look at ya lovie, takin' my cock so well"

his other hand moves down to pinch and twist your sensitive nipples while he continues to pound you, your mouth hangs open in a silent scream of pleasure. your eyes blur with tears as you struggled to breathe from his large tatted hand that is clasped around your throat like a collar.

"s-simon c-can't! 's t-too much"

"c'mon swee'heart, ya can take it now be good f'me"

His rugged face broke into a smug smirk as he sped up, his hand abandon your abused nipples and travel down to your swollen puffy nub, pulling on it playfully as your hips buck into him. Your walls clamp down on his fat cock, gripping it like a vice as your orgasm rips through you.He grunts loudly, his jaw tightening as he bottoms out, his fat tip pushing against your womb as he releases a huge load in you

He grunts loudly, his jaw tightening as he bottoms out, his fat tip pushing against your womb as he releases a huge load in you.Still fucking you through your intense orgasm, he collapses onto your chest, breathing heavily. Simon licks the trail of sweat that was running down your neck slowly, whispering into your ear,

"feel my cum inside you, dovie? Hm?"

He slowly releases your throat, feeling your sensitive walls flutter around his still hard cock. He pulls out of you and watches as his hot load leaks through your spent cunt, feeling immensely proud. You watch in confusion as he repositions himself on top of your face,

"s-si? wha-?"

"Shh lovie, jus' be a good girl and open yer mouth"

He puts his knees on either side of your face and lightly settles on your chest making sure not to crush his precious girl. You obeyed, nails digging in his thick trunk like thighs as he grips the base of his cock and lightly slaps it on your lips.

Without a warning he forces his thick length down your throat making you gag and choke as he fucks your mouth harder, not slowing down even as you cough and sputter around his thickness. Saliva slobbering everywhere as you take every inch of his fat cock.

"that's it babygirl take it all, yer doing so good"

You sucked hard on him, lips parting wide because of his dick as he groans, bottoming out feeling your throat while holding you down by your hair as he releases and insanely huge amount of his hot load down your throat.

"fuckk, good girl swee'heart! being such a good lil slut f'me"

You gulped down his cum while some dripped down from inbetween your lips, he chuckled and leaned down licking his cum from your pretty face. He let out a breathless chuckle, watching your teary eyes and tired expression.

"we're jus' gettin' started dovie"

@sidollie

[void-my-warranty]

[lushrue]

tf 141 as police officers anyone? dubcon, afab!reader

this was not how you wanted to spend your weekend.

you'd graciously agreed to go out for your friend's bachelorette party. she'd all but begged you to be there for her last night of freedom, so how could you not show up for her? now, though, after three too many shots and sitting in the drunk tank of the local police station, you were beginning to wish you'd stayed curled up on your couch.

you weren't even entirely sure what had happened. one moment, you were walking to your next bar, your body floating along with the crowd. the next, your friends were catcalling some random men across the street and the red and blue lights started flashing in your periphery.

the officers that arrested you had been nice enough, you supposed. they were understanding of your situation, but not understanding enough to let you out of a public intoxication charge. the more senior one, captain price, had given you your own police car away from your friends after you'd complained about your head pounding. if he copped a feel as he helped you into the seat, no one but the two of you had to know.

his sergeant, garrick, chatted you up as you rode the couple of minutes to the local jail. he was friendly, conversational, if a bit flirtatious. you weren't sure a cop was supposed to compliment a prisoner's hair or the way her dress showed off her tits so much.

but the two cops serving as jail wardens were by far the worst. sergeant mactavish had been the one to book you in, taking your fingerprints and filling out the necessary paperwork to cite you. inhibitions lowered by the copious amounts of vodka you'd been talked into consuming, you told him his tattoos made him look hot. he seemed to take that as a green light, murmuring in your ear about how bonnie you were the whole time he was booking you.

lieutenant riley just unnerved you. you could see him staring through the window of the thick metal door, the bars not deterring him one bit. clearly, he could see as much as he needed to. he hadn't stopped staring since he'd thrown you into the cell.

your friends had taken notice too, the way the officers seemed to take a liking to you. the group of them hatched a clever, albeit drunken, plan to use you as bait to escape. if you were completely in your right mind, you would've refused without a second thought. however, fortunately (or unfortunately) for you, it sounded genius to your alcohol-logged brain.

you sauntered up to the door, standing on your tiptoes to bring your chest into view. you put on your best pout, holding the bars of the small window. "sergeant johnny?" you slurred, your fingers dancing suggestively along the length of the bars. "me and my friends are thirsty. can you and your friend get us some water?"

the giggles of the girls behind you let you know how good your performance was, and you put on the best flirtatious smile you could muster while drunk. the two officers looked at each other, seeming to contemplate for a moment, before they both came directly to your cell. the heavy door swung open, hinges squeaking.

"why don' ya come with us, troublemaker?" mactavish purred, crooking his finger at you. his lieutenant stood behind him, arms crossed over his broad chest.

"we can give ya just wha' ya need."

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Hi hello! I can’t get enough of your work! But you know what I’ve had enough of? A submissive reader. Don’t get me wrong a stay-at-home wife in a frilly apron is cute and all, but I’m bored of a damsel in distress reader being rescued by the task force men.

It’s always about the men not having enough time for reader BUT- what if it’s the other way around? Imagine a successful reader, makes TWICE their income, the breadwinner, is a part of an esteemed circle or something who’s so busy managing her work and events she’s invited to she barely makes time for her boys BUT pampers THEM to make up for it? How do you think the boys with cope with a dommy sugar mommy?

Have a wet smooch and a nice day 💋

You Work For Me Now

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Language, soft dom/sub themes (reader dom), light angst (clingy boys), suggestive tones, emotional softness, pampering, minor tension, domestic fluff, reader is rich as hell

Author's Note: I am feral for sugar mommy reader and clingy Task Force men. You’ve created a monster, and I am thriving. Maybe I should do one where the boys get possessive when a foreign dignitary flirts with you at a gala next? I don’t know, I’ll need thoughts on if y’all want more!

Summary: You’re busy running your empire. They’re busy missing you. But you always come home to take care of your boys.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The city lights glimmered against the glass of your penthouse windows, but it was the dim lamp glow pooling across the living room floor that made you exhale in relief.

Finally, home.

You slipped your heels off first. The click of them on the marble floor echoed too loudly. Gold earrings came next—tucked into the crystal bowl on the entry table. You had just gotten back from Geneva. Your speech at the economic summit was already making headlines. Your phone was still buzzing in your clutch, vibrating with more invitations, more requests, more praise.

But none of it mattered tonight.

They were all there.

John was on the couch, half-asleep but still pretending to read the paper. He was wearing the cashmere joggers you bought him and his favorite dark green long-sleeve that hugged his broad chest a little too well. Kyle was beside him, wearing nothing but boxers and one of your silk robes—black with silver trim, the one he always stole and claimed was “comfy as hell.”

Johnny was lying flat on the carpet, head resting on a pillow pulled from the couch, eyes closed, earbuds in. Your playlist was playing. The soft jazz one you made for decompressing.

And Simon?

Simon was in the kitchen, silent. Mask off, hair wet from a shower. He was stirring honey into your favorite herbal tea. He knew you’d be tired. Knew your voice would be hoarse. He had a plate of those little shortbread cookies beside the mug, perfectly arranged. Of course he did.

The sight of them—comfortable, waiting, half-irritated and half-relieved—made something behind your ribs soften.

You didn’t speak. You simply walked past them all, slow and quiet, and placed your handbag on the counter. The gold clasp made a sharp click as it closed.

Johnny cracked one eye open.

“Oi. Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”

Kyle snorted. “She remembered we exist.”

John didn’t look up. “Thought maybe we’d been replaced with a new batch of pretty boys.”

Simon didn’t say anything. But when you looked over, he was staring straight at you, unreadable and still. He placed the mug down on the counter and leaned against it.

It was rare to see them like this. Out of uniform. At ease. Waiting for you. And you knew it wasn’t fair. You’d been gone twelve days. Missed two dinners you promised. Barely called.

But you had empires to run.

You poured yourself a glass of wine and leaned back against the counter, one brow raised.

“You four kill people for a living, and you’re sulking because I missed bedtime?”

“Don’t act innocent,” John muttered. “You haven’t looked at your group chat in three days.”

“I sent memes,” Kyle said with mock offense. “You left me on read.”

Johnny groaned dramatically. “She didn’t even open the voice note I made.”

You took a long, slow sip of your wine. Watched them all through half-lidded eyes. When you set the glass down, it made a soft clink. Then, you smiled.

“Strip.”

Kyle blinked. “What?”

You pushed off the counter, your voice low and smooth.

“Clothes. Off. Now. Upstairs in ten minutes.”

The room went still.

John straightened up. Johnny sat bolt upright. Kyle gaped.

“You’ve been neglected,” you continued, walking slowly between them. “I’ve been a very bad girlfriend. You’ve all been so patient.”

Your hand brushed over Kyle’s shoulder, feather-light. “So good for me.”

Simon’s jaw twitched. You saw the way he gripped the edge of the counter, hard enough for the muscles in his forearms to flex.

“And tonight,” you said, voice curling with amusement, “I’m going to take care of you.”

Johnny flushed. “Like… pampering?”

“I bought new massage oils from Milan,” you murmured, glancing at John. “The kind that warms on skin.”

A beat of silence.

John grunted. “How much were they?”

You smirked.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take it out of your allowance.”

——

The bedroom smelled like eucalyptus and amberwood. The lights were low. The speaker played soft classical piano.

Kyle was wrapped in a towel on the bed, eyes closed, a cooling mask on his face while you rubbed lotion into his calves. Johnny was in the oversized bathtub, neck deep in lavender-scented bubbles, sipping water through a silly bendy straw. Simon sat obediently on the stool in front of you while you combed conditioner through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow, careful motions.

John was lying face-down on the massage table. Shirtless. Already snoring.

You moved between them like they were delicate, precious things. Because they were. Your killers. Your soft boys. The men who held guns for a living but came home to be held instead.

You used your thumbs to ease a knot in Kyle’s ankle. He murmured something you didn’t catch.

“What was that, sweetheart?”

“Feels nice,” he slurred, half-asleep. “You’ve got magic hands.”

“Mm. I know.”

Johnny hummed from the tub. “You gonna join me in here after?”

You leaned down and kissed the top of his head, brushing damp curls back from his forehead.

“I’ve got one more boy to spoil first.”

Simon said nothing, but his breathing had deepened. His shoulders were loose. The tension he always carried in his neck was gone. You moved your hands slowly through his hair again, then gently tugged his head back to look up at you.

“Feel good, baby?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

“Yeah,” he rasped.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

“I missed you more.”

You kissed him. Soft. Barely there.

He leaned into it like he’d been starved.

——

Later, you lay in the middle of the bed while your boys curled around you.

Kyle was tucked against your right side, head on your shoulder, legs tangled with yours. Johnny was sprawled over your stomach like a weighted blanket. Simon had one arm thrown over your waist from behind, face buried in your neck. And John? John had your hand in both of his, pressed against his chest like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

The windows were open. The city was quiet. Your phone was somewhere downstairs, long forgotten.

“You know,” Johnny mumbled, sleep-drunk, “we’re kind of obsessed with you.”

You smiled, eyelids fluttering shut.

“I know.”

Kyle laughed softly. “You ever think about quitting? The speeches, the events…?”

You opened one eye.

“Are you offering to be my sugar baby?”

“Not opposed.”

“Absolutely not,” John grunted. “She’d still be richer than all of us combined.”

Simon snorted. “Maybe we should be the ones pampering her.”

“I’ll allow it,” you said, voice heavy with sleep. “On my next day off.”

“Which is when?” Kyle asked.

You yawned.

“Three weeks from now.”

They all groaned.

Johnny propped his chin on your chest.

“You’re lucky we love you.”

You kissed his forehead, eyes finally drifting shut.

“I know.”

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[tiredkatzz]

I very much like how you draw Price big fan of your art skills in absolute awe can you please draw Price giving like a fatherly smile if that makes sense your art is just very edible thank you

Thank you so much!

And ofc, here's some soft price! I drew him being serious enough

[cj-theyoungling]

Husband Ghost who is obsessed with his wife. He refuses to tell her no, whatever his wife wants, she gets. Anything she even mentions wanting ends up in their shared home. She mentions a beautiful cookware set, she finds it in the cabinets later that week. She complains that her nails are grown out, later her nail tech calls and says that Ghost has paid for a years worth of nail appointments (with tip). Anything to make his wife smile

When Ghost is home his wife doesn't have to lift a finger. He loves the idea of a "traditional marriage" but he's actually a traditional man. He comes home and and does any repairs you need on the house. He's going to buy groceries, doing car maintenance, landscaping the lawn, doing the laundry. Anything his little wifey needs.

Any hobbies she has are always encouraged and paid for by Ghost. Constantly sending packages full of cooking supplies, yarn, stationary, and paints to the house while he's gone. He always wears the things she makes for him. They are bundled in blankets she knitted while eating brownies she baked. All while you are going through the scrapbook you had made while he was on deployment.

He refuses to argue with his wife. A firm believer in "happy wife, happy life". Anything his wifey doesn't like or want to do doesn't happen. She doesn't like his tie, he's changing. She doesn't feel like going out, he's helping her out of her dress and making them hot cocoa. Nothing she can do can upset him. He's so in love with her that anything she does is perfect to him.

[mbearchive]

2 am, draw them eepy instead of sleeping

[oscengrim]

Not the first part go read the other two before this one I'm on my hands and knees begging for this to be a full series

they will not leave me alone

more ancient gods

It's been two months since you appealed to the ancient gods in a last ditch attempt to save your village. Two months where soft rains fall every few days, healing the dried, cracked earth. Two months since most of those gone for battle return, scarred but no longer scared. Two months where game have slowly returned to the lands around the village, and barren plants have begun blooming again. Two months where the only death comes at the end of a long life.

You try to find a new rhythm to your days. Three months ago, you were another member of your people, albeit one with more knowledge of the old ways than was considered necessary. Now, though, the village elders have spoken in hushed terms of elevating you to the position of prophetess or seer, believing you have some direct connection to the four gods who saved them. You do not share their faith, but you still bear the initial marks of all four gods on your body.

You still do not know what it means.

In the meantime, the shrines you asked for have been completed, and you've become their de facto caretaker. You keep the altars clean and say prayers to each god in turn. After the way they've blessed the village, you think it might be good to consult the ancient tomes again; perhaps there are other gods whose aid the village could use If only there was a place to pray to them. If nothing else, you could learn how to better show devotion to the four gods who feel so real to you now, though you struggle to explain why.

A fortnight after the first rains fell, a young mother asked if she could make an offering to Gaz for the health of her new baby. Two days later an old man found you and, hesitantly, asked how he could ask the god of death to guide his wife in the afterlife. Two of the men you'd played with as a child bring seeds as an offering to Tav the night before they're set to till and sow the field. The former leader of your people's warriors brings his best weapon to lay on Jon's altar in thanks for bringing him safely home.

At night your dreams are more vivid. You find yourself in fighting leathers, sword in hand, as Jon teaches you swordplay. The god of death reminds you you gave your life to him, and he does not plan to cut you down so young, urging you to learn Jon's lessons. Tav joins you in Gaz's unwalled tent, dishes spread feet from the fertile fields where now both men use your body for their pleasure.

More than whispers of conversation carry from your dreams. Jon telling you the shrines and worship make their presence in your village, and in your life, stronger. Gaz hinting that dreams will no longer be the only place you see them. The god of death talking about the power of names before giving you the one your people had lost to time: Si. Tav commenting on how you'll glow when he can truly show you how powerful your fertility is.

Everything points to a reality you cannot comprehend. Until one day, half a year after that first night, your village is visited by four large men, strangers to all but you.

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